MY RETURN TO THE COAST
LINDI, towards the end of November, 1906.
With all respect to my camp bed, I find that I can sleep much more
comfortably on the couch provided here by the Imperial District
Commissioner, with its three-foot-six mattress and spacious
mosquito-net: luxuries which I have been enjoying for the last week,
having marched into Lindi with flying colours on November 17th, after a
toilsome and difficult journey.
The outward aspect of the little town is much the same as when I left it
in July, but the European population has changed to a surprising degree.
Hardly any of the old residents are left, but the number of new arrivals
from Germany is so great that there is some difficulty in getting
lodgings. If we were in an English colony, I should say that there is
just now a boom at Lindi; as it is, we may say that capital has
discovered the southern districts and is setting about their economic
exploitation. It is said that all the good land in the neighbourhood of
Lindi is already taken up, and later comers will perforce have to put up
with more distant estates. While personally delighted to hear that the
southern province, which has become very dear to me in the course of my
stay, is thus prospering, I am too much occupied with my own affairs to
have any further concern in these transactions.
First came the paying off of the numerous extra carriers whom I had been
obliged to hire for the transport of the collections made at Mahuta. The
amount paid out was not great, as the recipients had not been called
upon to perform an excessive amount of work. All over the Makonde
plateau I found that the carriers who arrived in time for the start on
any given day, marched with the caravan as far as that night’s
halting-place, but as regularly disappeared before the next morning, in
spite of the sentries posted all round our camp. This unreliability
caused me much vexation and loss of temper, besides the waste of time in
engaging fresh men; but, on the other hand, I saved, in every such case,
the day’s wages, which these deserters never gave me the chance of
paying them. After passing the Kiheru valley and getting into the Yao
country we had no more trouble, the men there being quite willing to go
as far as the coast.
My Wanyamwezi carriers have already left for the north. On the 23rd I
saw them on board the steamer, a much larger and finer boat than the
_Rufiji_ in which they suffered such misery on the down trip. Probably
they are indulging in happy dreams of a speedy return to their far
inland homes, and of the way in which they mean to lay out the capital
knotted into their waistcloths; but in reality they will probably, on
the day after landing, find themselves starting on a fresh expedition
with the “chop-boxes” of some other white man on their heads. At this
time, just before the rains, carriers are very scarce, and they are sure
to be seized on at once. I am thus dependent for packing my
collections—the cases previously sent down to the coast having been
stored in the cellars of the Government offices, where they have
remained undisturbed except by the innumerable rats—on myself and my
remaining men. Among these, for the time being, I can still reckon
Knudsen, who lends a hand right willingly, in spite of his melancholy
looks. He does not like the coast; he says the damp climate is too soft
for him, and he cannot get on with the white men. He is better
accustomed to the _washenzi_ in the bush, who neither worry him nor look
down on him. He is only waiting till I have left for the north, before
going west once more after antelope and elephant.
“Why, I thought you had had enough of that sort of thing,” was my
well-meant remark, as I glanced at his right arm, of which, he says, he
has not yet recovered the full use. It is a terrible story.
I was sitting at dinner one afternoon, trying to eat some mysterious
compound out of a Portuguese tin, which proved on examination to be
bacon and beans (probably a part of the stores originally laid in for
Vasco da Gama’s expedition), when I heard Moritz’s nasal voice
announcing, “_Bwana mdogo anakuja_” (“Mr. Knudsen is coming”). I turned
round and saw him dragging himself along with uncertain steps; he was
covered with dust, his clothes were torn, and his right arm in a sling.
“Well, old Nimrod, has the elephant tusked you?” I called out to him,
not taking matters very seriously.
“Not that. I only fell and broke my arm—but my poor Wanduwandu is dead.
He died just now;—here they come with him.”
In fact at this moment I saw a group of men busy over something at the
narrow door of the _boma_; but the crowd was too great to see what it
was. My first care was to attend to Knudsen’s arm, which was badly
swollen, though I could discover no indication of a fracture. The only
thing to be done, therefore, was to apply cold water bandages and
support the arm in as easy a position as possible. Knudsen dropped into
his chair like a log and sank into gloomy thought, while I went to look
at the corpse. It was laid out on a _kitanda_ or native bedstead, under
a shady tree at the other end of the _boma_, and scantily covered with a
cloth; the mouth was open, the glassy eyes staring vacantly. Hemedi
Maranga came up and closed them, while I examined the injuries. I could
find no serious wound; the tips of the fingers were crushed and
bleeding, and the skin slightly grazed on the left temple, which also
showed a moderate-sized swelling, but that was all. Notwithstanding
this, the Wali and I agreed that the swelling must indicate the cause of
death, and on feeling the head, we found that the skull was broken. The
man must have received a terrible blow, but a blow with some soft
object, otherwise the outside of the head would have been shattered.
The afternoon brought plenty of work. The dead man was sewn up in a
piece of the _sanda_ I had, in accordance with custom, brought with me,
never dreaming that I should have to apply it to its traditional use.
The grave was dug outside the _boma_ just beyond the crest of the hill.
I had fixed the time of the funeral at sunset; but about three I found
that Wanduwandu’s friends and relations, thinking this too long to wait,
had carried off the corpse in order to proceed with the obsequies on
their own account; so that I had to send off my fleetest runner with
orders to have it brought back again. At six my whole troop was drawn up
on funeral parade. Here, too, I noticed the instinctive tact of the
native; every man was in full-dress uniform, though I had given no
orders to that effect, and Hemedi Maranga was wearing his medal. Of all
the natives with whom I have come in contact, Wanduwandu attracted me
most; he was a splendid figure of a man, the only one I ever saw who
exemplified the “Herculean build” one so often hears of. At the same
time he was quiet, dignified, and yet fully conscious of his strength.
He had accompanied the expedition for some months, liked by all and
hated by none. I felt it quite a matter of course that I should put on a
clean white suit to convoy him on his last journey, though he was “only”
a native.
I had already seen and photographed a number of Yao graves, but, apart
from human sympathy, I was naturally interested in witnessing a native
funeral, and therefore did not attempt to interfere in the least with
the people’s arrangements. The grave had been dug of the same shape as
in Europe, but much shallower, being not much over a yard in depth; and
the men had also made it much too short. Two of the bystanders at once
came forward to lengthen it, while the corpse was waiting to be lowered;
but not altogether successfully, for if in future times any excavations
are undertaken on that spot a skeleton will be found lying on its side,
with the knees drawn up in a squatting position.[70] Mats were spread
over the body to prevent its coming in contact with the bare earth,
which the native likes to avoid, even in death. Now, however, comes an
exotic touch. Daudi, the native pastor from Chingulungulu, had been with
us for some days, having been sent for by me, that I might talk over
some points in my notes with him. Wanduwandu had remained a heathen; in
fact, when Knudsen and I, as we often did, asked him, teasingly, whether
he would not rather become a Muslim, or even a Christian, he always
shook his head with a calm air of superiority, and said that what was
good enough for his fathers was good enough for him. Nevertheless, Daudi
was in attendance at the grave, and now spoke a few words in Swahili, in
which I clearly distinguished, “_Udongo kwa udongo, majivu kwa majivu_”
(“Earth to earth, ashes to ashes”). A few boys—I had not previously
known that there were any Christians at Mahuta—then sang a short hymn in
hushed, grave voices, as the sun sank glowing in the west; Daudi softly
uttered a prayer, and the first shovelfuls of yellow sand fell with a
dull sound on the wrappings of the corpse. My soldiers marched away in
precise order, the rest of the crowd followed, laughing and joking.
Death? What more is there to say about it? It may happen any day; that
cannot be helped. Kismet!
To-day, the visitor to Mahuta will find on the spot referred to, a
plain, low, but well-built structure—a thatched roof supported on posts,
and looking accurately east and west, with pieces of coloured calico
fluttering in the breeze from its ridge-pole. This marks Wanduwandu’s
grave.
[Illustration: WANDUWANDU’S GRAVE]
But it was only after the funeral was over that Nils Knudsen’s mourning
really began. In his speculative way, he has been brooding over the
cause of death. It was directly caused—there can be no doubt about
that—by the elephant, a huge, solitary brute—a “rogue,” in fact. Knudsen
first fired a couple of shots at him, and then his followers, people
from the Nkundi plain, poured a whole volley from their muzzle-loaders
on the unlucky beast. The elephant sank on his knees, but pulled himself
up again with his trunk, and charged the hunters. All at once made for
the _rendezvous_ agreed on, but Knudsen fell while running, spraining
his arm and losing his gun, which was flung into the bushes by the shock
of his fall. When, after some time, they missed Wanduwandu, Knudsen
returned to the scene of the encounter and heard a low groaning. He
thought at first that it proceeded from the wounded elephant, but soon
found his faithful follower lying senseless under a heap of branches.
Knudsen did not notice whether the elephant’s tracks passed close to
this spot or not, and indeed even now he does not clearly recollect the
details of the tragedy. It may be assumed with tolerable certainty that
Wanduwandu, who had the reputation of a brave, even a rash hunter,
crossed the track of the infuriated animal and was struck down. The
blood spoor of the elephant was lost in the bush.
This, then, is the direct cause of death, and for matter-of-fact
Europeans it would be quite enough, but in this country it is otherwise.
“It is that confounded fat woman’s fault; she deceived him once before,
and I expect she has been at the same games again.” Such is the
conclusion arrived at by Nils, who has quite fallen into native ways of
thinking. My researches at Chingulungulu had revealed to me the
universality of the belief that if a man’s wife is unfaithful to him
while he is hunting elephants in the bush, he will be sure to meet with
a fatal accident. I was told of a number of cases which had actually
happened, and even the names of the people concerned. Wanduwandu’s wife
is a buxom woman who, according to native ideas, is strikingly
handsome—rotundity and beauty being equivalent terms in this country—and
wears a nose-pin of unusual size and beautifully inlaid. It is therefore
quite natural that she should be much admired, and, taking this
circumstance in connection with her husband’s violent death, for these
African intellects, and for Nils Knudsen as well, the logical inference
is that, because the man has been killed his wife must have betrayed
him.
It will be understood that I was at first very sceptical as to this
interpretation; but I must now confess that there is really something in
it, only that the links in the chain of cause and effect follow each
other in a somewhat different order of time. The woman is, as a matter
of fact, indirectly responsible for her husband’s death. Knudsen now
remembers that Wanduwandu was strangely excited and reckless throughout
the expedition, and I have heard from other quarters that the plump wife
has always been a great coquette, and that there was a violent scene
between the couple immediately before his departure. Here we have the
key to the whole enigma; the elephant did not kill the hunter who in his
confusion blundered into his way, because the man’s wife was at that
moment flirting with another, but because the wife’s behaviour had
already driven the man almost to desperation. In any case it is
instructive to see how occurrences of this sort, several times repeated,
come to be accepted as laws of nature.
Wanduwandu’s death did not change the date of our departure, which was
already fixed; but it was noticeable that even our men were more eager
to get away than before.
After the tragedy Knudsen found himself engaged in an obstinate contest
with the widow, who, taking advantage of the situation, tried to bind
him by contract—on the ground that he after all was the only one to
blame for her husband’s death—to supply her with six new dresses a year.
On the other side he was attacked by the relatives of the deceased, who
suddenly appeared in swarms, like vultures, and demanded the arrears of
pay due to him. But it was a case of Greek meeting Greek, and Nils
finally decided to pay over the money to the widow. I thought that, in
that case, she would be murdered before she reached Mchauru, and
suggested that he should send a messenger to deposit the money with
Matola, as the headman of Wanduwandu’s native district. It was explained
to the woman that she could claim her property—it amounted to the
enormous sum of four rupees and three quarters—whenever she might so
desire; but probably she failed to understand this. At any rate, on her
departure, which took place on the day after Knudsen’s final refusal to
contract for an annual supply of clothing, the cook, Latu, missed a
quantity of ground-nuts and some other eatables from his master’s
stores. “Let her just come again, that’s all!” said Nils, outwardly
indignant, but in reality visibly relieved. There is no ground for
uneasiness; such a beauty is not likely to remain long unwooed in a
country like this, and in all probability she is married again by this
time. Notwithstanding this, Nils still urges our departure.
Another circumstance has been making my stay at Mahuta less and less
agreeable. Even at Nchichira the daily devotions of the headman and
other Muhammadans had been a trial, beginning before daybreak and
repeated at noon and evening. Here the adherents of the Prophet are more
numerous, and their faith more fervid, besides which we are now well
into Ramadan. If my men are amusing me with their songs, or themselves
with new _ngoma_ dances, which they have an astonishing facility in
inventing, their noise drowns the muttering and whining of the nineteen
or twenty devotees under the Wali’s _baraza_. But if the latter can be
heard alone, the effect is simply terrible. The Wali leads the
exercises; his voice is not in any case melodious, but when uttering
itself in Arabic gutturals, it fairly gets on one’s nerves, especially
when the noise goes on till after ten at night. Unfortunately it is
quite impossible to interfere, even if my principles as to religious
toleration did not forbid it. However, I made an energetic and
successful protest against the Wali’s habit of conversing at the top of
his voice for a considerable time after dismissing his congregation, and
all the time spitting copiously into the middle of the _boma_ square. I
told him that so long as I was in the place I was the _Bwana mkubwa_,
and it was my business to determine what was _desturi_ (custom), and
what was not; and I expressly desired that he should cease to disturb my
night’s rest.
Another inducement for a speedy return to the coast was the opportunity
of securing a free passage north for my carriers by the _Kaiser Wilhelm
II_, which was to leave Lindi for Dar es Salam soon after November 20.
If I kept them with me till my own departure on December 2, I should not
only have to pay a good deal in extra wages, but also a large sum in
steamer-fares for them, as the boat by which I have taken my passage
belongs, not to the Government, but to a private company. Finally, I
desired to spend a short time on the coast in order to study the records
of the criminal courts—the study of criminal psychology being of the
highest importance in ethnography.
The noise on the morning of November 12 was greater than ever. My men
leapt about the _boma_ like sheep in a panic, and could scarcely await
the word to start. The Wali could not be denied the privilege of
escorting us for a short distance along the road. Not so his son, a
lazy, dirty rascal, who has given us every reason to remember him by a
performance he went through every evening, when the flag was lowered for
the night, seizing it, if he thought himself unobserved, as it reached
the ground, and sneezing into its folds, or otherwise employing it as a
handkerchief.
There is not much to record about the march to Luagala. The country is
level as a billiard-table, but the vegetation is far finer than on the
southern side of the plateau. For two days the road passes through a
splendid forest of large trees; human settlements, and the horrible
scrubby bush inseparable from them being entirely absent. Shortly before
we reach Luagala (which has a _boma_ garrisoned by half a company and
commanded by a lieutenant in the Imperial Army), the country becomes
more hilly, and presents a curious aspect. As far as the eye can see
extend groves of mangoes, loaded with fruit; but not a soul is visible,
nothing but charred ruins of huts here and there. This is the former
domain of Machemba, that remarkable Yao chieftain who, like the famous
Mirambo in Unyanyembe, was able, by the prestige of his name to gather
bands of daring spirits round him, tyrannize over the whole Makonde
plateau, and even offer effective resistance to the German troops. The
battlefields where he encountered them are still shown to the traveller.
About ten years ago, however, Machemba preferred to leave the German
territory, and has since lived on the other side of the Rovuma, almost
in sight of Nchichira, terrifying the Portuguese for a change. The old
warrior must have been an excellent organizer in more ways than one; a
stupid man would never have thought of introducing this cultivation on
the sandy soil of this particular part of the plateau. Luagala may be
well situated from a strategic point of view, but as regards its water
supply, it is worse off than any Makonde hamlet. At present all the
drinking water has to be fetched from a place twelve or fifteen miles
away.
After the long and elaborate dinner with which Lieutenant Spiegel, in
the joy of his heart at receiving a European, welcomed us, it was a
pleasure on starting once more, to walk through the cool shade of the
forest. The road sloped gently downwards for some time—then the incline
became steeper, and at last the caravan had to climb down an almost
vertical declivity to the Kiheru—a little stream of crystal clearness.
Such water is so rare in East Africa that in my delight I had already
filled my cup and was lifting it to my lips, when Hemedi Maranga stopped
me, saying, “_Chungu, Bwana_” (“It is bitter, sir”).
Saidi Kapote is already a typical lowland settlement, consisting of
scattered, rectangular houses of some size, with saddle-ridged, thatched
roofs. It suffers as much from the evening gale as the other villages at
the foot of the hills. Hitherto the march down to the coast has
resembled an obstacle-race, as, owing to the trouble with the carriers
already mentioned, we have every morning been late in starting. Here,
too, the Makonde engaged yesterday have vanished without leaving a
trace, and though the headman is able to supply some men for the most
important loads, we must leave behind those less urgently needed, and
trust to his promise to send them on after us.
The last march but one begins. We are steadily advancing eastward, along
the parallel ranges which stretch in endless monotony between the Kiheru
and the Lukuledi. The caravan is now very numerous, consisting of over a
hundred persons, and in the sandy soil, which here makes very heavy
walking, the line straggles out to such a length that both ends are
never in sight at once. However, we press onward untiringly, hour after
hour. At the Lukuledi we take a short rest; then on again. At last,
about the middle of the afternoon, after marching more than eight hours,
we camp among extensive palm and mango groves, a short hour’s walk west
of Mrweka. Everyone is quite worn out—too tired to put one foot before
the other; but even the stupidest boy in attendance on the soldiers
tosses uneasily in his dreams—for we shall be at Lindi to-morrow, and he
is looking forward to the splendour and the enjoyments of this
metropolis.
[Illustration: GREAT NGOMA DANCE IN THE BOMA AT MAHUTA.]
Under the star-spangled tropic sky my brave fellows fall in for the last
time, and for the last time the noise of the caravan getting under way
disturbs the silence of the bush on the other side of the deep ravine in
which the Lukuledi flows. In the Indian quarter of Mrweka, sleepy men,
women with nose-rings, and gaudily dressed babies start up in affright,
when the discordant sounds of the horns blown by my expedition reach
their ears. It is quickly growing lighter, when a khaki-clad figure
seizes my mule’s bridle: it is Herr Linder, the excellent agricultural
inspector, who was the last European to say good-bye to me at Ruaha, and
is now the first to welcome me back. His presence here is a consequence
of the boom at Lindi, as he is engaged in surveying some new plantation
or other. We are off again at a rapid pace, down a slightly inclined
slope to the left; the head of the line stops, those coming up behind
him crowd on each other’s heels; and, on riding up to see what is the
matter, I find that a broad creek bars the way. Being a stranger to the
country, I must in this case be guided by my men. These, lifting their
clothes as high as their shoulders, have waded slowly into the water. My
mule resists a little out of sheer affectation, but soon jogs on bravely
after the rest. All reach the other side without mishap, and, after a
short pause to get the whole party together again, we start in
double-quick time for Ngurumahamba, which is flooded by the springtide,
the water having almost penetrated into the houses.
We have done with the wilderness. The road, still unfinished in July, is
now in its complete state a masterpiece of engineering: it only wants a
few motor cars to be a perfect picture of twentieth-century
civilization. The last halt of any length is at the foot of Kitulo,
where Knudsen insists on taking a photograph of me with a huge _baobab_
as background, on the ground that I ought to be handed down to posterity
in the garb of an African explorer. My men in the meantime have been
smartening themselves up; and, very picturesquely grouped among the
bales and boxes, they are scrubbing away at their teeth, which, as it
is, could scarcely be whiter, with a zeal which one would be only too
glad to see among some of our own compatriots. The tooth-brush
(_mswaki_) used by these natives, is a piece of very fibrous wood, about
eight inches long, and as thick as one’s thumb, which penetrates into
every cranny of the teeth without injuring the enamel, and looks, when
in use, like an enormous cigar. It performs its work well and is free
from objection on the score of hygiene, especially as, a new one being
always easily procurable, it need never remain in use too long.
I have just reached the top of Kitulo, and am looking back for the last
time on that part of interior Africa in which I, too, have now by hard
work won the right to be called an explorer, when Omari, the cook, comes
panting and puffing up the hill, and roars at me as soon as he comes in
sight, “_Ndege amekwenda!_” (“The bird has got away!”). In fact, the
cage which for some weeks past had contained a brightly-coloured little
bird—a kind of siskin—is now empty; a loose bar shows how he gained his
freedom. How pleasantly, all these weeks, his song has enlivened the
hot, dusty rest-houses in which we have been living, and made them a
little more home-like; and how grateful he always was for the few heads
of millet which sufficed for his keep. Now, he is off, just at the
moment when I was wondering what to do with my little friend, knowing
that he was not likely to thrive in the cold northern winter, and
doubting whether I could safely entrust him to the first European I came
across. His escape at this moment has cut the knot.
[Illustration: MY ESCORT CLEANING THEIR TEETH]
In close order, the soldiers in section-column, the Imperial Service
flag unfurled to the fresh sea-breeze, we march into Lindi. My carriers
are strangers to the place, and therefore the cries of the women, which
usually greet every caravan making its entry, are few and far between.
Smartly my soldiers wheel into the _boma_ square, and there, as I am
dismounting, stiff with the long ride, I see the first white man
approach; he greets me pleasantly and seems honestly pleased to see me.
A second comes up. “Good gracious! how ill you look! And as for that
mule of yours, if it doesn’t croak before the day is out I’ll be shot,
but you’ll have to pay for it all the same!” My illusions are rudely
shattered. I turn away and beckon to the corporal, who has been standing
a little apart, in correct military attitude, to come nearer. “You have
been good soldiers, and you, Hemedi Maranga, the best of all. I am going
to make a big feast for you. But now you can go home to your wives.” I
shook hands with him, he gave the word of command, and the next moment
the twelve had disappeared into the barrack-yard, while I went on to my
old quarters. Knudsen is right; after all, it is better among the
Washenzi.
I did not see much of my carriers in their few remaining days at Lindi,
but I heard the more. Now their hour has come: the _Kaiser Wilhelm_ is
swinging at anchor out yonder on the river, and will start to-morrow at
daybreak. My men are to go on board this evening at sunset. I have
ordered them to be in front of the post-office (where I am living in a
modest room on the upper floor) at half-past five, thinking it best to
see them as far as the harbour myself. The appointed time has come, but
not a carrier is to be seen. I wait till a quarter to six, and am
becoming somewhat uneasy, when I am aware of the gradual approach of so
frightful a din that there cannot be the slightest doubt as to who is
causing it. But have the twenty-four been suddenly multiplied by three?
A closely-packed crowd roars and surges in the square beneath me; the
bass voices of the men, the shrill, vibrating cries of the women make up
a pandemonium of sound; but no disorderly actions take place—in fact I
had not expected any. The crowd follows me in a confused mass for the
few hundred paces down to the harbour, where the ferry-boat is waiting.
“_Bwana_, I would rather stay here,” says Kazi Ulaya, the handsome, with
a tender look at the fair one beside him. “Do what thy heart prompts, my
son,” I reply mildly. “And this is my boy, sir,” says Pesa mbili II, of
Manyema, who has by this time recovered his plumpness. But he refrains
from introducing to me the _bibi_, who, in some embarrassment, is hiding
behind his broad back.
“Now sing those fine songs of yours once more.”
The men are standing round me in a serried circle. “_Kuya mapunda_” goes
very well; the pleasing melody rises in full volume of sound above the
voice of the rushing Lukuledi. In “_Dasige Murumba_” too, the singers
acquit themselves fairly well; but when the standard song, “_Yooh
nderule_” begins, the circle seems full of gaps, and my eye can
distinguish in the twilight various couples scattered here and there
among the bushes by the bank. “Ah! farewell scenes,” I think to myself,
but soon perceive that I am mistaken; no tender sentiments are being
discussed, but my matter-of-fact fellows are throwing themselves like
wolves on the last repast prepared for them by loving hands before the
voyage. I wish them, _sotto voce_, a good appetite, and make a note of
the fact that the heart of the native, like that of the European, can be
reached through his stomach.
The ferryman shouts impatiently to hurry them up, and I drive the
unattached contingent of the singers down into the shallow water.
Splashing and laughing they wade towards the boat; the darkness has come
on rapidly, and I can only just distinguish the white figures as they
clamber on board. “_Yooh nderule, yooh nderule, bwana mkubwa
nderule_”—the familiar sounds, long drawn out, ring over the water in
Pesa mbili’s voice—“_kuba sumba na wogi nderulewa, yooh nderule_”—the
chorus dies away. The boat has disappeared in the darkness, and I turn
my steps towards the mess-room, and the principal meal of the day, where
I am once more claimed by civilization. The Weule Expedition is at an
end.
[Illustration: ENTERING THE RED SEA]