On Land and Lake
We certainly set off for our first so-called tramp most professionally
fitted out, but this only lasted for one day. The marching Norfolk dress
was soon discarded for a loose blouse; the water bottle, which did give
one rather a heroic aspect, was quietly given over to the “boy”; that
wonderful compendium of knife, corkscrew, file, button hook, and so
forth, which includes everything that you never want and nothing that you
do, was likewise voted too heavy; even the puggaree that had offered a
suggestion of trimming to the very unbecoming bald topee, was thrown out,
and any consideration for personal appearance that might have secretly
lurked within was superseded by the one desire for comfort, as we steamed
along on our bicycles over good, bad, and indifferent roads, the sun
beating down upon us all the time.
Lake Naivasha seemed scarcely large enough to satisfy our inordinate
thirst as we pulled up; we were not a bit polite when tea was generously
doled out to us by the Europeans stationed there, for none of us refused
a fourth and fifth cup, even when we saw the supply was running short.
I got very behindhand in my journal while on the road. Never had I been
successful in keeping one for longer than a week; on the seventh day it
had become so intolerably dull that Dryasdust must even have yawned. Of
course, Africa supplies you with plenty of material, but the methodical
mind and will power are somehow wanting. Let me tell you why. At 4.0
a.m. daily one wakes up with a start, for as the sun does not rise till
6.0, night still seems to rest heavily on the land and on one’s eyelids.
But the caravan leader is beating a drum, accompanying it with a shrill
falsetto call to rise; and if one dares to stay rubbing the sleep out of
the eyes, the porters are fumbling away at the tent ropes, and before
there is time to complete one’s toilette, the whole tent flops down like
a closed umbrella. A truly undignified exit is made by a dishevelled
figure, and one turns up while breakfast is being served round the camp
fire on tin crockery.
In the dusk we push off; a real expert rider you must be to dodge in and
out of the porters who are already filing along on the narrow path, and
have a happy knack of swinging round at the sound of the bicycle bell
just as you pass—the tent-pole carrier was a veritable man-trap, and
more than once pitched machine and rider into the ditch. I am sure I
shall never complain again of English or even Scotch roads; the ridges
we have ridden over (often ending in a swamp) have helped to strengthen
one’s nerves and powers of balance. We generally reach camp before our
porters, and then seek out some shelter till our tents arrive. It is a
quaint sight to watch the long line of the caravan coming in; the men
become very excited at sight of the halting place, and as the first man
who carries a drum beats it with all his might, swinging a zebra tail
round and round his head, the men all break into song and a slow dance,
which gradually increases in volume and speed until the 65lb. box on the
head is quite forgotten, the body springs about in mid-air, and finally
throws itself down with a shout of ecstasy and an eloquent outburst of
self-praise and congratulation.
[Illustration: A GROUP OF MASAIS.
_Photo by D. V. F. Figueira, Mombasa._]
When tents have been pitched and bodily restoratives have been applied
in the form of cool baths, a good meal and a sleep, the only possible
hour for journalling has come. But who could resist the desire to peep
outside the tent door, and then into the new and fascinating features of
folk, animals, birds, and country that surround the colony of tents? So
my pen remained idle for many days on the road, and as we were constantly
going forward, it was not easy to go back and pick up broken threads.
The day from Lake Nakuro must have a few lines to itself. The usual 15
miles’ journey had appeared exceptionally short on account of the good
roads, and there being no houses or even signboard to tell you “this is
camp,” we rode past it unconsciously. While resting mid-day on the banks
of a shady nook for a cup of tea and biscuits, two bicycles unfortunately
fell over on my gear case and completely smashed it up. This made riding
a little difficult for the remainder of the day, as the skirt would keep
catching in the chain, and the gear-case strapped across the handle-bars
did not allow much knee space. Very hot, dusty, hungry, and tired at 3.30
p.m., we came across a small Indian encampment which had journeyed up
country for railway survey with a large number of pack mules. The campers
told us we had come 34 miles. This rather alarmed us, for we wondered how
our porters could cover that distance. It was a ghastly spot. The ground
was strewn with numbers of bleached skulls and bones, which we afterwards
learned were part of an Indian troop that some time previously had
travelled down country under Mr. Grant, and had died for want of water.
After waiting some time scouts were sent out to search for our men,
but as night fell they returned with the tidings that our caravan was
camped some 15 miles away, and was too exhausted to push on. Having
eaten nothing since 4 o’clock a.m., with the exception of that mid-day
impromptu lunch, I must confess that our first consideration was for
food. Fortunately one of our party had shot during the day a bustard.
This was speedily prepared and cooked in a pot lent us by the Indians. A
few biscuits and some tea still remained in our canteen, and so sitting
round an ember fire inside the stockade constructed for the mules as
protection from the lions, we enjoyed, perhaps as never before, a
hearty, simple and crude meal, without chairs, spoons, forks, or even
chop-sticks. We tried to effect further loans, and through the generosity
of our new friends succeeded in procuring one small tent for the night.
It _was_ small, 6 feet square, and we five ladies had to pack into it.
We did manage it by strictly adhering to the agreement of sleeping on
one’s side and not attempting to change over. There were no blankets,
but certainly none of us felt the need of them! The gentlemen kept guard
round the watch fires all night, but I think they got in more sleep than
we did.
In case such a thing should ever happen again, the men of our party were
evidently determined to be prepared, for on the following afternoon we
saw them shouldering their guns, and after hearing a few distant sounds
of shot, two zebras and three antelopes were carried into camp; and
before we had finished admiring and pitying these splendid fallen lords
of the country, they were carried off and skinned. The next sight we
caught of them was in the form of long, gory strips festooned from branch
to branch of a tree close by. The porters, hawk-like, were standing
round, as hungry East Enders outside fried fish bars. Perhaps they
can be partially excused when we consider the monotonous, unpalatable
millet which constitutes their daily diet. At 7 p.m. a drum was beaten,
and every man presented himself in as famished a condition as he could
assume. They stood like soldiers waiting to be decorated with the V.C.
In a few minutes the tree was quite cleared, and outside each tiny tent
was fixed on sticks venison and wild beef roasting over the fires. The
sounds of revelry had scarcely died away when the morning call drum
sounded.
[Illustration: THE NEW BOAT ON VICTORIA NYANZA.]
The people who live in the district through which we had hitherto passed
are called the Masai tribe, a nomadic folk who travel about from one
place to another, according to the pasture the land offers for their
goats and sheep. They have distinctly warlike propensities, and a warrior
chief is often met having a few armed followers, who, like their master,
smear their bodies with grease and red earth, only wearing a small strip
of cloth, or an animal’s skin over the shoulder, and sometimes a few
feathers in their matted and oiled hair. The fierce opposition they
showed to the pioneer Missionaries is now no longer displayed; in fact
they appear somewhat timid and reserved.
The general physical feature of the land is soft, gently undulating
country. But for the lakes Naivasha and Nakuro, and the River Gilgal,
there is a marked scarcity of water. Not until we reached the Eldoma
Ravine did we pass anything worthy of being called a forest. At that
point we had risen 7,000 feet above sea level, and exquisite stretches of
tangled forests of cedars and bamboos afforded a welcome relief after the
dried up and treeless track we had been accustomed to. Cycling was quite
impossible owing to the many trees that had fallen across the road, and
the deep ruts made by the ox waggons which had passed along in the wet
season; one waggon, carrying along parts of a new boat to be floated on
the Victoria Nyanza, was overthrown and broken up by one of these ruts
the day we passed through the forest.
In spite of the weariness that often overcomes one travelling day after
day under such a fierce sun, how glad I am that the railway had left
us 300 miles of tramping before we reached the lake! Those who come
up country now the railroad is completed will never experience the
fondness, and shall I call it proprietorship, that one seems to feel for
the land when each step has involved labour, every little change from
the prairie grass and thorn bushes been noticed and welcomed, and each
new district and tribe prayed and longed over to be claimed for Christ.
How can I describe the scene that stretched before me as I stood on the
Nandi plateau overlooking the tranquil silver lake, the Victoria Nyanza,
lying 3,000ft. below. The sun was slowly sinking towards the west, and,
as it did so, drew the attention to the other side, our land of promise,
Uganda. As the distant horizon and sky were flooded with a gentle red and
golden light, salvation and victory seemed written in the handwriting of
God upon the walls of that country.
Turning round towards camp what a contrast the scene presented. Hundreds
of natives had congregated together dressed in animals’ skins, and armed
with shields and spears, which they were flourishing in the air with
wild dancing and shrill war song—they were going out to fight with a
neighbouring tribe. In the morning I had had an undesirable encounter
with some of them. Having taken my writing case and pocket Bible to a
hill a short distance away from where we were encamped to get a view of
the wonderful panorama of plain and lake beneath, I had been somewhat
startled by a number of men suddenly appearing from what at first were
quite undistinguishable grass huts. Void of clothing they had painted
their bodies with bright red earth, and had made various designs with
grease on their limbs. Their hair was long and twisted into streaks by
means of goat’s fat, and each man carried a spear and shield. Soon a
small crowd had gathered round, and I must confess to a certain feeling
of uneasiness at the isolation of my position. However, I determined to
evince no fear and tried to make the best of it. I undid my writing-case
and showed it to them, and my watch. They literally shrieked with
delight and surprise when they saw the hands run round. The gilt edges of
my Bible attracted them, so handling it reverently I tried to tell them
it was God’s Book, and drawing one of the children to me by signs, sought
to convey to their minds that God loved us. I do not know if they caught
my meaning, but I do know that God caught up the prayers that ascended
for them.
[Illustration: A NANDI FAMILY.
_Photo by W. D. Young, Mombasa._]
The same evening a violent storm broke over us. One of our tents was
literally washed out, not having had a deep ditch digged round in case of
emergency.
After moving off again and descending very precipitately to the level of
the lake, the heavy rains were found to have made marching exceedingly
difficult. We had to plough through thick black mud till we reached
Port Florence, a distance of twenty-one miles. At one point on the road
a stream about thirty yards wide had to be waded, as our porters were
unavailable for carrying, having all gone on in front. The water in some
parts was a foot deep, and it was by no means an easy thing getting
through it when there were inches of mud from which the boots very
reluctantly parted.
News had reached us that the steamboat _Ruwenzori_ which had been sent
to meet us and take us across the lake had been wrecked on the way, so
we had to put off in an Arab dhow, a sailing boat used for transport
purposes only, and one that offered no passenger accommodation.
Three thousand square miles! Can you imagine a lake about that size? And
yet on our maps it is no larger than a boot button. Quiet and peaceful
as is its normal condition, there are times when its mighty waters are
lashed into uncomfortable anger, and casting up foaming crests break on
the shore with the force and roar of an ocean’s storm. Abundant in its
resources, it can afford to be generous in its supplies; with prodigality
it pours its fulness into its offspring, so that distant Egypt subsists
on its benevolence—the Nile.
Although only 7 p.m., darkness had already set in as we made our way down
to the rough landing-stage to be shipped for Uganda. The dhow looked
uncomfortably small for its crew, seven English passengers, twelve
“boys,” and all their cargo. It could not get up to the little wooden
pier, so we rowed out in dug-out canoes by the light of a hand lamp. This
took time, and it was nearly midnight before everything was on board.
A small portion towards the stem had been reserved to our use for
sleeping, feeding, and living purposes. One of the ground sheets of the
tent was fixed up on four insecure poles to form an awning over us.
Our sacks containing camp beds and blankets were placed about to act as
bolsters as we lay down on the bare boards in the vain hope of sleeping.
But they were the most bony bolsters I have ever known, for on whatever
corner you took up your position, there was a point of the bedstead
running into you. We were all glad when a sharp breeze sprang up in the
early morning, and the sails that had been nodding all night braced
themselves together for work.
Mid-day we passed a small island which is inhabited by fisher folk. They
trap the fish by means of baskets with inverted necks like a safety
ink-pot. Someone suggested pulling into shore in a canoe that was passing
at the time for the purpose of buying some fish, but the people had
misinterpreted our intentions and had armed themselves with spears, and
were waiting for us entrenched behind large rocks. So it was decided to
lunch off tinned sausages that day! Our prospects of landing and enjoying
a change at night from the hard boards of the dhow were shattered by the
captain assuring us that he could not possibly waste such a splendid wind
as was blowing, but must push on. Accordingly, mattresses and pillows
were pulled out and spread on the deck, so that our couch might be a
trifle more comfortable than on the preceding night.
The wind did blow, and the dhow pitched to and fro like the tub of
Diogenes. He must have been a better sailor than most of us were, else he
could never have steered his craft.
It was wonderful how the food was cooked. The Swahili boys are prodigies,
and can somehow manage under any condition. Finding a large iron tray
they built up their wood fires on it in the bow of the boat and with the
usual three stones they boiled their kettle, saucepan or other kitchen
requisites.
The scenery round the shores of the lake is exceedingly pretty. The land
gently slopes upward. Here and there a belt of forest stretches down to
the water’s edge; the grass huts huddled together in small communities
just appear peeping out from the creeks and woods, and birds of gorgeous
colours fly about or build their nests in the branches overhanging the
water’s edge.
On the third day of our trip we were becalmed, and it was decided to
land on an island for the night so that we might get a complete change
of toilet and rest. There was no canoe at hand to take us ashore, so a
raft was constructed of poles and two large Masai hide shields which had
been given me up country. We crossed over, two by two, carefully balanced
in the centre of the raft, with shoes and stockings in our hands. The
men managed to get a few things across, but the raft would not bear the
weight of the tents. A ground sheet was once more utilized by tying it
to branches of trees to form a covering over our camp and beds at night.
Looking through the mosquito net I saw the stars peeping down, and the
fireflies and glow worms lighting up the air and shrubs, and heard the
croaking of the frogs and the night bird cooing in the trees. It seemed
like a page out of childhood’s fairy book.
There was no chance of getting off in the morning, and we made a tour
of the island. It chanced to be the one on which the _Ruwenzori_ had
been wrecked. The captain and his native crew had succeeded in getting
safely to land, but were in a sad plight without shoes and socks and
provisions. It was most fortunate our party happened to have lighted
on that particular island, and so were able to replenish the meagre
stores of these shipwrecked mariners. The natives flocked together when
they heard of the arrival of white men, and begged them to shoot the
hippopotami that had been destroying their cultivation. They showed us
round their village, in the centre of which was their devil temple. The
head priest alone was allowed to enter. Round the courtyard were placed
flat and upright stone slabs; these were the seats of the priests, who
sat round in a semi-circle when their head priest was inside invoking the
evil spirit. The only one in our party who knew their language spoke to
them, and they all united in asking that teachers might be sent to them
to instruct them in these “good words.” Now there is no need to send to
them, for since then the island has been depopulated by the sleeping
sickness. Not one inhabitant remains—and they died with their request
unanswered!
On the morning of the eighth day we were all eagerly examining the
fringe of land lying straight ahead. The opera glasses spied out a few
dark figures moving about close to the landing stage. In imagination
and Pears’ Soap advertisements I had often seen the picture, the blue,
transparent water, a stretch of sandy shore—the background of banana
trees and palms, a few grass huts, and a dark-skinned figure standing
out in bold relief with the broad smile displaying a row of white teeth.
“Otyano Munange” (How do you do, my friend?) and a prolonged exchange of
grunts greeted us as we stepped from the dhow on to the shores of Port
Munyonyo.
During the few minutes of waiting for our boxes to be unloaded I moved
toward a little hut from which the sound of voices was coming. Peeping
in at the low doorway, I saw a man dressed in white linen (evidently the
head of the household). He was sitting, reading aloud to a group of men
and women gathered round him. The Book was the Gospel of St. John.
Surely this was Uganda, where the people who sat in darkness have seen
a great light. It is wonderful what the Bible has done for them. Its
influence penetrates the entire country, and its very utterances are the
language of the people. Its expressions of greeting and farewell are
used, and with reverence.
How our bicycles did run away with us over those seven miles to Mengo.
After mounting them, we were followed by numbers of natives, and from
every direction they came out of their shambas to greet us, falling down
on their knees and saying, “You are our prayers, thank you.”
On hearing of our arrival, our missionary friends had all started off
to greet us. They described it as a little bit of England to see seven
cyclists coming along with an impress of home which the five weeks’
knocking about had not quite obliterated. The first one to meet us must
have been guilty of scorching, as he was far ahead of the others, and
he was determined to give us a real taste of Uganda right away, for he
produced from his pocket some bananas (shall I own it, rather squashy)
wrapped up in a newspaper; they were good!
Next came along a mule, bearing towards us Bishop Tucker, who had come
out to welcome his new recruits. I do not remember quite distinctly
the other faces, for we were literally hemmed in by scores of excited
natives, hustling, bustling, clapping, and chattering, seizing our hands
and thanking us for having come so far to them, while tears of gratitude
glistened on some of their splendid, intelligent, brown faces.