Festivities in Toro
I. CHRISTMAS.
Can it be that this is the season that in one’s mind is always associated
with snow, Jack Frost, Santa Claus, shops and streets ablaze with gas
jets, holly and mistletoe, people hurrying and jostling each other good
naturedly, wrapped up in the warmest furs to keep out the crisp, frosty
air, and wishing each and all the compliments of the season. Yes, it is
really Yuletide! And yet the hills and dales are waving their ripening
grain under the deep sapphire of a cloudless sky. The dry season is near
its close, hills and mountains are scorched and parched, the banana
groves and the tiger grass of the swamps which wind like a serpent’s
trail round the base of the hills, are the only bright and green tracks
that have survived the conflict with the equatorial sun. On all sides
are to be seen tiny patches of cultivated land, even reaching up to the
lofty peaks of Ruwenzori’s range, where the people have sown their grain
(Buro), and this will soon be ready for the harvesters.
In the garden round our bungalow mud house are gorgeous zinnias,
balsams, mignonette, carnations, sweet peas, geraniums, nasturtiums,
and two little rose buds. A few steps further will bring you round to
the vegetable garden. One gardener being an Irishman, potatoes are
very much in evidence, and of course cabbages. Besides these there are
cauliflowers, green peas, beans, celery, only wanting the nip of frost
to make it excellent, lettuces, beetroots, cucumbers, tomatoes, onions,
carrots, and turnips. And yet this is Christmastime! It is little wonder
that one has constantly to revert to the calendar to be assured of this.
And so we set to work to get the little gifts together that our kind
friends from home sent us for our native friends—knives, pencils, bags,
sashes, blotters, and so on. The wee tots from the school come down for
their attendance prizes, and go away beaming with their new possession of
a pinafore. Then the oxen are killed, and on the day before Christmas all
the sick folk come to the “missionary butcher” and hobble off rejoicing
with their joint of beef wrapped up in a banana leaf. And, although
Father Christmas has assumed a black face in Africa, he does not pass by
the white man’s door, and he leaves his gifts of a grass mat, animal’s
skin, beans, beads, or bracelets, the only things with which he can fill
his Toro sack.
At 12.0 a.m. on Christmas Eve from the King’s, the Queen Mother’s, and
the Mission Hills the drums are set beating, and from the English forts
the guns are fired to proclaim to all the country that the Christian’s
day of rejoicing has dawned, for the Christ child—Immanuel—has come. Then
on the midnight air is borne the strains of “O come all ye faithful” and
“Hark the herald angels,” sung by some of those who have been redeemed
from the heart of Darkest Africa, and now step out from their little huts
to join with us in praising God.
At 8 a.m. on Christmas morning the church drum is beaten, calling the
people together, and by 9.0 the church is completely crowded out, many
being obliged to sit outside. In the schoolroom over four hundred of the
peasant folk and children have gathered, and in the dispensary the sick
have come together for morning service.
The church is beautifully decorated with palm leaves and flowers that
have been brought in by the people, and the building echoes with voice as
the audience unites, as one man, in the service.
On Afric’s sunny shore, glad voices
Wake up the morn of Jubilee
The negro, once a slave, rejoices;
Who’s freed by Christ, is doubly free.
After that we all go to our homes, the natives to make merry over their
beef and bananas, and we to prepare as near an approach to an English
Christmas dinner as is possible, and although there are no grocers’ shops
or fruiterers’ to supply the usual details, and our cook for the twelve
years of his existence has been reared in African ignorance, still one
can fare very excellently, for the guinea fowl and sausages are really
turkey in all but name. The baron of beef, although far removed from the
prize oxen of the English markets, is very good, and the home-made plum
pudding, with its few suspicious native ingredients, brings up the menu
to almost English standard.
Boxing Day is generally a grand field day, when sports are arranged on an
extensive scale, including running, pick-a-back, hurdle, three-legged,
and obstacle races. This latter involves scaling a bamboo scaffolding,
crawling through packing cases with the ends kicked out, climbing a
tree, and wriggling through a stack of reeds. Then there is a greasy
pole placed in an oblique position, at the end of which is hung a leg of
goat. Big and small, old and young attempt this, quite regardless of the
undignified tumbles each experiences. Loud was the shout of applause on
one occasion, when the Katikiro, who is of clumsy proportions, after many
falls landed safely at the top and secured the joint. A banana peeling
competition for the women comes next. The competitors, some twenty at a
time, sit in a row with their knives and twenty green bananas on a leaf
before them. When the whistle sounds they attack their task with great
excitement. Some women, in place of knives, use sharpened pieces of
wood. Those who finish first and peel the best receive prizes of calico.
Scrambles for cowrie shells generally bring the sports day to a close.
On more than one occasion Bishop Tucker has honoured Toro by dating his
annual visit about Christmas time. This was the case during our first
year in Toro. We had had a busy time previous to his arrival questioning
and examining the hundred and fifty women candidates who were to be
presented for confirmation, and when all this was completed we ran away
to the crater Lake, eight miles distant, to snatch a few days’ rest. But
on the second day we were unexpectedly recalled, as one of our fellow
missionaries had been taken very ill and was obliged to be carried into
Mengo under the care of the other one. So for the first time we two
girls were left quite alone, eight days away from the nearest European.
But we were too occupied to realise it. The engineers, surveyors, and
foremen (?) having suddenly left us in this manner, we were obliged to
see through the completion of the jobs they had taken in hand in order to
get things into shape before Christmas. Here at last we found a chance
of putting to use our youthful study of Euclid. With a measuring line
and sticks we felt distinctly professional as we tried to mark out a new
road, but we found that if only the ground space had been long enough to
test it our two straight lines would certainly have enclosed a space. So
perhaps Euclid’s axiom is only an absurdity after all!
Then the house where the Bishop was to be entertained needed repairs.
The roof was in such a state that one evening, while we were tidying up
inside, a big storm visited us and simply poured down through the reed
ceiling into the sitting-room. Fortunately there are no carpets in these
parts, for the floor was covered with puddles in a very few minutes. But
the water soon drained off into the holes the white ants had made; they
must have suffered from rheumatism that night!
It was a difficult matter to find workmen just then, for most of the
chiefs had gone off, each with some hundreds of men, to capture young
elephants. Sir Harry Johnston had offered a certain sum for each young
elephant brought in alive, as he was hoping to have them trained for
transport use. A few days after the first party had set out, a loud
report of distant yelling and screaming reached the school, where daily
classes were going on. Nearly everyone ran out to discover the cause of
the uproar. A large crowd was seen approaching, beating drums, blowing
pipes, dancing, and shouting. There seemed no apparent occasion for such
a row till one spied a tiny, hapless baby elephant, with ropes round its
body and four legs, limping along among its captors. It died, like all
its followers. But for a few days just then Toro threatened to become
a most undesirable menagerie, for, besides these elephants and various
monkeys, the King had collected, and sent to the Commissioner, one of the
largest, most repulsive, and horribly human-looking chimpanzees. The mode
of capture had been rather unique. The tree in which it had taken up its
position in the forest was isolated by the capturers cutting down all the
surrounding ones for some distance. Then, placing a circle of men with
spears to guard the boundary, they felled the only standing tree, and as
it suddenly crashed down with its coveted and unsuspicious object, a net
was thrown over the black monster, that was then hustled into a large
cane cage standing in readiness.
One of our runaway Missionaries managed to get back to Toro just in time
for the Bishop’s arrival three days before Christmas. We went with the
King’s wife, his mother, his sister, and about 250 women, and waited for
his arrival on the brow of a hill. All the men, headed by the King and
Katikiro on horseback, had preceded us. When the Bishop came up, riding
on his mule, he was literally besieged, and we could scarcely move on
for the crowd. The days that followed were big days. Three hundred and
sixty-four candidates came forward for confirmation.
It was a truly wonderful sight to see the church with over 500 men and
women assembled for Holy Communion. My mind travelled back in thought
to six years ago, when outside the houses had stood the devil temples.
Generation after generation had passed, the Prince of Darkness exercising
undisputed sway and holding the people in the most degraded and merciless
allegiance. Now his power had been completely shattered, his temples
cast down, and a great Invisible Temple was being builded together for a
Habitation of God through the Spirit.
Together at the Communion rails knelt the King in his royal robes, and
close by was one of his peasant subjects dressed in a small goat skin.
There was old Apolo Mpisi, the dispensary patient, with a beaming and
peaceful countenance—this was his first communion. Among others, hobbled
up an old lady on crutches, who had had her leg amputated during a visit
from Dr. Cook, of Mengo. The responsibility was a solemn one of feeling
that we had done something toward preparing many of the women for this
holy ordinance. When we shall stand together, all united before the
Throne in Heaven, will it not be glorious to have had a share, however
small, in leading forward some of the multitude from Africa!
As the powers of Heaven looked down upon Toro that day, surely they
broke forth into a song of victory. Blessing, and glory, and wisdom, and
thanksgiving, and honour, and power, and might be unto our God for ever
and ever, Amen.
II. CORONATION CELEBRATIONS.
Although so far from things that stir and thrill the great heart of the
British Empire, Toro must not be considered behind in loyalty to that
centre of its Government. Certainly it exercised its utmost ingenuity to
follow close in the wake of the plans and excitement that occupied the
mind of every English subject for commemorating the great event of the
Coronation of its King—Edward VII.
Our mails from England for months seemed to have no other subject to talk
about. Our minds pictured it all—sombre London stripped of its usual calm
sobriety, decorated in full war paint. We were seized with a violent fit
of patriotism, and because we could not join in the London throng, or
even go to the grand festivities that were prepared by the Government at
Mengo, we determined to do our best for Toro.
First of all, some days before the event, invitations were sent out to
the four other Europeans, and to the royal native court, for a coronation
dinner. Ordering the donkey to be harnessed, someone was despatched to
our village shop to purchase red, blue, and white calico, with which were
made two long lines of streamers for decorating our station, and a large
Union Jack to cover the Table in the Church. Some of the people came down
to decorate the outside, while we decked the church inside with the royal
and imperial colours. At 8.0 a.m. on Coronation Day over 1,000 people had
gathered in and outside the church for a brief service. After prayer and
Scripture, a Royal decree was read that had been sent out from England
and translated, and this was followed by a brief address on the event of
the day. Then we all rose and united in the good old National Anthem,
that had been translated and type-written for the occasion.
That was the first half of the day’s proceedings. The second half
started at seven, when the dinner came off. The table was decked out
with a table centre of red geraniums, white balsams, and cornflowers,
the serviettes were folded as crowns, and the first course consisted of
crown-shaped patties covered with the yoke of eggs, and studded with the
white to represent crown jewels! King Kasagama and Queen Damali, dressed
in draperies of silk and white linen, arrived with the other native
guests, who had hung about the outside courtyard so as to avoid being
the first arrivals. It was marvellous how easily and quietly our native
guests manipulated the European table equipments; half concealed glances
were cast in our direction every now and again. The serviettes rather
puzzled them—were they to be left on the table or used as handkerchiefs?
When the plum pudding came in, all ablaze, with a little British flag
stuck at the top, three hearty cheers greeted it, the King joining in
with boisterous glee.
On the table there were three dishes of strawberries, the first we
had been able to produce in Toro, and we were keen on introducing
them into the country generally. Preparing a plateful with sugar and
cream, I respectfully begged his Majesty to try a real English luxury.
He glanced timidly at them, and showed the usual disinclination that
is always evinced when given a new English dish to sample. He assured
me that he was so satisfied that anything more was impossible, but,
passing the plate to the Katikiro, told him to try it. The poor man,
looking the picture of misery, begged to be excused, so it fell to the
lot of the unfortunate chief minister to submit himself to the task.
With a pitifully resigned expression he took one strawberry on a spoon,
then another, and another, till he called out “Excellent, excellent,
the best of all.” Forgetting his recent excuse, the King took the dish
near at hand, and simply finished off the whole lot! The day following
requests came from one and another for strawberry roots, and King Daudi
superintended the Queen as she herself planted them in a plot outside the
sitting-room window of his Majesty’s new house.
After dinner the King was determined to do his part, and insisted on
our all going up to his home. To our utter amazement we found our court
outlined with hundreds of flaming torches, ten to twelve feet long;
the bearers were waiting to conduct us to the royal palace. The whole
distance was lined with double files of torchbearers, which made the
country look like Earl’s Court Exhibition on an exaggerated scale. Big
bonfires were burning on the surrounding hills, the torches of guests
coming from all directions looked like so many fireflies. On arriving at
the Royal Court, we were met with a blaze of fire. Quickly falling into
order, the people unanimously shouted a salute to his Majesty and his
friends, as we made for the chairs all set out on leopard skins outside
the two-storied mud palace. Then the performance began. The Royal band
was then in full force. On striking up one of the most weird, discordant
tunes, nearly the whole crowd of people broke into dancing, their
fluttering, white linen garments flapping about them as wings. More and
more excited they got, till they danced so high as to appear held up in
mid-air. Then they gave way to the pipers, who performed on instruments
made from crude pieces of reed. Singing accompanied this performance—such
fantastic tunes, all praising the greatness of their King and exalting in
the prowess of his people, with ringing cheers interspersed for England,
its King, and King Kasagama. The evening closed in giving us all a
longing that the great Edward VII. might have seen how one of his kingly
subjects in the heart of Africa had commemorated that important day.