Toro: The Land of the Mountains of the Moon
On Tuesday, April 10th, 1900, the start was made for Toro. Our caravan of
porters had been sent on before to have our first camp in readiness on
our arrival.
Bishop Tucker, who was coming our way for two days on a visit to an
out-station, set off on his mule, with Miss Pike mounted on a most
apologetic-looking donkey. The Lloyds and myself arranged our departure
two hours later, as our cycles promised a quicker method of locomotion.
Having said the last good-bye to friends, I went away for an hour’s
quiet to get strengthened for the journey. Taking out my “Daily Light” I
looked for its message, which was the promise given to Israel while in
captivity, “Thy renown went forth among the heathen for thy beauty, for
thou art perfect in the majesty (R.V.) that I have put upon thee, saith
the Lord.” What a glorious responsibility through the graciousness of God
to be allowed to proclaim the renown, beauty and majesty of Christ among
the heathen.
At 3.0 three cyclists could have been seen scorching down the hills from
Mengo with a crowd of boys and men as bodyguard, all the twelve miles to
camp. Africans seem to be possessed with an extra breathing reservoir,
for they can run almost any distance without stopping to regain breath.
It was dark or semi-obscure in the small forest opening where we found
our encampment. Miss Pike was unceremoniously seated on a big box
swallowing pints of tea! The porters had tried to erect our tent, but had
not learned the knack, and we had to creep into flabby folds of canvas.
It looked like a native who wants his one daily meal—it sadly needed
inflating. Oh, dear! How did we manage that night! It became dark so
soon, everybody had to fish about with candles among a medley of boxes,
porters and food. Our Baganda boys were certainly not trained like the
Swahili attendants who came up with us to Uganda, in the mysteries and
arts of camping out. European equipments were unsolved conundrums to
them. Our four youths looked hopelessly vacant, jabbering about round the
tent, doing nothing but getting into one’s way. When we did sit down to a
personally-superintended cooked meal, the “waiter” knocked the wash-hand
basin of water over my pillows, which had to be round a fire all night to
dry. The “boys” can learn to do things fairly nicely if you have patience
to allow them plenty of time for an idea to filter through their minds.
They wanted an hour for preparing our table at each meal, which was only
furnished with the simplest and most limited number of things. Sitting
down before the food box they took out every tin and contemplated each
one for some minutes before deciding whether salt was eaten with tea, jam
with meat, and so on.
The next morning at 4.30 we were all astir again, and as soon as our
belongings were packed up, were on our way. How I wish I had the power
of descriptive writing to enable others to peep into one of the many
exquisite belts of forest that crossed the road at constant intervals.
They surpassed any Kew tropical greenhouse. Unlike the tangled disorderly
forests passed on our way to Uganda, date palms, trees, climbers, flowers
such as orchids, sunflowers, wild pea and tomatoes flourished there in
perfect life and vigour.
Emerging from the cool shade of these trees, our track passed through
stretches of papyrus and pampas grasses eight to fifteen feet high. It
was almost impossible to see the path of about one foot wide which had
become overgrown and covered by broken tiger grass. Cycling was anything
but easy. We had to butt our sun helmets into the long, wet waving grass,
blindly careering forward. There is absolutely no level ground between
Toro and Uganda, but a succession of hills over the tops of which the
road has been cut. The descents, sometimes very steep are dangerous on
account of the thick muddy swamps that frequently wind round the bases
of the hills. The bridges over these swamps often get washed away in
the rainy seasons. One almost feels the treacherous malaria, as heat
waves sweep heavily along, while being carried through these “Sloughs of
Despond” on the shoulder of one of the strongest porters. I suppose one
of these was responsible for the heat sickness that I woke up with one
morning. A long tiresome march lay ahead, so the hammock was insisted
upon, and six men, lent by the chief of the village, came as carriers. It
was rather ludicrous to watch the sympathy of the natives. I could have
imagined myself dying; but the shock they sustained when the first little
bit of decent road was reached! In half-a-minute the awe-struck men stood
gasping as, calling out to be lowered, the poor, dying “Mukyala” (lady)
coasted down a tempting hill. They looked quite relieved when they found
her awaiting the hammock at the foot of the next climb.
In one camp the chief came to pay us his respects and brought six old men
with him and several folks to whom he wanted to show the white ladies,
none having passed along that way before. I could do nothing more than
greet them with an extenuated string of grunts, but this pleased them
immensely. Mr. Lloyd asked if I would let down my hair, as they had
never seen anything different from their own cropped, frizzy pates, and
the short hair of a few white men. Out came the hairpins, and as the
hair tumbled down a loud laugh of delight and surprise came from every
onlooker. A lesson in hairdressing followed, and each twist, turn and pin
was watched with lively excitement. A spoonful of salt was given round
to every visitor before leaving. Their eyes glistened, their hands were
lifted to their mouths, the tongues protruded, and, oh, the delight of
that moment! They smacked their lips and relished it as much as I enjoyed
sherbet in girlhood’s days. The remaining dainty morsel was tied up in a
piece of banana leaf.
The roads proved too much for my poor wheel. Until it could be
attended to by a London specialist it had to be regarded as a chronic
displacement. The strain on the fork had been too incessant and heavy
with only a front rim brake. The ruts, ditches, and obstacles had given
it a terrible shaking, and finally succeeded in literally tearing the
fork away from the bar. The remainder of the journey, about 140 miles,
had to be covered on foot. Miss Pike was in the same predicament, as the
donkey gave in even before the bicycle.
On the sixth day from Mengo we reached Lwekula and put up at a European
fort, vacated now, but built and occupied at the last Soudanese rebellion
when the Nubian troops and Mohammedan population were up in arms against
the British Government. It is a square fenced-in enclosure with sentinel
boxes at each corner and a deep, dry moat surrounding it. Two or three
reed sheds stand inside, one of which we made use of instead of our
tents, which are intensely hot during the day time. Unfortunately, Mrs.
Lloyd was taken with bad fever as we reached here, and as her temperature
remained at 104 on the third day a special runner was dispatched to Mengo
asking Dr. Cook to come out to her. The six following days of waiting
for his arrival were anxious times to us all, and we watched by her
bedside day and night. When he did come the fever refused to yield to
treatment. After a fortnight spent thus it was decided that she should
be carried back to the nearest European station three days away. Before
leaving, the doctor had an opportunity of relieving several poor native
sufferers. One was a tubercular case, which necessitated amputation of
the finger. In lieu of an operating theatre the patient was laid on the
ground and given chloroform! We enjoyed a few regular out-patient days of
hospital life again.
The knowledge that our two travelling friends must return had come to us
on my birthday, and a new weight seemed added to my quarter of a century
of life. They had been like brother and sister to me ever since leaving
England, and now it was like going away from everything that connected
one with the old land. Then I turned to my Bible, and Psalm 22 was the
birthday portion—“The Kingdom is the Lord’s” stood out as written in
gold. I could never get beyond God’s country, God’s territory. It brought
such peace, comfort, protection. No longer was it one person almost alone
in a big strange land, but a child of a King who reigneth in Africa as in
England, and never sends without Himself going, too.
The doctor left at 12.0 p.m. on April 30th to get ready the camp for the
Lloyds, and at 4.0 p.m. we fixed the invalid up in the hammock and left
the Fort with them. It was a sad and silent procession, and a talk with
Mr. Lloyd showed us how bitter was the disappointment to them both. At
sunset we stood and wished them good-bye, and it just needed all the
strength we could command to keep back the hot tears that wanted to fall
with those that shook the poor little patient. Neither of us could speak
as Miss Pike and I returned to the desolate Fort. Already two of our
companions has been obliged to turn back, and we two girls were left to
go on with a missionary who had come out to escort us to Toro.
At midnight my companion was seized with violent sickness and slight
temperature. Donning slippers and enveloping myself in a blanket, I
ran out across the Fort to rouse one of the boys for hot water. It was
awfully uncanny. The starlit sky was entirely shut out by angry clouds,
and the darkness was intolerable. Only the shrill shriek of the hyenas
broke the stillness, and I half expected the faint light from my candle
lamp to fall upon a leopard or reptile.
After two days, however, she so far recovered as to be able in a hammock
to take up the journey once more.
I am quite sure Heber had never visited Uganda when he wrote:—
“Where Afric’s sunny fountains
Roll down their golden sand.”
If he had done so it might have run:—
“Where Afric’s swamps and mountains
Meet one on every hand.”
Our experience next day especially proved this. At 6 a.m. a cloudless
sky greeted us, and damp white mists were sleeping in each hollow. At
the foot of the first hill we were confronted by a long swamp with tall
papyrus grass growing on either side. We had recourse to the hammock,
and as the water reached the carriers’ waists, one felt the canvas was
some inches in water and that it was a case of floating through the
dirty, stagnant river. I wondered if poor little Moses in the bulrushes
ever felt as we did among the papyrus. The second swamp gave us a little
variety, as the reed bridge had been broken down and the step down into
the swamp was so steep that we felt uncomfortably like sliding over the
front carrier, while the climb up at the other end gave us our first
sensation of standing on our heads.
At 11 o’clock we halted under a tree and feasted on sausages (tinned),
sweet potatoes, cornflour, biscuits, and tea. Sausages are a great
treat out here, and we only indulged as we were doing a double march to
reach Toro that day week. We then waited till 2 p.m. so as to allow the
sun to cool down a bit, and enjoyed reading an English newspaper, the
“British Weekly,” of February 16th date. After that we felt quite ready
to continue our march, reaching camp at 4 o’clock, only to find our tents
had been pitched on such a disgustingly dirty old camping ground that
they had to be taken up and erected some hundred yards further on.
Diary-making that day was impossible. Our tent, from the bottom to the
top, was literally lined with mosquitoes, and their singing quite put
in the shade the Royal Choral Society at the Albert Hall. In the two
previous camps they had covered the roof, but evidently never tasted the
joys of European flesh and feared to descend. These others were more
initiated.
Arriving at Butiti, which is only 30 miles from Kabarole, the capital
of Toro, we found a most prosperous work going on among the people. Our
kind escort from Lwekula, Mr. Ecob, was stationed there. A marriage was
solemnized in the Mission Church on the day of our arrival. We went
out of curiosity and to get a peep into the native customs. Never have
I disgraced myself by such uncontrollable laughter. First of all, the
pair were not forthcoming, and so the parson organized a search party.
A hilarious sound from the porch warned us of the bridegroom’s arrival.
He was a lanky stripling of about 17, dressed in a long white gown. His
best man wore a very hole-y shirt, Jaeger-coloured for want of a wash. An
unwound turban was thrown over his shoulder till required. The bridegroom
went forward and squatted on a grass mat in front of the chancel to await
his betrothed. Soon a slow, solemn procession coming in at a side door
brought in view the belated bride, accompanied and surrounded by about
thirty maidens. How can I describe that picture! She was ugly—as ugly as
the imagination could picture; somewhat advanced in years; her face was
marred by cutting and branding, and she was reeking with grease which was
amply smeared over face and shoulders. On her head sat a red Turk’s cap
worn as a sign of marriage or high station. This, on account of its size,
had the appearance of a candle extinguisher. Then her body was swathed in
all sorts of coloured prints and beads. After the ceremony, the couple
left by different doors, the bridesmaids holding an old torn “brollie”
over the retiring bride, who was weeping copiously. The women regard
marriage in rather a philosophical light. They say it has two arms. One
brings a home, protection, and presents of clothing and rejoicing. The
other shuts the door of liberty; it brings work, and that means sorrow.
The thought of the latter predominates on the wedding day.
When six miles away from Butiti we got our first view of the Mountains
of the Moon. I can never forget the sight that was suddenly opened up as
we turned a sharp bend round a high hill. It was 4.30 p.m. Huge peaks,
sharp and rugged, stretched from north to south in an unbroken range of
sixty-nine miles long. Heavy black thunder clouds rolled over some of the
summits, while the lightning shot out angry tongues of fire. Torrents
of rain were sweeping away to our right, while the sun beat down in
full strength upon the valleys. Above all, calm and serene, shone the
region of snow. For all ages the sun has directed its equatorial power
against that ice fortress. Storms have thundered and crushed against
its foundations, but it has ever stood as the one impregnable and
unsullied witness of holiness and purity to God, in a land where darkness
has reigned, and the storms of passion, vice and barbarity have laid
desolate.
Descending to the forest just beneath us, we sat under the shade of its
trees, keeping well in view of glorious Ruwenzori. While tea was in
preparation we just gave ourselves up to the influences of environment.
For a moment we even dared to feel poetical. Long forgotten stanzas lived
again in the memory, but were all put down as original and momentary
genius. My turn having come round, I made a rush at something with a
guilty conscience of poaching on another one’s preserves, and it ran
something like:—
“Mountains on whose rugged breast
The labouring clouds do often rest.”
But I got no further, for who should appear but someone suspiciously
like a tourist. So unusual a sight made us forget English customs, and
we waited for no introductions. We received a real warm welcome straight
away from our companion-designate and only co-worker in Kabarole.
Next morning we rose at 5.0 and saw the sun rise on the snow peaks and
then started on our last walk.
Almost immediately runners met us bearing letters from the King and
Queen, the Namasole (the King’s mother), the Prime Minister, and chiefs,
all welcoming us in words of warmest thanks. These men scarcely waited
for our verbal answer before rushing back. In fact, the road for a long
way ahead was defined by men and boys rushing toward and from us with
messages. As we drew nearer a few teachers and others came to prepare
us for the reception that awaited us, and informed us that the women
of Toro were congregated just beyond our next hill. We little guessed
what an army lay entrenched there. As we approached, one moving mass of
fluttering white and crimson gowns came bearing down upon us, rushing,
clapping their hands, and shrieking. Then crowds of black arms were
thrown wildly round our necks, and as many pates placed from one shoulder
to the other.
We talked as well as we could to them, but our progress was slow, as
every now and again they stopped us and repeated their demonstrations.
Over the next hill the male force had rallied, and here a no less hearty
though more formal welcome awaited us.
We made for the church, which was crowded, and a few impromptu prayers
and hymns of praise went up on our behalf. Then we inspected our future
white-washed home, and from that moment, all day long and every day, we
were crowded with visitors.
The royal band was sent down by His Majesty to play outside our house.
It was composed of six drummers and twelve fifers, whose instruments
are able to produce about five notes, and with these they produce
indistinguishable tunes. Their appreciation of music seems to depend on
the volume of sound produced, so in order to give us a proof of their
welcome they blew to bursting pitch. All day long we were serenaded and
at night, too. It went on into the second day, and thinking the bandsmen
might prove to have stronger lung power than we had of endurance, we set
a polite message to his Majesty asking that they might be allowed to rest
at night till daylight.
So at last we had reached our journey’s end. The sixteen weeks that had
run out since leaving home had been long and eventful. As the evening
fell on our first day in Toro, we gathered round our log fire and sang
together “O God our help in ages past.”