DOWN TO THE SABI RIVER AND MATINDELA RUINS
It was the report of extensive ruins, ‘larger,’ said a native, ‘than
those of Zimbabwe,’ which induced us to make an expedition involving
considerable hardships and unknown risks down in the direction of the
Sabi River. Our waggons, of course, could not go, as our way would be
by the narrow native paths. Previous experience had warned us against
depending on the native huts, so for the transport of our tents,
bedding, and provisions we had to make considerable preparations.
At Fort Victoria we borrowed seven donkeys from the Chartered Company,
and we engaged a few natives of reputed respectability under the
command of a man called Mashah, quite the most brilliant specimen of
the Makalanga race we came across during our sojourn in the country.
He, his father and his mother and his wife, a sister of our old friend
Umgabe, had been captured some years ago by the Matabele and spent
several years in servitude, during which time he had learnt the Zulu
tongue and the more energetic habits of this stronger race. Eventually,
after the death of his father and mother, he and his wife had escaped
and returned to Umgabe’s kraal, and on the arrival of the Chartered
Company’s pioneer force Mashah placed his services at their disposal.
He greatly distinguished himself by saving the lives of a band of the
pioneers when on a wild prospecting trip, for which service he received
a present of a Martini-Henry rifle, of which he was naturally very
proud.
Mashah’s Makalanga brethren call him ‘the white man’s slave,’ from his
devotion to the new race, and he constantly affirmed that if ever the
white man left this country he would go with them, for he was heartily
sick of the petty jealousies and constant squabbles of his countrymen.
He was a strange object to look upon with his tawny B.S.A. hat with an
ostrich feather in it, his shirt with a girdle round his waist, and
bare legs. He never once grumbled at anything he had to do, he was
never tired, and kept our other Kaffirs in excellent order. As for the
rest of them, they were as naked as God made them, save for the
insignificant loin-cloth. A man called Metzwandira was told off as our
body-servant, to wash the cups and plates and spoons, which latter
treasures he counted carefully over to us after every meal. We got
greatly attached to this individual, his manners were so gentle and
courteous and his voice so soft and silvery. One and all of them were
delighted to become possessed of our rejected milk tins, &c., with
which they made bracelets, seven inches wide, by cutting off the two
ends of the tin and drilling holes along the edge. One man tied the lid
of a ‘bully beef’ tin round his neck, another fastened the round bottom
of a milk tin in a jaunty fashion on to his black hair. Every tin we
opened and finished was eagerly picked up by our followers and carried
in net bags all the way, with a view to making some object of ornament
out of them. Even when given an old pair of boots, the recipient only
took out the brass hooks and eyes to fasten as ornaments in his
loin-cloth, and cast the rest away.
On leaving Fort Victoria we followed the Chartered Company’s road for
forty miles northwards with our waggons to Makori post station. One day
we were encamped near the two large villages of Umfanipatza and
Sibibabira built on two rocks, but now, with the confidence inspired by
the presence of the Chartered Company, the inhabitants are beginning to
build huts on the flat space around. We paid a visit to them both, and
admired the tall euphorbia which grew in them and the rich entanglement
of begonia and other creepers then in flower. In one hut we found a man
weaving a bark blanket very neatly with no loom, only platting it with
his fingers. It was done with a kind of pink twine made of some bark.
At Makori post station, under the shade of wide-spreading trees, and in
close proximity to some fantastic granite rocks, which rose like
gigantic menhirs out of the plain and were covered with an almost
scarlet lichen, we passed several busy days, preparing cruppers,
girths, and breast-bands for our seven pack-donkeys; bags for our
coffee, sugar, and tea; cobbling our boots and overhauling our clothes,
and nursing four fever patients, for there had been two days of chilly
drizzling rain, the inevitable result of which was fever for some of
our party. The post station lay about one mile from our camping-ground;
the two huts where the B.S.A. men lived were situated on a rocky kopje
full of caves, in one of which their horse was stabled, and from the
top of the rock an extensive view was gained over the high plateau,
well wooded just here and studded with rocks of fantastic shape. Here
and there thick volumes of smoke rose from the grass fires common all
over the country at this season of the year, which looked for all the
world like distant manufacturing towns, and suggested the comparison of
a view from a spur of the Derbyshire hills over the plain of Cheshire,
with Stockport, Manchester, and other centres of industry belching
forth their dense volumes of smoke.
On August 14 we started on our journey. It was a lovely morning, and
our progress was very slow, for our cavalcade was so heterogeneous—my
wife and I on horseback, Messrs. Swan and King with a horse between
them, three white men to look after the donkeys, and Mashah and his
Makalangas to carry what the donkeys could not. We straggled terribly
at first, for the donkeys were obstinate and their pack-saddles
unsteady, the natives were fresh and anxious to get along, so we had to
call for frequent halts to readjust ourselves, which gave us ample
opportunity for looking around. The country here is sown broadcast with
strange granite rocks; one group had formed themselves into an
extraordinary doorway, two columns on either side about sixty feet
high, with a gigantic boulder resting on the top of them for the
lintel. Like the structures of a giant race, these strange rocks rise
out of the thick vegetation in all directions. Presently, as we were
experiencing some little difficulty in getting our raw cavalcade across
a stream, a Makalanga joined us who had been born without hands. To his
left stump had been attached, by means of a leather thong, the claw of
a bird; with the assistance of this he ate some food we gave him with
marvellous dexterity, and fired his gun. He was a bright cheery
individual, evidently greatly respected by his more gifted comrades.
We only accomplished seven miles this first day, owing to the
difficulties of progression, and in the afternoon found ourselves
encamped by a wretched village called Chekatu. Here they had no cattle
and no milk to sell us owing to Matabele raids. The chief, Matzaire by
name, came to visit us with his iron sceptre in his hand, which made us
think of the rods of iron with which certain Israelitish kings are
stated to have ruled. We climbed amongst the huts before sundown and
came across an old hag busily engaged in shaving the heads of her
younger sisters, cutting their woolly locks into all sorts of odd
shapes as fancy or fashion suggested. She refused our most tempting
offers to part with her razor, and it was not till some time afterwards
that we were able to obtain a specimen of this Makalanga ironcraft.
Next day we crossed two rivers, tributaries of the Tokwe, and after a
prosperous ride of ten miles reached Sindito’s kraal, called Sekatu,
the inhabitants of which took us for a Matabele impi, and would not
come down till Mashah had screamed to them that we were no rogues, but
honest men. We gave the chief a cup of tea, which he detested, and as
soon as politeness permitted he said he had had enough. He returned the
compliment by giving us a calabash of good beer, which we drank with
pleasure. Sekatu was rather a nice village, on a hill covered with
thick jungle, amongst which grew in profusion cucumbers, about six
inches long, of a rich orange colour, with thorns outside and with a
delicious bright green pulp inside. They are the Cucumis metuliferus,
specimens of which may be seen in the museum at Kew Gardens. We had
seen these before, and looked upon them as poisonous, until our natives
partook of them and gave us confidence. Ever afterwards, as long as
they were in season, we indulged freely in this delicious fruit, and
voted it the best we had come across in Mashonaland.
The next day we halted for half an hour at a village called Imiridzi,
where we acquired a bag of bark fibre, made by knitting the twine with
two sticks for knitting-needles. These articles seemed very popular in
this village, and nearly everyone was engaged in their production.
Midday found us at a very large kraal, the chief place in the dominions
of a powerful Makalanga chief called Gutu. Gona is the name of the
kraal, and it is completely buried between two high granite kopjes. At
the entrance to it some tall trees are completely hung with provisions
packed away in their long sausage-like bundles—bags of locusts,
caterpillars, sweet potatoes, and other delicacies. These trees we
henceforth called ‘larder trees,’ and found them at nearly every
village. The inhabitants of Gona were unusually rich in savage
ornaments, and we annexed many snuff-boxes, knives, and other oddments.
The chief was unfortunately away, but his representative brought us
fine pots of beer and milk, and we made a hearty meal despite the dense
and rather unsavoury mass of natives which surrounded us during its
consumption. They have a plentiful growth of tobacco plants near Gutu’s
kraal, and large fields of rice, in which the women were just then
busily engaged in making the broad furrows; they have very prettily
carved doors to their huts, and many of the men wear sandals on their
feet. Altogether Gona struck us as one of the most prosperous kraals we
had seen in the country.
As we journeyed eastwards the appearance of the people was certainly
wilder. We here saw their heads decorated with curious erections of
woven grass, fastened into their hair and reaching an elevation of a
foot, like miniature Eiffel towers on their heads; [29] and at a
village called Muchienda we acquired two quaint-shaped straw hats with
ostrich feathers sticking in the top, quite different to anything we
had seen elsewhere. As we approached this village a long string of
natives passed us on their way to hunt; on their heads they carried
bark cases full of nets, which they stretch across the valleys and
drive the game into them. Muchienda was a lovely village by a rushing
stream full of rocks, which formed a little waterfall; the stream was
shaded by magnificent timber, and a background of lovely mountains made
us think Muchienda an ideal spot, at which we would willingly have
tarried longer.
Every day, as we approached the Sabi Valley, the scenery became
grander; the dreary high plateau gave place to deep valleys and high
rugged mountains; the vegetation was much more luxuriant and the
atmosphere many degrees hotter, so hot that during our midday halts we
did not care to wander very far from our camp, especially as we had a
good deal of manual labour to perform apart from the actual travelling,
in tent pitching, bed making, and cooking, for our white men were
generally so tired with driving and packing the donkeys that we could
not ask them to do anything after the march was over.
We soon got accustomed to sleeping on the ground. When it was unusually
rugged, for the grass grows here in tufts like the hair on the niggers’
heads, we got grass cut on which to lay our rugs; occasionally we found
it necessary to encamp on spots over which a grass fire had passed, and
then we got hopelessly black, and lived like sweeps until we reached a
stream, where we could wash ourselves and our clothes.
Lutilo, with the village of Luti perched upon one of its lower
precipices, is quite a grand mountain, almost Alpine in character, with
exquisite views over the distant Sabi and Manica Mountains. Here we
tarried for almost a whole day to visit an insignificant set of ruins a
few miles distant, called Metemo, but which formed a link in the great
chain of forts stretching northwards. It had been built in three
circles of very rough stone, somewhat ingeniously put together on the
top of a rounded granite hill, but hopelessly ruined. So we only
tarried there a while to make a plan, and to rest, and enjoy the lovely
view.
The country around here is very thickly wooded, and on our return to
our camp a herd of deer passed close to us, a species known to the
Dutch as Swartvit-pens, or ‘swarthy white paunches,’ but we failed to
get one, a matter of considerable regret from a commissariat point of
view, for meat is scarce in the villages about here, and our tinned
supplies were getting low.
We struck our camp at Lutilo rather late in the afternoon, and only got
as far as a river called the ’Nyatzetse, the crossing of which involved
the unloading of our animals. On the way we passed through two
villages, where the inhabitants were busily engaged in building huts,
for it was evidently a new encampment, and in making beer, which was
too new to drink; the land around was being freshly turned up for their
fields, after the approved Makalanga fashion. First they clear a space
of jungle, leaving the larger trees, and pile up the brushwood round
the roots, then they set fire to the heaps, and when it is consumed the
tree is killed, and more easy to cut down.
The next day brought us at a very early hour to the site of the
Matindela ruins, which was to be our halting-place for a few days. The
ruins certainly are fine, but far inferior to those of Zimbabwe; they
are perched on the top of a bare granite rock about 150 feet high, a
most admirable strategical position. [30] In the centre of them we
pitched our tents for our welcome halt of three days, and made
ourselves as comfortable as rain would permit, for it fell in torrents
here even though it was the dry season. The term ‘Matindela’ means
‘guinea-fowl,’ quantities of which birds are found around here, as
indeed they are in most parts of this country.
We were now only twenty miles from the Sabi River, and the country
around was almost deserted, ruined villages crowned most of the
heights, and the deserted fields and devastation in every direction
were lamentable to behold. There were evidences, too, of a fairly
recent raid, in which the poor Makalangas had been driven out of their
homes and probably carried into slavery. By common consent the two
great Zulu chiefs, Lobengula and Gungunyana, whose embassy visited
England last year, consider the Sabi as their respective boundary for
marauding expeditions. On this occasion I believe Gungunyana and his
Shangans were to blame, who, finding that Lobengula was cut off by the
Chartered Company from this part of his district, had made bold to
cross the Sabi and raid on the western side, bringing destruction into
the Makalanga homes, which in former years had here been thought very
secure, being, as they were, far from Lobengula and just out of
Gungunyana’s recognised district.
The Makalangas have the greatest horror of the Shangans, who dwell
across the Sabi, and do Gungunyana’s bidding. One day at Matindela we
brought home a specimen of a curious fruit which hangs from the trees,
eighteen inches to two feet long, like thick German sausages; it has
beans inside, and we asked Mashah if it was good to eat: ‘No Makalangas
eat umvebe,’ as he called it, ‘only the Shangans and baboons.’
Whilst at Matindela we sampled several kinds of strange fruit: firstly
the Kaffir orange, a kind of strychnia, which is a hard fruit with
yellow pulp inside around seeds, and of which every traveller should
beware of eating if not quite ripe—an error into which several of our
party fell; it is apt to produce violent sickness under those
conditions, and at best it is painfully astringent, causing horrible
facial contortions when you eat it, as most of the fruits about here
do. Amongst other things, they brought to our camp at Matindela large
quantities of the delicious cucumbers, monkey-nuts, sweet potatoes, and
a sweet fruit which you chew and spit out like sugar-cane, which they
call matoko. From the gigantic trees around us, the far-famed baobab
trees, we gathered the nuts with the refreshing cream of tartar pulp
inside. The baobab is the great feature of Matindela Hill; there are a
dozen of them on it, huge giants, which in their growth have knocked
down large portions of the walls. Though probably these trees are not
as old as report says, nevertheless their presence here proves that
these ruins have been utterly abandoned for many centuries. It is
another problem to prove how their thick roots find sustenance for so
huge a vegetable growth, perched as they are on an almost soil-less
granite rock. Doubtless these roots follow the fissures in the granite
and obtain the required moisture from some considerable distance. The
effect, however, is exceedingly odd to see these colossal trees growing
in no depth of soil on the top of a granite rock.
I had always been sceptical about the honey-bird until its virtues were
properly proved to us when at Matindela. An insignificant little bird,
with a significant chirp, led our men over rocks and through jungle
till they actually found honey, so that we could no longer indulge in
doubts as to this mysterious gift, which, like the water-finding
divining rods, I will leave to others to explain.
Traces of recent life around Matindela were numerous: the valleys had
all at one time been ploughed: ruined huts, constructed high up in the
trees, had served as outlooks for the agriculturists, bark beehives
were in the trees, but the villages were all blackened and burnt, the
granaries knocked down and the inhabitants gone, no one knows where.
Never during any camp of lengthened duration were we visited by so few
natives as at Matindela. About here game is very plentiful; we sighted
fresh elephant and giraffe ‘spoor,’ and we personally made the
acquaintance of zebras, kudu, and other kinds of antelope. Across the
valley below was an old and now disused stockade for catching game, and
hunting-parties in this locality have been numerous. These parties are
arranged by the Makalangas on a small or large scale; sometimes, when
they have an elaborate system of stockades, they just drive the game
towards a cul de sac or a narrow gap where men are hidden in the grass;
sometimes they have great parties forming two half-moons; one of these
stations itself behind a kopje, whilst the other, with dogs and
shouting, drives the game to them.
Their game laws give rise to frequent squabbles amongst the chiefs; it
is generally understood that, if a man wounds a buck and another kills
it, the wounder claims the carcass, but the killer is entitled to take
whichever limb he wishes. There is a tribe near Zimbabwe who will not
eat a buck unless it has had its throat cut, and so they endeavour
first to wound it, and then proceed to cut its throat. For small buck,
hares, &c., they make traps across the narrow paths with a beam which
falls when the animal treads on the plank below, being fixed on the
path between two sloping rows of stakes.
Our course from Matindela was north-east—not the most direct route to
the Sabi, which is only about twenty miles due east, but we had nobody
with us who knew the way, and we had to go to a village for a guide.
After a ride of seven miles we reached a curious lofty mountain called
Chiburwe, close on 1,000 feet above the plain; it is almost round, and
its flanks are decorated with huge granite boulders rising out of
euphorbia, baobabs, and rank tropical vegetation. On the side we first
reached this mountain the vegetation was too dense to allow us to
ascend, so we had to ride to the northern side and go up by a slippery
slope of black granite, the ordinary approach used by the natives,
whose bare feet cling readily to the rocks, but which was horrible for
feet encased in European boots. The summit is flat and grassy like a
Brighton down, being covered with a soft small stagshorn moss,
delightful to lie upon. This spot is the happy play-ground of two
native villages, which are placed on either side of the mountain; here
they are sublimely safe and free from the raids of their enemies, and
Chiburwe forms a sort of Makalanga outpost in the direction of the
Sabi. Amongst other names mentioned by Portuguese writers which are
still retained in the locality we find Chiburga as a stronghold, where
the Monomatapa’s wives were kept. I think it highly probable that this
is the spot. On the summit we found several sets of holes for the
Isafuba game, and the inhabitants we came across seemed more than
usually timid. Our view was indescribably lovely, with Lutilo and the
spots we knew well behind us, and the mysterious blue mountains of
Manica before us.
In a rocky crevice we found one of the miserable villages of Chiburwe,
with no beer, no milk, no fowls and no eggs to be had; it appeared to
be solely inhabited by two women grinding millet, who were much afraid
of us, and retired into the darkest recesses of their huts. Their
ingenuity in utilising bark is exemplified up here, where mud is
scarce, for they make their granaries of the bark of the baobab, only
covering the edges with mud, and binding them round with withes.
For two days after leaving Chiburwe we wandered through trackless
forests, guided only by a notion of the direction we wished to go, for
we could not annex a native guide. A mile or two from Chiburwe we found
a ruined fort of the best period of Zimbabwe work, with courses of
great regularity, but much of the wall had been knocked down by the
baobab trees which had grown up in it. Nobody could give us a name for
this ruin in the wilderness, so we called it Chiburwe, measured it,
took notes on it, and rode on.
The forest scenery was grand and impressive in its solitude; sometimes
we had great difficulty in getting our animals through the thick
undergrowth; the trees were rich in colour, red and light green, equal
to any of our autumnal tints, out of which now and again rose granite
boulders. The crossing of the River Mwairari, a fine tributary of the
Sabi, gave us a little trouble; it has a fine volume of water with
occasional rapids, waterfalls, and high rocks, and we had to follow its
right bank for several miles before we could get our animals across;
the river bed was luxuriant in tall pampas grass and patches of
papyrus.
On the second afternoon after leaving Chiburwe we sighted the Sabi
River, having gone miles out of our way; it is a really magnificent
stream even here so far inland, and is navigable now for canoes very
little below where we struck it. In ancient times it must have been
navigable for larger craft, for all African rivers are silting up.
There is little doubt but that the ancient builders of the ruins in
Mashonaland, the forts and towns between the Zambesi and the Limpopo,
utilised this stream as their road to and from the coast; and as the
country again is opened out it may still be found useful as a waterway
for small craft. Where we struck the Sabi it is a rapid river, flowing
through a gorge and with a rocky bed; there are no marshes here, but
fertile-looking slopes leading down to it, which appeared to us to
promise well for the future agriculturists who settle on its banks,
though the rainfall, which takes place only in summer, and for the
space of only four months, will be a drawback to cereals. Now these
slopes are entirely deserted, and about here we saw no villages, nor
natives, nor paths, for days, doubtless owing to the raids of
Gungunyana and his Shangans from across the stream. There is no doubt
about it, the world is not full yet. In Mashonaland there exist tens of
thousands of acres of fertile land entirely unoccupied. Thanks probably
to the Matabele raids, the population is here exceedingly scanty, and
when one travels through the long-deserted stretches of country,
healthy, well watered, and capable of growing anything, which still
exist between the Zambesi and the Limpopo, one cannot help thinking
that those who complain of the world being too full, and that there is
no opening for colonisation, are a century or two before their time.
Everybody revelled in the waters of the Sabi that evening—bathing and
washing clothes occupied most of our time until it was dark; but, alas,
our camp was pitched on ground over which a grass fire had passed, and
the good effects of our Sabi wash were more than obliterated. We again
plunged into the trackless wilderness, and it was not till the second
day after leaving the river that we once more joyfully found ourselves
in a native path leading in the direction which we ought to go; but we
followed it for over thirty miles before we came across a village. This
was called Zamopera, on the banks of a pleasant stream. We were so
pleased to see people again and to have a chance of replenishing our
stock of provisions that we tarried there for the best part of a day,
and pitched our camp beneath the shadow of a friendly rock. Crowds of
men and women from Zamopera came to visit us; wild-looking people they
were—the men with long matted hair hanging like a fringe over their
faces, and hung with beads and cowrie-shells, whilst the women here cut
off all their hair except a circle in the middle, which is short and
threaded with beads in seven rows, four of white outside and three of
red in the centre, looking exactly like round bead mats on the top of
their heads. We were now in the country of another great Makalanga
chief, called Gambidji, whose kraal, perched on a lofty rock, we
sighted in the distance, but had not time to visit.
In the villages about here, which are numerous and flourishing, we saw
many curious objects, some of which we acquired, others we could not
strike a bargain for: a native razor, bone dollasses, and quaint-shaped
battle-axes were added to our collection. Mafusaire’s village is
perched amongst odd-shaped boulders, fantastic as the rocks in
Dovedale, ever varying in form. The inhabitants were a very friendly
lot, and were almost beside themselves with delight when my wife took
down her hair and showed them its length. They greatly prized a gift of
a few of these long hairs, which they will doubtless keep as a memento
of the first white lady who ever came amongst them.
The fear of the Makalanga of horses is most curious; even our own men
would not touch them, and the villagers were quite awestruck when we
mounted. They generally followed us in crowds for a little distance
from the village, and screamed with delight when we trotted, scampering
and capering by our sides.
We passed by the tomb of a chief on the afternoon after leaving
Mafusaire’s; it consisted of a mound with a circular construction of
stones on the top of it, over which is a thatched roof standing on
posts; on the top of the stones stood a pot, in which beer is
periodically put, for the delectation of the deceased.
We were now in the immediate neighbourhood of Mount Wedza, the highest
point in Mashonaland, with an elevation of over 6,000 feet above sea
level. It is for the most part a dark forest-clad ridge, and it is from
here that the natives of Gambidji’s country get the iron ore which they
smelt in their furnaces and convert into tools and weapons. The
villages in this district are entirely given up to the smelting
business, and outside the kraals usually are erected two or more
furnaces. They are still in the Stone Age here, using for anvils and
hammers pieces of hard diorite. One of these villages where we halted
for a while was, to our astonishment, called Smet. Not believing our
ears, we asked again and again, and got the same reply. The only
solution to this strange nomenclature seems to be, that they either got
the name from some Dutch trader or from some enterprising Makalanga who
had been down to work in the Kimberley mines. For long these natives
have been in the habit of doing this, tramping all the way from the
Zambesi to the diamond-fields, and not returning thence until they have
acquired enough wealth to buy a wife or two and settle themselves in
life.
A man from Smet, who was going to ’Mtigeza’s kraal, volunteered to act
as our guide. He carried with him three large iron hoes which he had
made, and for which he expected to get a goat at the kraal. Gambidji’s
country is very extensive, extending nominally from the Sabi to a ridge
which we crossed before reaching ’Mtigeza’s, and most of the
iron-smelting villages recognise his sovereignty.
Two chiefs of the name of ’Mtigeza live around Mount Wedza, both
claiming to be the descendants of the old ’Mtigeza stock. Our ’Mtigeza
was a queer little old man, almost in his dotage, but considered very
powerful by his neighbours, and this was evidenced by the villages
being more in the open, and not seeking protection from rocky heights.
His fortress is a curious one, situated on an extensive plateau 4,800
feet above the sea level, with disjointed low masses of rocks dotted
about. Around the central mass of rocks is ’Mtigeza’s head kraal,
surrounded by palisades, and the rock itself is strongly fortified,
with all the approaches walled up, and for us Europeans it was by no
means easy to reach the summit by means of holes through which we could
hardly squeeze, and slits in the rock through which we could only pass
sideways. On the top is a circular fort built of rough stones and
mortar, and the boast of the people here is that the Matabele have
never been able to take their stronghold. From the fort we had a good
bird’s-eye view over ’Mtigeza’s realm; there are a number of encircling
villages built on similar masses of rock, about half a mile or more
distant. These are governed by the old man’s sons.
We sent the old chief a blanket, and he presently came to pay us a
visit. According to our custom, we showed him our things, in which he
did not manifest much interest until my wife produced a burning-glass,
and showed off its wonderful fire-producing qualities on his skin. Then
in a weak little voice the old chief murmured, ‘I, ’Mtigeza, want it,’
and she promptly presented it to him, also a little salt. As we lunched
he sat and watched us, but would partake of nothing we offered him,
until we threw some well-picked chicken bones to our men; these he
coveted and got.
’Mtigeza held an indaba or palaver of his inaunas in a shady nook
before his kraal, the result of which was that a goat was to be
presented to us by quite a lengthy process. First of all it was
presented to Mashah, who humbly received it with hat off and head
bowed, making all the necessary compliments for us. Mashah then
presented it to our white men, and they finally presented it to us, and
it formed a valuable addition to our larder.
We were surprised to find little evidence of wealth in ’Mtigeza’s
kraal. Their knives and snuff-boxes were decidedly inferior in
workmanship to those we had seen elsewhere, and this we found as we
travelled on to be invariably the case where the Matabele or Zulu
influence has been least felt. The Zulu is the most ingenious of the
Abantu races, and has imparted his ingenuity to the Makalanga, over
whom he has raided and many of whom have been his slaves.
There were two as yet roofless but substantial huts being built in the
kraal entirely of mud, which is a new departure for the Makalanga. The
insides of these were decorated with squares of black and white, like
those one sees in Bechuanaland. Undoubtedly foreign influence is being
felt here from its proximity to Fort Charter, and very soon the
architectural features of Makalangaland will change with the rapidity
that all things change in Kaffirdom. Inside the huts were big household
granaries for the domestic stores, also made of mud and decorated
curiously with rims, and rude paintings in white of deer, birds, and
men. One represents a waggon with a span of six oxen and a man driving
it. The artistic skill is, of course, of a low order, but it shows the
influence of the Morunko, or white man, and how his approach has been
the theme of their wonder and excited their imagination. I doubt not
but those who follow after us will find attempts made to illustrate on
their granaries a Morunko lady with long flowing hair trotting on that
strange animal, the horse.
’Mtigeza and his kraal pleased us so much that we did not leave till
quite late in the afternoon. We passed through quantities of
rice-fields, which spoke of prosperity; and this Makalanga rice is
truly excellent, being larger, more glutinous, and of a pinker hue than
our Indian rice, which to our minds tasted very insipid after it. It
was almost dark when we reached Matimbi’s kraal, and pitched our tents
close to the tomb of another chief. Matimbi came down to see us; he is
the handsomest of all the chiefs we had yet seen, with quite a
European-shaped face, long hair and long beard, both rarities in this
country, and a splendid knife, carved and decorated with brass wire,
which we coveted but could not obtain.
On the following day, September 2, a long ride brought us to Fort
Charter and our waggons in time for our midday meal. Thoroughly did we
enjoy our tables, our chairs, and our waggon-beds after nearly three
weeks’ intimate acquaintance with mother earth. Until the experience of
greater privations farther north came upon us, we thought we enjoyed
the food, the soup, the bully beef, the bread, and the jam which our
cook placed before our hungry eyes to the utmost extent that man could
do.
Here we regretfully parted with our friend Mashah and most of our
Makalangas; two only of enterprising mind elected to follow us and earn
more blankets, and they served us with unswerving fidelity till we
reached the coast at Beira. Mashanani was the name of one of them,
whose only fault was a too great attachment to Kaffir beer; Iguzu was
the name of the other, the most industrious man I ever saw. When not
working for us, he would sit on a rock for ever patching a ragged old
shirt that had been presented to him, until there was little of the
original fabric left, or else turning old jam tins into ornaments or
threading beads.