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Title: Native life in East Africa
Author: Weule, Karl
Language: English
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NATIVE LIFE IN
EAST AFRICA
[Illustration: _The Author_]
NATIVE LIFE IN EAST AFRICA
THE RESULTS OF AN ETHNOLOGICAL RESEARCH EXPEDITION
BY
DR. KARL WEULE
DIRECTOR OF THE LEIPZIG
ETHNOGRAPHICAL MUSEUM AND PROFESSOR AT
THE UNIVERSITY OF LEIPZIG
TRANSLATED BY
ALICE WERNER
NEW YORK
D APPLETON AND COMPANY
1909
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
TRANSLATOR’S INTRODUCTION xi
I. OUTWARD BOUND 1
II. THE UNEXPECTED 16
III. APPRENTICESHIP 26
IV. FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF THE INTERIOR 45
V. LOOKING ROUND 65
VI. NATIVE LIFE SEEN FROM THE INSIDE 77
VII. MY CARAVAN ON THE SOUTHWARD MARCH 104
VIII. AT MATOLA’S 134
IX. AMONG THE YAOS 155
X. FURTHER RESULTS 190
XI. TO THE ROVUMA 203
XII. UNYAGO EVERYWHERE 230
XIII. THE HARVEST OF KNOWLEDGE 243
XIV. FURTHER RESEARCHES 278
XV. LAST DAYS AT NEWALA 318
XVI. THE ROVUMA ONCE MORE 332
XVII. ACHIEVEMENT 352
XVIII. MY RETURN TO THE COAST 393
XIX. FROM LINDI TO TANGA 408
XX. RETROSPECT 413
INDEX 423
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
CAPE GUARDAFUI 1
DAR ES SALAM HARBOUR 2
NATIVE DANCE AT DAR ES SALAM 3
STREET IN NATIVE QUARTER, DAR ES SALAM 4
MAP OF THE MAIN CARAVAN ROAD 9
COURTYARD AT DAR ES SALAM 10
IN THE EUROPEAN QUARTER, DAR ES SALAM 12
LINDI BAY 16
THE SS. “RUFIJI” 18
VIEW NEAR THE MOUTH OF THE LUKULEDI ABOVE LINDI 19
LINDI ROADSTEAD 24
ARAB DHOW 25
CHAIN-GANG 26
WOMEN’S DANCE AT DAR ES SALAM 27
SELIMAN MAMBA 29
YAO WOMEN AT MTUA 33
GIRLS FROM LINDI 35
RUINED TOWER, LINDI 38
UNDER THE PALMS 40
THE LIKWATA DANCE 45
MAKUA WOMEN FROM THE LUKULEDI VALLEY 47
A MAN OF THE MWERA TRIBE AND A YAO 48
RUINS OF NYANGAO MISSION STATION 50
A MWERA WOMAN 56
YOUNG MAN OF THE MWERA TRIBE 56
MWERA WOMAN WITH PIN IN LOWER LIP 57
ROAD THROUGH THE BUSH IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF CHINGULUNGULU 59
MOUNTAINS NEAR MASASI 65
THE INSULAR MOUNTAIN OF MASASI 67
OUR ASCENT OF MTANDI MOUNTAIN 72
MNYASA HUNTER WITH DOG 77
THROUGH THE BUSH ON A COLLECTING EXCURSION 79
READY FOR MARCHING (MASASI) 81
CAMP AT MASASI 83
INTERIOR OF A NATIVE HUT IN THE ROVUMA VALLEY 85
DOVECOTE AND GRANARY 92
RAT TRAP 96
TRAP FOR ANTELOPES 98
TRAP FOR GUINEA-FOWL 99
TRAP FOR LARGE GAME 99
MY CARAVAN ON THE MARCH 104
YAO HOMESTEAD AT CHINGULUNGULU 105
THE YAO CHIEF MATOLA 108
NAKAAM, A YAO CHIEF 109
INTERIOR OF A COMPOUND AT MWITI 110
CAMP AT MWITI 112
SHUTTER WITH INLAID SWASTIKA IN NAKAAM’S HOUSE AT MWITI 114
YAO HUT 115
ELDERLY MAKONDE WOMAN IN GALA DRESS 121
GROUND PLAN OF ZUZA’S HUT 128
ZUZA’S COUCH AND FIREPLACE 129
YAO WOMEN WITH NOSE-STUDS 130
INFANT’S GRAVE 132
MATOLA’S COMPOUND 134
BEER-DRINKING 136
WATAMBWE WOMAN DECORATED WITH NUMEROUS KELOIDS 141
MANUAL CHRONOLOGY, “THAT HAPPENED WHEN I WAS SO HIGH” 145
OUR CAMP AT CHINGULUNGULU 149
WATER-HOLES AT CHINGULUNGULU 151
MAKONDE WOMEN FROM MAHUTA 153
TWO MAKUA MOTHERS 157
A FRIENDLY CHAT 158
WOMAN POUNDING AT THE MORTAR 165
MONKEYS ATTACKING A PLANTATION 168
THE BLIND BARD SULILA OUTSIDE THE BOMA AT MASASI 171
YAO DANCE AT CHINGULUNGULU 178
“BUSH SCHOOL” IN THE PORI, NEAR CHINGULUNGULU 179
A YAO DRESSED FOR THE MASEWE DANCE 181
MASEWE DANCE OF THE YAOS AT MTUA 182
FRESCO ON THE WALL OF A HUT AT AKUNDONDE’S 185
HERD OF ELEPHANTS 190
VILLAGE OF THE NGONI CHIEF MAKACHU 193
GRAVE OF THE YAO CHIEF MALUCHIRO, AT MWITI 194
KINDLING FIRE BY FRICTION 196
MY COMPANION, NILS KNUDSEN 199
FISH-DRYING ON THE ROVUMA 202
TWO MATAMBWE MOTHERS FROM THE ROVUMA 205
TYPICAL HUT IN THE ROVUMA VALLEY 208
DESERTED BUILDINGS, LUISENFELDE MINE 210
UNYAGO BOYS PLAYING ON FLUTES OUTSIDE THE NDAGALA AT AKUNDONDE’S 211
LIKWIKWI, THE BIRD OF ILL OMEN 212
LISAKASA IN THE FOREST NEAR AKUNDONDE’S 213
YAO GRAVES AT AKUNDONDE’S 214
NDAGALA (CIRCUMCISION-LODGE) IN THE FOREST NEAR AKUNDONDE’S 216
LAUGHING BEAUTIES 220
GIRLS’ UNYAGO AT THE MAKONDE HAMLET OF NIUCHI 221
GIRL’S UNYAGO AT THE MATAMBWE VILLAGE OF MANGUPA. I 226
GIRLS’ UNYAGO AT THE MATAMBWE VILLAGE OF MANGUPA. II 227
OLD MEDULA LIGHTING HIS PIPE 228
OUR CAMP AT NEWALA 231
THE AUTHOR IN WINTER COSTUME AT NEWALA 232
MAKONDE MASKS 236
MAKONDE STILT-DANCER 237
THE NJOROWE DANCE AT NEWALA 238
MAKONDE WOMEN GOING TO DRAW WATER 243
TWO NEWALA SAVANTS 245
DANCE ON STILTS AT THE GIRLS’ UNYAGO, NIUCHI 249
FEET MUTILATED BY THE RAVAGES OF THE “JIGGER” 251
NATIVE PATH THROUGH THE MAKONDE BUSH, NEAR MAHUTA 256
USUAL METHOD OF CLOSING HUT-DOOR 261
MAKONDE LOCK AND KEY AT JUMBE CHAURO 262
MODE OF INSERTING THE KEY 263
THE ANCESTRESS OF THE MAKONDE 266
BRAZIER 267
NYASA WOMAN MAKING POTS AT MASAI 269
MAKUA WOMAN MAKING A POT 270
MANUFACTURE OF BARK-CLOTH AT NEWALA 275
MAKUA WOMEN 278
WOMAN CARRYING A BABY ON HER BACK 283
THREE MAKUA VEGETARIANS 284
USE OF THE THROWING STICK 286
THROWING WITH THE SLING 287
SPINNING A TOP 288
IKOMA DANCE AT THE GIRLS’ UNYAGO, ACHIKOMU 289
XYLOPHONE (MGOROMONDO) 290
PLAYING THE NATURA 291
NATURA (FRICTION-DRUM) 291
USING THE NATIVE TELEPHONE 292
and
293
NATIVE TELEPHONE 293
MAKONDE CHILDREN 295
MASEWE DANCE OF THE MAKUAS IN THE BOMA AT NEWALA 296
KAKALE PROCESSION ON THE LAST DAY OF THE UNYAGO 298
MASKED DANCE AT THE GIRLS’ UNYAGO, NIUCHI 303
WOMAN OF THE MAKONDE TRIBE 305
AN OFFERING TO THE SPIRITS 324
LANDSCAPE ON THE ROVUMA 325
TREES IN THE BURYING-GROUND AT NEWALA 327
KNOTTED STRING SERVING AS CALENDAR 329
MY ESCORT HALTED AT HENDERERA’S VILLAGE IN THE MAKONDE HIGHLANDS 334
NATIVE SUFFERING FROM THE UBUBA DISEASE 337
MAJALIWA, SAIDI, AND MAKACHU 338
FOREST RUINED BY NATIVES NEAR NCHICHIRA, ROVUMA VALLEY 343
MATAMBWE FISHERMAN CATCHING A TURTLE, WHICH A WATER-SNAKE IS
TRYING TO SEIZE 347
PILE-DWELLING ON THE ROVUMA, NEAR NCHICHIRA 350
THE WALI OF MAHUTA 353
MOTHER AND CHILD 355
TWO-STORIED HOUSES AT NCHICHIRA ON THE ROVUMA 357
MAKONDE GIRL WITH LIP PIERCED FOR PELELE AND ULCERATED 358
PSEUDO-SURGERY. MAKONDE WOMAN WITH TORN LIP ARTIFICIALLY JOINED 359
MAKONDE KELOIDS 360
MATAMBWE AND MAKUA WOMEN WITH KELOIDS 361
MAKUA WOMAN WITH KELOIDS ON BACK 362
MAKUA WOMEN WITH KELOIDS 363
MAKONDE WOMEN WITH ELABORATE KELOIDS 364
AFRICAN ART: CARVED POWDER, SNUFF, AND CHARM-BOXES FROM THE
MAKONDE HIGHLANDS 365
MAKONDE MAN WITH KELOID PATTERNS 365
YAO WOMEN WITH KELOIDS 366
THE LITOTWE 367
“BWANA PUFESA” (THE PROFESSOR) 368
WANGONI WOMEN AT NCHICHIRA 369
TWO NATIVES 370
THE BUSH COUNTRY AND ITS FAUNA 372
MAKONDE WOMAN IN HOLIDAY ATTIRE 375
MAKONDE HAMLET NEAR MAHUTA 377
A DIABOLO PLAYER ON THE MAKONDE PLATEAU 378
DIABOLO 379
ASKARI IN FATIGUE DRESS 382
WANDUWANDU’S GRAVE 397
GREAT NGOMA DANCE IN THE BOMA AT MAHUTA 403
MY ESCORT CLEANING THEIR TEETH 405
ENTERING THE RED SEA 408
THE AUTHOR IN BUSH COSTUME 410
Translator’s Introduction
The greater thoroughness and system with which anthropology and the
kindred sciences have been cultivated in Germany than in this country,
has been repeatedly brought home to us; but in nothing is it more
apparent than in the difficulty of finding equivalents for quite
elementary technical terms. The distinction between ethnology and
ethnography, indeed, is pretty generally recognized, and is explained in
works as popular in scope as Professor Keane’s _Ethnology_ and _Man Past
and Present_. But _Vōlkerkunde_, which includes both these sciences and
some others besides, is something which certainly cannot be translated
by its etymological equivalent “folklore;” and, though the word
“prehistoric” is perfectly familiar, we have no such noun as
“prehistory,” far less a professorship of the same in any university.
These remarks are suggested by the fact that Dr. Weule, whose
experiences in East Africa are here presented to the English reader, is
“Professor of _Vōlkerkunde und Urgeschichte_” at Leipzig, besides being
Director of the Ethnographical Museum in the same city.
Dr. Karl Weule, whose name is less well known in England than in his own
country, has in the past devoted himself rather to geography than to
ethnography proper. He was a pupil and friend of the late Friedrich
Ratzel, whose _History of Mankind_ was translated into English some
years ago, and whose _Politische Geographie_ gave a new direction to the
study of that science in its more immediate relation to the historical
development of mankind, or what is now called “anthropogeography.” It
was Ratzel, too, who suggested to Dr. Helmolt the idea of his
_Weltgeschichte_, a comprehensive history of the world, built up out of
detached monographs, including three by Dr. Weule, on the historical
importance of the three great oceans. (Only one of these appears in the
English edition, with introduction by Professor Bryce, published in
1901). Dr. Weule returned to the same subject in his _History of
Geography and Exploration_ (_Geschichte der Erdkenntnis und der
geographischen Forschung_) and a detached essay, _Das Meer und die
Naturvōlker_ (both published in 1904), with various other monographs of
a similar character.
After completing his university studies at Göttingen and Leipzig, Dr.
Weule resided from 1891 to 1899 at Berlin, first as a member of the
Richthofen Seminary, where his work was more purely geographical, and
afterwards as assistant in the African and Oceanian section of the
Ethnological Museum. In 1899 he was appointed to the Assistant
Directorship of the Leipzig Museum, and at the same time to the chair
which he still occupies at that University; and, seven years later, he
was entrusted with the research expedition described in the following
pages, where its scope and objects are set forth with sufficient
clearness to render further reference in this place unnecessary. After
his return he was promoted to the appointment he now holds at the
Leipzig Museum.
His residence in Africa lasted a little over six months, and the record
before us shows that he made good use of his time. Several features in
his narrative have the merit of novelty, at least as far as the general
reader is concerned; for though the cinematograph and phonograph have
been made use of for some time past in the service of anthropology, yet
we do not remember to have seen the results of the latter figuring to
any great extent in a work of this sort, though Sir Harry Johnston has
reproduced one phonographic record of a native air in his _Uganda
Protectorate_. (It is very unfortunate that so many of Dr. Weule’s
cinematograph films proved a disappointment; this instrument is proving
one of the most valuable adjuncts to exploration, especially in the case
of tribes whose peculiar customs are rapidly passing away before the
advance of civilization). Another point which imparts great freshness to
Dr. Weule’s work is the happy inspiration which led him to collect
native drawings; the sketches by his carriers and especially the
portrait of the author himself on p. 368 are decided contributions to
the gaiety of nations, and strike out a line unworked, so far as I am
aware, by previous travellers. It is a matter of deep and lasting regret
to me, personally, that I ever parted with a similar gem of art, picked
up at Blantyre, and presumably representing a European engaged in
inspecting his coffee plantation.
This whole question of native African art is very interesting. Properly
speaking, nothing in the way of indigenous graphic art is known to exist
in Africa, outside Egypt and Abyssinia, (if indeed it can be called
indigenous in the latter case), except the rock paintings of the
Bushmen, which, as is well known, have in some cases attained real
excellence. (The best published reproductions up to the present date are
contained in the late G. W. Stow’s _Native Races of South Africa_.) In
South Africa wherever Bantu natives have executed any paintings beyond
the simplest geometrical patterns, they are found to have learnt the art
from Bushmen. The natives on Mount Mlanje (Nyasaland) decorate their
huts with paintings of animals, but these have not yet been sufficiently
examined to pronounce on their quality; and, on the other hand, many
things render it probable that there is a strong Bushman element in the
population of Mlanje (at least in the indigenous Anyanja, who have been
only partly displaced by the Yaos). Dr. Weule states that this kind of
“fresco” decoration is very common on the Makonde Plateau, but considers
that it is entirely on the same level as the drawings of his
carriers—_i.e._, that it shows no artistic aptitude or tradition, and
merely consists of scrawls such as those with which innate depravity
impels every untaught human being to deface any convenient blank space.
The single specimen reproduced in his book is not precisely calculated
to refute his theory, yet it is no rougher than some of the cruder
Bushmen drawings (which show every conceivable degree of skill and
finish); and, if the daubs in question are merely the product of the
universal _gamin_ instinct, surely, huts having clay walls would
everywhere be adorned with animal-paintings, which is by no means the
case.
The comparative value of Dr. Weule’s various results must be left to the
judgment of experts; but it seems safe to assume that he was most
successful in what may be called the outside part of his task: in
forming a collection and in describing what is visible and tangible in
the life and customs of the people. That he should have failed to
penetrate their inner life is scarcely surprising. What does surprise
one is that he should have expected to do so at such exceedingly short
notice. His disappointment in this respect at Masasi, and subsequently
at Chingulungulu, is calculated to provoke a smile, if not “from the
sinful,” at least from the veteran in African experience. The greater
his experience the more is the inquirer inclined to hesitate before
putting direct questions even when they cannot be described as
“leading”; but Dr. Weule seems to have recognized no other mode of
investigation. The wonder is that the elders, officially convened by
tuck of drum from village after village and set down to be pumped till
both parties were heartily weary of the process, should have told him
anything at all—as they undoubtedly did, and much of it, to judge from
internal evidence, correct enough. The most sympathetic of travellers
does not always find it easy to satisfy his thirst for knowledge, and
Dr. Weule’s methods, on his own showing, were frequently such that I
prefer to withhold any comment.
Dr. Weule devoted a considerable amount of time to the study of the
languages spoken in the districts he visited, viz., Makua, Yao, and
Makonde; but he does not appear to have published any linguistic
documents beyond the songs, etc., given in the present volume. It is not
clear whether he was aware of any work previously done in this
direction, but he certainly speaks as though he were the first to reduce
these idioms to writing, though abundant materials exist in print for
the study of Yao, and the late Bishop Maples published a grammatical
sketch of Makua which is excellent as far as it goes, not to mention the
more recent work of Professor Meinhof. It is also extremely strange
that, while insisting on the close relationship between the different
languages of the Makonde Plateau, he should have overlooked the curious
cleavage between Makua,—which has peculiarities directly connecting it
with the distant Sechuana and Sesuto—and its neighbours.
Though the scene of Dr. Weule’s labours was repeatedly visited by
Europeans, even before the German occupation, not much has been written
about it in this country outside the publications of the Universities’
Mission. Livingstone ascended the Rovuma in 1862, to within thirty miles
of Ngomano at the Lujende junction; his farthest point being apparently
a little higher up than the camp occupied by Dr. Weule in August, 1906.
He had hoped to find a navigable waterway to the immediate vicinity of
Lake Nyasa; and, in fact, some natives told him that the Rovuma came out
of the Lake; but the rapids and rocks made it impossible to take the
boats beyond the island of Nyamatolo, which, though not marked on Dr.
Weule’s map, must be somewhere near the mouth of the Bangala. Most of
the names given by Livingstone are difficult to identify on recent maps;
but this is not surprising, as native villages are usually known by the
name of the chief or headman for the time being. It is true that some of
these names are more or less permanent, being official or hereditary
designations assumed by every successive functionary; but the population
has shifted so much during the last forty years that the old names have
been forgotten or transferred to other sites. Thus Mr. H. E. O’Neill, in
1882, found the Yao chief Chimsaka living in the eastern part of the
Mavia Plateau a little east of 40° E, having been driven from his former
place on the Upper Rovuma, more than two hundred miles to the west, by a
raid of the Mangoni (Angoni or Maviti).
The country is still inhabited, as it was in Livingstone’s time, by the
Makonde, Makua, and Matambwe tribes, with the Wamwera to the north in
the hinterland of Lindi, and the Mavia (Mabiha) south of the Rovuma, but
they have moved about a good deal within its limits, while the Yaos have
penetrated it from the west. The raids of the Angoni or Maviti have also
played a great part in these changes. Dr. Weule, as we shall see, made
careful inquiries on the subject of these tribal migrations, and the
information given to him fits in fairly well with what others have
obtained from the Yaos in the Shire Highlands and the Angoni to the west
of Lake Nyasa.
Livingstone returned to this region on his last journey, when he landed
at Mikindani Bay (March 24, 1866) with those unfortunate camels and
buffaloes whose sufferings on the jungle-march made his diary such
painful reading. The choice of camels for transport in this country was
certainly a mistake; but a greater mistake—and one which he bitterly
regretted—was made in the choice of the men who drove the camels.
On this occasion, Livingstone followed the Rovuma by land as far as
Mtarika’s (the old village about the Lujende confluence, near Chimsaka’s
former abode, not the Mtarika’s which will be found marked in Dr.
Weule’s map on the Lujende itself), and struck south-westward in the
direction of the Lake, which he reached, near the mouth of the Mtsinje,
on the 8th of August. The route followed some years previously by Dr.
Roscher, who made his way from Kilwa to Lake Nyasa, sighting it November
24, 1859, a few weeks after its discovery by Livingstone, lies somewhat
to the north-west of the country dealt with in this book, and nowhere
touches the scene of Dr. Weule’s travels.
In 1875, the late Bishop Steere followed in Livingstone’s tracks,
starting from Lindi on the first of November, and reaching Mwembe
(Mataka’s village) in a little over five weeks. This was the first of a
series of remarkable journeys accomplished by members of the
Universities’ Mission, of which we need here only mention, that of the
Rev. W. P. (now Archdeacon) Johnson and the late Rev. C. A. Janson in
1882. The station of Masasi was founded in 1876, and that of Newala in
1882; the buildings of the former were nearly all destroyed in the
“Majimaji” rising of 1906, shortly before Dr. Weule’s visit, and are
only now in process of reconstruction.
The Rovuma valley was further explored in 1882, by the late Joseph
Thomson, whom the Sultan of Zanzibar had commissioned to examine its
mineral resources, with a view to ascertaining if workable coal-seams
existed. His report was, on the whole, unfavourable, though a French
engineer, M. D’Angelvy, subsequently (in 1884) despatched on a similar
errand, came to a different conclusion. The Livingstone expedition had
found coal near Lake Chidia, in 1862; but up to the present day it has
not been utilized.
Mr. H. E. O’Neill, when British Consul at Mozambique, did a great deal
of exploring, in an unobtrusive way, between the coast and Lake Nyasa,
and, in 1882 examined the country inland from Tungi Bay, and south of
the Rovuma, being the first European to penetrate the Mavia Plateau and
come in contact with that tribe who enjoyed among their neighbours the
reputation of being “so fierce and inhospitable that no one dares to
pass through their country.” This exclusiveness Mr. O’Neill found to be
largely if not entirely the result of the persecution the Mavia had
undergone at the hands of stronger tribes, particularly the Yaos,
incited by coast slavetraders. They were unwilling to guide him to their
villages, and took him there by night so that he might be the less
likely to find his way there a second time; but, “when once their
natural suspicions were allayed and confidence established, they were
hospitable and generous, and showed neither distrust nor reserve.
Indeed, they seemed to me to be a particularly simple-minded, harmless
folk.” Men, as well as women, wear the pelele, or lip ring, as mentioned
by Dr. Weule, who never came across the Mavia for himself. Of their
wearing their hair in pig-tails, Mr. O’Neill says nothing—in fact,
beyond the pelele, there was little to distinguish them from
neighbouring tribes, and he was disposed to consider them a branch of
the Makonde. His description of their villages hidden away in the thorny
jungle and approached by circuitous paths recalls what Dr. Weule says as
to the difficulty of finding the Makonde settlements without a guide. In
the course of this journey Mr. O’Neill discovered Lake Lidede, and at
one point of his march he looked down on the Rovuma Valley from the edge
of the Mavia Plateau at almost the same point as that where Dr. Weule
saw it from the opposite escarpment, as described on pp. 343–4. It is
interesting to compare the two accounts:—Mr. O’Neill’s is to be found in
the Proceedings of the R.G.S. for 1882, p. 30.
Mr. J. T. Last, starting from Lindi on the 28th of October, 1885, made
his way overland to Blantyre, _via_ Newala, Ngomano and the Lujende
Valley, in eleven weeks. He remarks on the “desolation of the country
which was formerly well populated, as the sites of the old villages
show; but now there is not a house to be seen”—through the raids of the
Magwangara and others. Lions were as numerous as they appear to have
been in 1906, and for a similar reason. One of Mr. Last’s carriers was
dragged out of the grass shelter where the men were sleeping, thus
affording an almost exact parallel to the incident related by Dr. Weule
on pp. 394–8.
At this time the country was under the nominal rule of the Sultan of
Zanzibar, who stationed his officials at some of the places near the
coast and exercised a somewhat intermittent and uncertain authority over
the chiefs in the interior. By the treaty of 1890 the whole of the
mainland as far back as Lakes Victoria and Tanganyika, between the
Rovuma on the south, and the Umba River on the north, was handed over to
Germany, while the protectorate over what remained of the Sultan’s
dominions (viz., the islands of Zanzibar and Pemba) was taken over by
the British Government.
It seems improbable that this immense territory can ever be colonised by
Germans in the same way in which Canada and Australia have been
colonised by ourselves. There are few if any parts where German peasants
and workmen could expect to live, labour, and bring up families. So far
as the country has been settled at all, it is on the plantation system:
European capitalists cultivating large tracts of land by means of native
labour. Some coffee plantations in Usambara are, we understand,
flourishing fairly well, though not producing wealth beyond the dreams
of avarice; but the system, if it is to be extended to the whole
territory, does not augur well for the future. It is not a healthy one
for employer or employed; it always tends in the direction of forced
labour and more or less disguised slavery; and, in the end, to the
creation of a miserable and degraded proletariat. Much more satisfactory
is the method to which Dr. Weule extends a somewhat qualified approval
(though there can be no doubt that it has his sympathies) of securing to
the native his own small holding and buying his produce from him, as has
been done, to some extent, with the best results, in our own Gold Coast
Colony. Dr. Weule remarks, somewhat naively, that a wholesale
immigration from Germany would be interfered with if the native “claimed
the best parts of his own country for himself.” But surely a _ver
sacrum_ of the kind contemplated is unthinkable in the case of East
Africa.
It is possible that the reader may be somewhat perplexed by Dr. Weule’s
estimate—or estimates—of the native character. The recurring
contradictions apparent in various parts of his book arise from the plan
on which it is written. In the original edition, the traveller’s
narrative takes the form of letters addressed to his wife and friends
from the successive stages of his journey. This form has been dispensed
with (beyond the dates at the head of each chapter) in translation,[1]
because the personal allusions, in a foreign dress, rather detract from
than add to the interest of the narrative, and all the more so, as they
are not, in a sense, genuine, but have been added, _après coup_, to
impart an air of verisimilitude to the letters. The latter, in fact,
were not written from the places at which they are dated, but were put
into shape after the author’s return to Europe, from notes made on the
spot, together with extracts from actual letters, not printed as a
whole. This material, in order not to sacrifice the freshness of first
impressions, has been used very much as it stood, and it will be noticed
that, in many cases, the observations made at different places correct
and qualify one another.
I am glad to find that Dr. Weule stands up for the native in respect of
the old accusation of laziness. He shows that the people of the Makonde
Plateau, at any rate, work pretty hard (in some points, as in their
water-carrying, unnecessarily hard) for a living. He also defends them
against the charge of improvidence, making it quite plain that they take
infinite pains in storing their seed-corn for next season, and that, if
they do not save more of their crops against a year of famine, instead
of making the surplus into beer, it is because they have, under present
circumstances, absolutely no means of keeping them. It is true that, in
one passage, he seems to depreciate the industry of native women, by
comparison with the work done by German maid-servants and farmers’
wives. But he forgets to make allowance for the difference of
climate—and, perhaps, one may be permitted to doubt whether any human
being really ought to work as hard as most German women do in town or
country.
On the whole, Dr. Weule is kindly disposed towards the native. He does
not seem entirely to have escaped the danger deprecated on p. 41—at
least it strikes one that some of the (doubtless not unmerited)
castigations bestowed in the course of his pages might have been
dispensed with by the exercise of a little more patience and tact; but
he remained throughout on the best of terms with his carriers, and
appears to have parted from Moritz, Kibwana and Omari, in spite of the
trials to which they had subjected him in the exercise of their several
functions, with no ill-feeling on either side. More than once he bears
testimony to the uniform good manners of the people whose villages he
visited, and to their homely virtues—their unfailing cheerfulness, their
family affection, and their respect for parents. At the same time, he
relates various incidents calculated to leave a less pleasant
impression, though it must be remembered that the proportion they bear
to the whole of native life is probably less than that borne by the
criminal cases reported in our newspapers to the daily life and conduct
of our population in general. Dr. Weule’s stay in Africa was surely long
enough for him to see that the Bantu native is not in general
bloodthirsty or ferocious; that, on the contrary, when not maddened by
terror or resentment, he is gentle, reasonable, and even somewhat
lacking in vindictiveness compared with other races. Yet, in the
scientific report on the expedition (a publication several times alluded
to in the course of the work before us) the author is, it seems to me,
guilty of a grave injustice.
The reader will note that, on his return to the coast (see pp. 27–9), he
spent some time in studying the records of the Criminal Court at Lindi,
though he does not here tell us anything about the results of his
examination. Now these records certainly afford valuable material for
the study of social conditions; but they should be used with
discrimination. Dr. Weule does not give what is of the very first
importance, the number of criminal cases and their proportion to the
population, especially as the serious cases, which are brought for trial
to Lindi, represent the whole of an extensive province. But he mentions
two atrocities as a proof of the ignorance shown by certain German
newspapers, which “during the last two years have thought it necessary
to insist, over and over again, on the noble traits in the negro
character,” and of the “predominance of low instincts in those sons of
untamed nature” who have “an innate disposition to violence.” One of the
cases in question was that of a woman who killed her own mother by a
blow with the pestle used for pounding corn. But it is hardly fair to
place this murder on the same footing as a crime committed out of mere
brutal passion: the woman’s children had died, and she believed her
mother to have caused their death by witchcraft. We know what horrible
cruelties this belief has induced people not otherwise depraved to
commit: an instance occurred only twelve or thirteen years ago, no
further off than Clonmel. The other case, which is certainly revolting
enough, was the revenge of a husband on a guilty wife. But both of them
together prove absolutely nothing without information which would enable
us to see whether they are to be regarded as exceptional, or as in any
sense typical. The other incident given by way of proving that violence
and brutality are “in the blood” of the native, is that of an
unfortunate woman who, unsuspiciously passing through the bush, fell in
with a band of _unyago_ boys, and was by them seized and put into a
slave-stick “out of mere mischief and enjoyment of violence.” The
comment on this is that, unless the woman had been a stranger from a
distance (who, under ordinary circumstances would not be very likely to
travel alone), she must have known that there was an _unyago_ in the
neighbourhood, that if she traversed the bush in that direction she
would do so at her peril, and that her trespassing on the forbidden
ground was an act of the grossest impropriety combined with sacrilege.
As for “delight in violence”—surely that, in one form or another, is an
inherent attribute of the “human boy” in every part of the world, above
all when he conceives himself to have a legitimate excuse?
The mention of the _unyago_ mysteries suggests a subject on which Dr.
Weule has obtained fuller information than any previous writer—at any
rate on this part of Africa. It is surprising that he should have been
able to secure so many photographs of the dances—especially those of the
women—but these only constitute the more public part of the ceremonial.
As to the instruction given to the younger generation, he does not seem
to have got beyond generalities except in the case of the two old men
who, when very drunk, began to dictate the actual formula in use, though
they did not get to the end of it. Whether any tribal traditions, any
myths, embodying the religious ideas of a far distant past, are handed
down along with such practical teaching about life as the elders are
able to give, does not appear—but from what we know about other tribes
it seems highly probable. Among the Anyanja (Wanyasa) of Lake Nyasa,
_e.g._, a story accounting for the origin of that lake is told. But
perhaps many of the Makonde and Makua traditions have by this time been
forgotten. It is evident that they have led a very unsettled life for
the past forty or fifty years, besides being decimated by the
slave-trade. (This circumstance, by the by, should always be remembered
in connection with Dr. Weule’s pictures of native life, which leave a
painfully squalid impression. I am far from wishing to idealize the
“state of nature”; but neither the Zulus, nor the Anyanja, nor the Yaos
of the Shire Highlands are so ignorant and careless of hygiene or so
neglectful of their babies as the poor women of Chingulungulu and Masasi
are represented by him to be.)
These “mysteries” are universal—or practically so—among the Bantu tribes
of Africa, and no doubt most others as well. Usually they are spoken of
as an unmixed evil, which Christian missionaries do all in their power
to combat, and some are not backward in calling out for the civil power
(in countries under British administration) to put them down. The
subject is a difficult and far-reaching one, and cannot adequately be
discussed here. My own conviction, which I only give for what it is
worth, is that it is a great mistake to interfere with an institution of
this sort, unless, perhaps, when the people themselves are ceasing to
believe in it, in which case there is danger of its becoming a mere
excuse for immorality. Otherwise, even the features which to our
feelings seem most revolting are entwined with beliefs rooted in a
conception of nature, which only the gradual advance of knowledge can
modify or overthrow. And we must remember that the problem which these
poor people have tried to solve in their own way is one which presses
hardly on civilized nations as well. Parents and teachers have
discovered the evil of keeping the young in ignorance, or leaving them
to discover for themselves the realities of life; but many of them
appear helplessly perplexed as to the best way of imparting that
instruction.
As regards missions, Dr. Weule has not very much to say, but I am sorry
to find that he cannot refrain from the cheap sneer about “Christianity
not suiting the native,” which seems to be fashionable in some quarters.
It seems to be a mere _obiter dictum_ on his part—perhaps unthinkingly
adopted from others—for he brings no arguments in support of his view,
beyond remarking that Islam suits the African much better, as it does
not interfere with his freedom. But some excuse may be found for those
who hold that view in the erroneous conceptions of Christianity which
have prompted various mistakes on the part of missionaries. It is quite
true that such or such a system of complicated doctrinal belief, the
product of long ages and a special environment, may not suit the
African. It is also true that, if Christianity means Europeanisation—if
it means that the African is to be made over into a bad imitation of an
Englishman or German—it is impossible that it should gain any real hold
on him. But it is no exaggeration to say that no people on earth are
more capable—many are not so capable—of appreciating and acting on the
spirit of the Gospel, of simple love and trust in the Eternal Goodness
and goodwill towards their fellow-men.
The question is a wide one, which cannot be fully discussed within these
limits. Missionaries have often made mistakes and acted injudiciously;
they have in some cases done serious harm, not from failure to act up to
their principles, but from error in those very principles and a fatal
fidelity to them. They may have interfered between chiefs and people,
and broken down customs better left alone, or may unwittingly have
encouraged the wrong sort of converts by welcoming all and sundry,
including fugitives from justice or people discontented with their home
surroundings for reasons quite unconnected with high spiritual
aspirations. Or again, they may incur blame for the deficiencies of
alleged converts who, after honouring the mission with their presence
for a time, depart (usually under a cloud) and victimise the first
European who can be induced to employ them.
But there is another side to the matter. A man—whether consciously a
follower of the Nietzschean doctrine or not—who thinks that “the lower
races” exist to supply him with labour on his own terms, is naturally
impatient of a religion which upholds the claims of the weak, and
recognizes the status of man as man. _Hinc illæ lacrymæ_, in a good many
cases. Honestly, I do not think this is Dr. Weule’s view. But I cannot
quite get rid of the suspicion that he was repeating what he had heard
from a planter, and that it was, in strict accuracy, the planter’s
convenience, and not the native, that Christianity failed to “suit.”
Anyone who has read a certain pamphlet by Dr. Oetker, or Herr von St.
Paul Illaire’s _Caveant Consules_, or Herr Woldemar Schütze’s _Schwarz
gegen Weiss_ will not think this remark too strong.
It would be deplorable, indeed, if those writers had to be taken as
typifying the spirit of German colonial administration in Africa, or
indeed anywhere else. But I do not think we have any right to suppose
that this is so. There has been, I think, too much militarism—and very
brutal militarism, in some cases—in that administration; but this is an
evil which appears to be diminishing. There is a tendency, perhaps, to
worry the native with over-minute government regulations, which, no
doubt, will as time goes on be corrected by experience. And there is no
lack of humane and able rulers who bring to their task the same
conscientious, patient labour which their countrymen have bestowed on
scientific research; who are trained for their posts with admirable care
and thoroughness, and grudge no amount of trouble to understand and do
justice to the people under their care. They shall in no wise lose their
reward.
A. WERNER.
[Illustration: CAPE GUARDAFUI]
Native Life in East Africa
CHAPTER I
OUTWARD BOUND
DAR ES SALAM, Whit-Sunday, 1906.
Six months ago it would not have entered my head in my wildest dreams
that I should spend my favourite festival, Whitsuntide, under the shade
of African palms. But it is the fact, nevertheless. I have now been two
days in the capital of German East Africa, a spot which may well
fascinate even older travellers than myself. Not that the scenery is
strikingly grand or majestic—on the contrary, lofty mountain-masses and
mighty rivers are conspicuous by their absence, and the wide expanse of
the open ocean contributes nothing directly to the picture, for Dar es
Salam lies inland and has no seaview worth mentioning. The charm of the
landscape lies rather in one of the happiest combinations of flashing
waters, bright foliage, and radiant sunshine that can be imagined.
The entrance to the harbour gives to the uninitiated no hint of the
beauty to come. A narrow channel, choked with coral reefs, and, by its
abrupt turns, making severe demands on the skill of the pilot, leads to
the central point of a shallow bay which seems to have no outlet.
Suddenly, however, the vessel glides past this central point into an
extraordinarily narrow channel, with steep green banks on either side,
which opens out, before the traveller has had time to recover from his
astonishment, into a wide, glittering expanse, covered with ships. That
is the famous bay of Dar es Salam. In presence of the obvious advantages
of this locality, one need not have lived for years in the country to
understand why the Germans should have been willing to give up the old
caravan emporium of Bagamoyo with its open roadstead for this splendid
harbour, and thus make the almost unknown native village of Dar es Salam
the principal place in the colony.[2]
[Illustration: DAR ES SALAM HARBOUR]
On the voyage out, I visited with much enjoyment both Mombasa and
Zanzibar, though unfortunately prevented by an accident (an injury to my
foot) from going ashore at the German port of Tanga. Of these two
English centres, Zanzibar represents the past, Mombasa the present, and
still more the future. It is true that Zanzibar has the advantage in its
situation on an island at a considerable distance from the mainland, an
advantage of which the mainland towns, however splendid their future
development, will never be able to deprive it, since their lines of
communication, both economic and intellectual, will always converge on
Zanzibar. But since the completion of the Uganda Railway, Mombasa forms
the real gateway to the interior, and will do so in an increasing
degree, as the economic development of Central Africa—now only in its
infancy—goes on. Whether our two great German railways—as yet only
projected—can ever recover the immense advantage gained by Mombasa, the
future will show. We must hope for the best.
[Illustration: NATIVE DANCE AT DAR ES SALAM]
Mombasa and Zanzibar interested me more from a historical than from a
political point of view. How little do our educated and even learned
circles know of the exploration and development, the varied political
fortunes of this corner of the earth on the western shore of the
Indian Ocean! Only specialists, indeed, can be expected to know that
this year is the jubilee of the French Admiral Guillain’s epoch-making
work, _Documents sur l’Histoire, la Géographie, et le Commerce de
l’Afrique Orientale_, but it is extremely distressing to find that our
countryman, Justus Strandes’ _Die Portugiesenzeit in Deutsch- und
Englisch-Ostafrika_ (1899) is not better known. Most of us think that
Eastern Equatorial Africa, considered as a field for colonization, is
as much virgin soil as Togo, Kamerun and German South-West Africa, or
the greater part of our possessions in the South Seas. How few of us
realise that, before us and before the English, the Arabs had, a
thousand years ago, shown the most brilliant capacity for gaining and
keeping colonies, and that after them the Portuguese, in connection
with and as a consequence of Vasco da Gama’s voyage to India round the
Cape of Good Hope in 1498, occupied an extensive strip of the long
coast, and maintained their hold on it for centuries? And yet these
events—these struggles for East Africa form one of the most
interesting chapters in the history of modern colonization. Here for
the first time the young European culture-element meets with an
Eastern opponent worthy of its steel. In fact that struggle for the
north-western shores of the Indian Ocean stands for nothing less than
the beginning of that far more serious struggle which the white race
has waged for the supremacy over the earth in general, and in which
they already seemed to be victorious, when, a few years ago, the
unexpected rise of Japan showed the fallacious nature of the belief so
long entertained, and perhaps also the opening of a new era.
[Illustration: STREET IN THE NATIVE QUARTER, DAR ES SALAM]
Anyone who does not travel merely for the sake of present impressions,
but is accustomed to see the past behind the phenomena of the moment,
and, like myself, leaves the area of European culture with the express
object of using his results to help in solving the great problem of
man’s intellectual evolution in all its details, will find in the voyage
to German East Africa a better opportunity for survey and retrospect
than in many other great routes of modern travel.
This is the case as soon as one has crossed the Alps. It is true that
even the very moderate speed of the Italian express gives one no chance
for anthropological studies. In order to observe the unmistakable
Teutonic strain in the population of Northern Italy, it would be
necessary to traverse the plain of Lombardy at one’s leisure. But
already in the Adige Valley, and still more as one advances through
Northern and Central Italy, the stratification of successive races seems
to me to be symbolized by the three strata of culture visible in the
fields: corn below, fruit-trees planted between it, and vines covering
them above. Just so the Lombards, Goths and other nations, superimposed
themselves on the ancient Italian and Etruscan stocks. On the long
journey from Modena to Naples, it is borne in upon one that the
Apennines are really the determining feature of the whole Italian
peninsula, and that the Romans were originally started on their career
of conquest by want of space in their own country. The only place which,
in May, 1906, produced an impression of spaciousness was the Bay of
Naples, of which we never had a clear view during our four or five days’
stay. A faint haze, caused by the volcanic dust remaining in the air
from the eruption of the previous month, veiled all the distances, while
the streets and houses, covered with a layer of ashes, appeared grey on
a grey background—a depressing and incongruous spectacle. The careless
indolence of the Neapolitans, which as a rule strikes the industrious
denizens of Central Europe as rather comical than offensive, requires
the clear sky and bright sunshine, celebrated by all travellers (but of
which we could see little or nothing), to set it off.
From our school-days we have been familiar with the fact that the
countries bordering the Mediterranean—the seats of ancient
civilisation—are now practically denuded of forests. Yet the landscape
of Southern Italy and Sicily seems to the traveller still more
unfamiliar than that of the northern and central districts; it is even
more treeless, and therefore sharper in contour than the Etruscan and
Roman Apennines and the Abruzzi. But the most striking feature to us
inhabitants of the North-German plain are the river-valleys opening into
the Strait of Messina, leading up by steep gradients into the interior
of the country. At this season they seem either to be quite dry or to
contain very little water, so that they are calculated to produce the
impression of broad highways. But how terrible must be the force with
which the mass of water collecting in the torrent-bed after heavy rains,
with no forest-soil to keep it back, rushes down these channels to the
sea! To the right and left of Reggio, opposite Messina, numbers of
sinuous ravines slope down to the coast, all piled high with débris and
crossed by bridges whose arches have the height and span of the loftiest
railway viaducts.
It is scarcely necessary to say anything about Port Said and the Suez
Canal. Entering the Red Sea, I entered at the same time a familiar
region—I might almost say, one which I have made peculiarly my own—it
having fallen to my share to write the monographs on the three oceans
included in Helmolt’s _Weltgeschichte_.[3] Of these monographs, that
dealing with the Atlantic seems, in the opinion of the general reader,
to be the most successful; but that on the Indian Ocean is undoubtedly
more interesting from the point of view of human history. In the first
place, this sea has this advantage over its eastern and western
neighbours, that its action on the races and peoples adjacent to it was
continued through a long period. The Pacific has historic peoples
(historic, that is to say, in the somewhat restricted and one-sided
sense in which we have hitherto used that term) on its north-western
margin, in eastern Asia; but the rest of its huge circumference has
remained dead and empty, historically speaking, almost up to the present
day. The Atlantic exactly reverses these conditions: its historical
density is limited to the north-eastern region, the west coast of
Africa, and the east coast of the Americas being (with the exception of
the United States) of the utmost insignificance from a historical point
of view.
Now the Indian Ocean formed the connecting link between these two
centres—the Mediterranean culture-circle in the west, and that of India
and Eastern Asia in the east,—at a time when both Atlantic and Pacific
were still empty and untraversed wastes of water. This, however, is
true, not of the whole Indian Ocean, but only as regards its northern
part, and in particular the two indentations running far inland in a
north-westerly direction, which we call the Red Sea and the Persian
Gulf. To-day, when we carry our railways across whole continents, and
even mountain ranges present no insuperable obstacles to our canals, we
imagine that masses of land as wide as the Isthmus of Suez or the much
greater extent of the “Syrian Porte”—the route between the Persian Gulf
and the Eastern Mediterranean—must have been absolute deterrents to the
sea-traffic of the ancients. In a sense, indeed, this was the case;
otherwise so many ancient rulers would not have attempted to anticipate
us in the construction of the Suez Canal. But where technical skill is
insufficient to overcome such impediments, and where at the same time
the demand for the treasures of the East is so enormous as it was in
classical and mediæval times, people adapt themselves to existing
conditions and make use of navigable water wherever it is to be found.
Only thus can be explained the uninterrupted navigation of the Red Sea
during a period of several thousand years, in spite of its dangerous
reefs and the prevailing winds, which are anything but favourable to
sailing vessels.
Only one period of repose—one might almost say, of enchanted sleep—has
fallen to the lot of the Red Sea. This was the time when Islam, just
awakened to the consciousness of its power, succeeded in laying its
heavy hand on the transition zone between West and East. With the
cutting of the Suez Canal, the last shadow of this ancient barrier has
disappeared, and the Red Sea and North Indian Ocean have regained at a
stroke, in fullest measure, their old place in the common life of
mankind.
The passengers on board our steamer, the _Prinzregent_, were chiefly
German and English; and at first a certain constraint was perceptible
between the members of the two nationalities, the latter of whom seemed
to be influenced by the dread and distrust expressed in numerous
publications of the last few years. Mr. William Le Queux’s _Invasion of
1910_ was the book most in demand in the ship’s library.
A more sociable state of things gradually came about during the latter
part of the voyage; and this largely through the agency of an
unpretending instrument forming part of my anthropological equipment.
One day, when we were nearing the Straits of Bab el Mandeb, partly in
order to relieve the tedium of the voyage, and partly in order to obtain
statistics of comparative strength, I produced my Collin’s dynamometer.
This is an oval piece of polished steel, small enough to be held flat in
the hand and compressed in a greater or less degree, according to the
amount of force expended, the pressure being registered by means of
cogged wheels acting on an index which in its turn moves a second index
on a dial-plate. On relaxing the pressure, the first index springs back
to its original position, while the second remains in the position it
has taken up and shows the weight in kilogrammes equivalent to the
pressure. The apparatus, really a medical one, is well adapted for
ascertaining the comparative strength of different races; but its more
immediate usefulness appears to lie in establishing cordial relations
between total strangers in the shortest possible time. On that
particular hot morning, I had scarcely begun testing my own strength,
when all the English male passengers gathered round me, scenting some
form of sport, which never fails to attract them, young or old. In the
subsequent peaceful rivalry between the two nations, I may remark that
our compatriots by no means came off worst; which may serve to show that
our German system of physical training is not so much to be despised as
has been recently suggested by many competent to judge, and by still
more who are not so competent.
In his general attitude on board ship, the present-day German does not,
so far as my observations go, contrast in the least unfavourably with
the more experienced voyagers of other nationalities. It is true that
almost every Englishman shows in his behaviour some trace of the
national assumption that the supremacy of the seas belongs to him by
right of birth. Our existence, however, is beginning to be
recognized—not out of any strong affection for “our German cousins,” but
as a simple matter of necessity. If, for comfort in travel, one must
have recourse to German ships; and when, at home and abroad, there is a
German merchant-fleet and a German navy to be reckoned with, the first
of which keeps up an assiduous competition, while the second is slowly
but steadily increasing, these things cannot fail to impress even the
less cultured members of the British nation. Only one thing is, and will
be for many years to come, calculated to make us ridiculous in the eyes
of Old England—and that is the Zanzibar Treaty. Never shall I forget the
looks of malicious triumph and the sarcastic condolences which greeted
us—the unfortunate contemporaries of the late Caprivi—when we came in
sight of Zanzibar. My friend Hiram Rhodes, of Liverpool, the
ever-smiling and universally popular, usually known as “the laughing
philosopher,” from his cheerful view of life, was not as a rule given to
sharp sayings, but with regard to the famous political transaction, I
distinctly remember to have heard him use the expression, “Children in
politics.” Caustic, but not undeserved! Another remark of his, after
viewing Dar es Salam: “That is the finest colony I have ever seen!”
served, it is true, as a touch of healing balm—but no amount of
conciliatory speeches will give us back Zanzibar!
[Illustration: MAP OF THE MAIN CARAVAN ROAD, WITH ITS PRINCIPAL
BRANCHES. DRAWN BY SABATELE, A MMAMBWE]
The object of the journey on which I have embarked may now be briefly
stated. Several decades since, and therefore before the beginning of our
colonial era, the Reichstag voted an annual grant of some 200,000 marks
for purposes of scientific research in Africa—purely in the interests of
knowledge and without any ulterior intentions from a narrowly
nationalist point of view. One might have expected that, after the
establishment of our settlements in Africa and the Pacific, this fund
would unhesitatingly have been devoted, wholly or in part, to the
systematic exploration and study of these colonies of ours. But this has
not been done, or only in a very uncertain and desultory manner—to the
great grief of German scientific circles, who, under these
circumstances, were forced to content themselves with the occasional
reports of civil and military officials supplemented by sporadic
research expeditions, official or private.
[Illustration: COURTYARD AT DAR ES SALAM—_Dolce far niente_]
It was not till the first Colonial Congress in 1902 that a more vigorous
agitation took place for the application of the African Fund on a large
scale to the systematic investigation of our dependencies. From
specialists in all branches of knowledge—geography and geology,
anthropology and ethnography, zoology and botany, linguistics,
comparative law, and the new science of comparative music—arose the same
cry, with the result that, three years later, at the second Colonial
Congress (October, 1905), we were in a position to state clearly the
most pressing problems and mark out the principal fields of research in
each subject. It might, however, have taken years to put the work in
hand, but for the “Committee for the Geographical Exploration of the
German Colonies,” and its energetic president, Dr. Hans Meyer, who
rescued the proceedings from their normal condition of endless
discussions, and translated them at one stroke into action. Dr. Jäger,
Herr Eduard Oehler, and myself are the living proofs of this (in our
country) unwonted rapidity of decision, being selected to carry out the
instructions of the Committee (which is affiliated to the Colonial
Office) and help to realise the long-cherished dream of German science.
The task of the two gentlemen I have mentioned is purely geographical,
consisting in the examination of the interesting volcanic area situated
between Kilimanjaro and the Victoria Nyanza, while I am commissioned to
bring some order into the chaos of our knowledge concerning the tribes
who occupy approximately the same region. It must be remembered that the
country surrounding Lakes Manyara and Eyasi, and extending to a
considerable distance south of them, swarms with tribes and peoples who,
in spite of the fact that our acquaintance with them dates more than
twenty years back, still present a variety of ethnological problems.
Among these tribes are the Wasandawi, whose language is known to contain
clicks like those of the Hottentots and Bushmen, and who are conjectured
to be the forgotten remnant of a primæval race going back to prehistoric
ages. The Wanege and Wakindiga, nomadic tribes in the vicinity of Lake
Eyasi, are said to be akin to them. In the whole mass of African
literature, a considerable part of which I have examined during my
twenty years’ study of this continent, the most amusing thing I ever
came across is the fact that our whole knowledge up to date of these
Wakindiga actually results from the accident that Captain Werther had a
field-glass in his hand at a given moment. This brilliant traveller, who
traversed the district in question twice (in 1893 and 1896), heard of
the existence of these people, but all that he saw of them was a distant
telescopic view of a few huts. As yet we know no more of them than their
bare name, conscientiously entered in every colonial or ethnological
publication that makes its appearance.
Another group of as yet insufficiently-defined tribes is represented by
the Wafiomi, Wairaku, Wawasi, Wamburu and Waburunge. All these are
suspected of being Hamites, and some of them have evolved remarkable
culture-conditions of their own. But, under the onrush of new
developments, they are in danger of losing their distinctive character
still more rapidly than other African peoples, and, if only for this
reason, systematic observations are needed before it is too late. The
same may be said of the Wataturu or Tatoga, who are undoubtedly to be
looked on as the remnant of a formerly numerous population. They are
said to speak a language related to Somali, but now live scattered over
so wide a territory that the danger of their being effaced by absorption
in other races is, if possible, still greater than in the case of the
others. The last of the tribes which specially concern me are the
Wanyaturu, Wairangi and Wambugwe. All of these belong to the great Bantu
group, but have, in consequence of their isolation, preserved certain
peculiarities of culture so faithfully that they too will be well worth
a visit.
[Illustration: IN THE EUROPEAN QUARTER, DAR ES SALAM]
With regard to the original home of the African race, this is a question
to which ethnologists have not hitherto devoted very much attention. The
Hamites, who occupy the north-eastern corner of the continent, are
supposed by all writers without exception to have come from Asia across
the Red Sea. Most authorities have been content with comparatively short
periods in estimating the date of this migration—indeed, the most recent
work on the subject, Captain Merker’s book on the Masai (whom, by the
bye, he claims as Semites) asserts that both date and route can be
accurately calculated, and places the former about 5,000 years ago.
Not only for these, moreover, but also for the great mass of the
population of Africa, the Sudanese and Bantu negroes, an original home
outside the continent is very generally assumed; and both these groups
are supposed to have penetrated to their present abodes from Asia,
either by way of the Isthmus of Suez, or across the Straits of Bab el
Mandeb.
This theory I had the pleasure of combating some years ago. There is
absolutely nothing to show that the ancestors of the present negro race
ever lived elsewhere than in the region which, in the main, they occupy
to-day. No branch of this large group can be shown to have possessed any
nautical skill worth mentioning; and none has ever ventured far out to
sea.
It may be said that no great knowledge of navigation was needed for
crossing the Strait of Bab el Mandeb, even if the migration did not take
place by way of the Isthmus. The problem, however, is by no means to be
solved in this simple fashion. Modern anthropology demands for human
evolution periods as long as for that of the higher animals. Diluvial
Man has long since been recognized by our most rigid orthodoxy; and
people would have to get used to Tertiary Man, even if the necessities
of the case did not make him an indispensable postulate. As the youth of
mankind recedes into early geological periods, the problem of
race-development is seen to require for its solution not merely
measurements of skull and skeleton, but the vigorous cooperation of
palæontology and historical geology. So far as I can judge, the sciences
in question will probably end by agreeing on three primitive races, the
white, black and yellow, each having its centre of development on one of
the old primitive continents. Such a continent in fact existed through
long geological ages in the Southern Hemisphere. A large fragment of it
is represented by modern Africa, smaller ones by Australia and the
archipelagoes of Indonesia and Papua. The distribution of the black race
from Senegambia in the west to Fiji in the east is thus explained in a
way that seems ridiculously easy.
To account for the great groups of _mixed races_, too, we must for the
future, in my opinion, have recourse to the geological changes of the
earth’s surface. Whence do we derive the Hamites? and what, after all,
do we understand by this term, which, curiously enough, denotes a zone
of peoples exactly filling up the geographical gap between the white and
black races? Furthermore, how are we to explain the so-called
Ural-Altaic race, that mass of peoples so difficult to define, occupying
the space between the primitive Mongol element in the East and the
Caucasian in the West? Does not, here too, the thought suggest itself
that the impulse to the development of both groups—the North African as
well as the North Asiatic—came from a long-continued contact between the
ancient primitive races which, according to the position of affairs,
_i.e._, judging by the geological changes which have taken place, both
in the south-eastern corner of the Mediterranean, and in the east of
Northern Europe—was only rendered possible by the junction of the old
continents formerly separated by seas? In fact the land connection in
both these places is, geologically speaking, very recent.
To come back from dreary theory to cheerful reality, I may mention that
I have taken a few successful photographs of Cape Guardafui. From the
north this promontory does not look very imposing. The coast seems quite
near, but in reality we are five or six miles away from it, and at this
distance the cliffs, though nearly a thousand feet high, are reduced to
insignificance.
The view from the south is more impressive. Here, on our right, the
mountains rise in an almost vertical wall to a height of some 3,000
feet, and often look still higher, when their summits are lost in a
compact stratum of cloud. Yet the eye always turns back again and again
to the Cape itself. It does not indeed appear more lofty than it did
from the north, but from this side it presents, even to the least
imaginative observer, the shape known to all travellers as the “Sleeping
Lion.” I am not in general particularly impressed by the fancied
resemblances which as a rule give rise to the bestowal of similar
appellations, but here I was struck by the absolute verisimilitude of
this piece of natural sculpture. The mighty maned head lies low,
seemingly resting on the dark blue line of the Indian Ocean, the right
fore-paw drawn up close to it. But the royal beast’s eyes are closed,
and what a splendid piece of symbolism is thus lost to us! As it is, the
image presented to-day is a somewhat tame one. In old times, while the
lion was awake, he watched over the busy maritime traffic which the
later period of antiquity and the early Middle Ages kept up before his
eyes, when Phœnicians, Himyarites, Greeks, Romans, Arabs, and Persians
sailed eastward and southward, and the mediæval Chinese advanced from
the east as far as the Gulf of Aden, and even into the Red Sea. That was
a time when it was worth while to keep awake. Then came Islam and the
rule of the Turk—and, still later, the circumnavigation of the Cape
rendered the Egyptian and Syrian overland routes useless. The Red Sea
and the Persian Gulf sank into a stagnation that lasted for
centuries—and the Lion grew weary and fell asleep.
Even the enormous traffic brought by the opening of the Suez Canal has
not been sufficient to wake him; the world is ruled by _vis inertiæ_,
and a scant forty years is all too short a time for the sounds of life
to have penetrated his slumbers. For that, other means will be required.
There is an Italian captain on board, a splendid figure of a man, but
suffering sadly from the effects of spear-wounds received from the
Abyssinians at Adowa. I asked him the other day why his Government had
not placed a lighthouse on Cape Guardafui, which, as rulers of the
country they were surely bound to do. He acknowledged that this was so,
but pointed out that the attempt to carry out any such project would
involve a difficult and expensive campaign against the Somali, who would
by no means tamely submit to lose the profits of their trade as
wreckers.
No doubt the captain was right, but Italy cannot in the long run refuse
to comply with the international obligation of erecting a lighthouse on
this exposed spot, where even now may be seen the melancholy black hull
of a French steamer, which, coming up the coast on a dark night, took
the westerly turn too soon. But from the moment when this lighthouse
throws its rays for the first time over the waves of the Indian Ocean,
the Lion will awake, and feel that his time has come once more.
The monsoon is a welcome change, after the enervating atmosphere of the
Red Sea and the Gulf of Aden, but for any length of time its monotony
becomes tedious. Hence the loud rejoicing of passengers on sighting
Mombasa and Zanzibar and the speed with which they rush on shore at
those ports. At Dar es Salam the first freshness has worn off a little,
but the traveller nevertheless sets foot on dry land with an indefinable
feeling of relief.
[Illustration: LINDI BAY]
CHAPTER II
THE UNEXPECTED
LINDI, End of June, 1906.
Africa! Africa! When, in past years, men told me that in Africa it is no
use making plans of any sort beforehand, I always looked on this opinion
as the quintessence of stupidity; but after my recent experiences I am
quite in a position to appreciate its truth.
I must go back to the 11th of June. The two geographers and I had fixed
our departure northward for the 20th; after getting together the
necessary men and baggage we intended to take the steamer to Tanga, and
the Usambara railway from Tanga to Mombo, so as to start from the
Pangani Valley on our march across the Masai steppe to Kondoa-Irangi.
Our preparations were going on in the most satisfactory manner; and I
was one morning doing my best to hasten them in Traun, Stürken and
Devers’ stores, by exercising that persistency in bargaining which can
only be acquired by the director of an ethnographical museum. I had not
been listening to the conversation going on beside me between one of the
salesmen and a European officer of the Field Force; but suddenly the
name Kondoa-Irangi fell on my ear, and I was all attention on the
instant. “I suppose you are going home by the——to-morrow?” said one. “No
such luck! we are marching to-morrow afternoon. Didn’t I just say
there’s a rising in Iraku?” returned the other.
Kondoa-Irangi and Iraku concerned me closely enough to necessitate
farther inquiry. Half instinctively, I flung myself out at the door and
into the dazzling sunshine which flooded the street. At that moment
Captain Merker’s mule-waggon rattled up, and his voice reached me over
the woolly heads of the passers-by. “Stop, Dr. Weule, you can’t go to
Kondoa-Irangi.”
Though not in general endowed with presence of mind in any extraordinary
degree, I must in this instance have thought with lightning speed, for
no sooner had I taken my place beside Merker, in order to proceed
without loss of time to the Government offices and ask for fuller
explanations, than I had already gone through in my mind the various
possible alternatives, in case it turned out—as seemed probable—that I
had to give up all thought of the Irangi expedition. In those—to
me—critical days at Dar es Salam, there was no one acquainted with the
circumstances but would have said, “Get out! the Iraku rising is no
rising at all—it is a mere trifle, a quarrel about a couple of oxen, or
something of the sort—in any case an affair that will soon be settled.”
None the less I had to admit that the Acting Governor (Geheimrat Haber,
of whose unfailing kindness I cannot say enough) was right when he
pointed out that, while a geographer could traverse that district at his
ease, regardless of the four columns of the native Field Force
(_Schutztruppe_) marched into it, along roads converging from Moshi,
Mpapwa, Kilimatinde and Tabora respectively, the case was totally
different for an ethnographic expedition, which can only do its work in
a perfectly undisturbed country. This condition would not be attainable
up North for some time to come. Would it not be better to turn
southward, to the hinterland of Lindi and Mikindani? True, a rising had
taken place there not long ago, but it was now quite over, and the
Wamwera, more especially, had got a very effectual thrashing, so that
the tribes of that part would be unlikely to feel disposed for fresh
aggression just at present. At the same time, a comparatively large
force had marched into the South, both Field Force and police, and the
most important strategic points were strongly garrisoned, so that I
could be certain of getting a sufficient escort; while for the Manyara
country I could only reckon on a couple of recruits at the outside.
[Illustration: THE SS. _RUFIJI_, DRAWN BY BAKARI, A MSWAHILI]
My long-continued study of African races never rendered me a better
service than now. It can easily be understood that I knew less about the
new field of work suggested than about that which had been so rudely
snatched from me; but I was aware that it contained a conglomeration of
tribes similar to that found in the North; and I was also able to form a
fairly definite notion of the way in which I should have to plan and
carry out my new expedition, in order to bring it to a successful issue.
I refrained, however, from thinking out the new plan in detail—indeed, I
should have had no time to do so, for I had to be quick if I did not
wish to lose several weeks. The permission of the Geographical Committee
and of the Colonial Office was soon secured, my loads were packed; two
boys and a cook had been engaged long before. The little Government
steamer _Rufiji_ was to start for the South on the 19th of June. I
induced the Government to supply me on the spot with the only map of the
southern district at that time procurable, and with equal promptitude
the admirably-managed “_Central-Magazin_” had found me two dozen sturdy
Wanyamwezi porters. Other absolutely indispensable arrangements were
speedily disposed of, and before I had time to look round, I found
myself on board and steaming out of Dar es Salam Harbour.
[Illustration: VIEW NEAR THE MOUTH OF THE LUKULEDI ABOVE LINDI]
I had never for one moment cherished the illusion that a research
expedition was a pleasure-trip, but the three days and a quarter spent
on board the _Rufiji_ will remain a vivid memory, even should my
experience of the interior prove worse than I anticipate. My own want of
foresight is partly to blame for this. Instead of having a good
breakfast at the Dar es Salam Club before starting, I allowed the ship’s
cook to set before me some coffee, which in combination with the clammy,
ill-baked bread and rancid tinned butter would have proved an effectual
emetic even on dry land, and soon brought about the inevitable
catastrophe on board the little vessel madly rolling and pitching before
a stiff south-west monsoon. The _Rufiji_ and her sister ship the
_Rovuma_ are not, properly speaking, passenger steamers, but serve only
to distribute the mails along the coast and carry small consignments of
cargo. Consequently there is no accommodation for travellers, who have
to climb the bridge when they come on board, and live, eat, drink, and
sleep there till they reach their destination. This is all very well so
long as the numbers are strictly limited: there is just room at night
for two or three camp beds, an item which has to be brought with you in
any case, as without it no travel is possible in East Africa. But the
state of things when six or eight men, and perhaps even a lady, have to
share this space, which is about equal to that of a moderate-sized
room—the imagination dare not picture.
My own woes scarcely permitted me to think about the welfare of my men.
Moritz and Kibwana, my two boys and my cook, Omari, are travelled
gentlemen who yielded themselves with stoic calm to the motion of the
_Rufiji_, but my Wanyamwezi porters very soon lost their usual
imperturbable cheerfulness. They all came on board in the highest
spirits, boasting to the kinsmen they left behind at Dar es Salam of the
way in which they were going to travel and see the world. How the
twenty-four managed to find room in the incredibly close quarters of the
after-deck, which they had, moreover, to share with two or three horses,
is still a puzzle to me; they were sitting and lying literally on the
top of one another. As they were sick the whole time, it must, indeed,
have been a delightful passage for all of them.
There is something strangely rigid, immovable and conservative about
this old continent. We were reminded of this by the Lion of Cape
Guardafui, and now we find it confirmed even by the official regulations
of steamer traffic. The ancients, as we know, only sailed by day, and
savages, who are not very well skilled in navigation, always moor their
sea-going craft off shore in the evening. We Europeans, on the other
hand, consider it one of our longest-standing and highest achievements
to be independent both of weather and daylight in our voyages. To this
rule the _Rovuma_ and _Rufiji_ form one of the rare exceptions; they
always seek some sheltered anchorage shortly before sunset, and start
again at daybreak the next morning.
On the trip from Dar es Salam to Lindi and Mikindani—the South Tour, as
it is officially called—the first harbour for the night is Simba Uranga,
one of the numerous mouths of the great Rufiji river. The entrance to
this channel is not without charm. At a great distance the eye can
perceive a gap in the green wall of mangroves which characterizes the
extensive delta. Following the buoys which mark the fairway, the little
vessel makes for the gap, not swiftly but steadily. As we approach it
opens out—to right and left stretches the white line of breakers,
foaming over the coral reefs which skirt the coast of Eastern Equatorial
Africa—and, suddenly, one is conscious of having escaped from the open
sea and found refuge in a quiet harbour. It is certainly spacious
enough—the river flows, calm and majestic, between the green walls of
its banks, with a breadth of 600, or even 800 metres, and stretches away
into the interior farther than the eye can follow it. The anchorage is
about an hour’s steam up river. On the right bank stands a saw-mill,
closed some time ago: its forsaken buildings and rusting machinery
furnishing a melancholy illustration of the fallacious hopes with which
so many Colonial enterprises were started. Just as the sun sinks below
the horizon, the screw ceases its work, the anchor-chain rattles through
the hawse-holes, and the _Rufiji_ is made fast for the night. Her
furnace, which burns wood, is heated with mangrove logs, cut in the
forests of the Delta and stacked at this spot ready for transference on
board. This work is usually done under the superintendence of a
forester, whom I am sorry not to see, he being absent up country. His
life may be leisurely, but scarcely enviable; for we are speedily
surrounded, even out in mid-stream, by dense clouds of mosquitoes,
which, I fancy, will hardly be less abundant on land. The swabbing of
the decks on an ocean steamer, in the early morning, just at the time
when sleep is sweetest, is represented on the _Rufiji_ by the wooding in
the Simba Uranga River, and the shipping of cargo in the open roadstead
of Kilwa. In the two nights passed on board, I got very little sleep,
between the incessant bumping of loads thrown down on deck, and the
equally incessant yelling of the crew. There was little compensation for
this, either in the magnificent sunset witnessed on the Simba Uranga, or
the wonderfully impressive spectacle we enjoyed when steaming out in the
early morning. Nothing could have revived us but the fresh breeze of the
monsoon on the open sea. No sooner, however, were we outside than
Neptune once more demanded his tribute. I do not know whether a healthy
nervous system would have been affected by the _Rufiji’s_ mode of
stoking—and if so, how—but to us three sea-sick passengers, who had to
share the amenities of the bridge as far as Kilwa, it was simply
intolerable. Of the two boats, the _Rovuma_, at any rate, has a
digestion sufficiently robust to grapple with the thirty-inch lengths of
mangrove-wood, thrown into her furnaces just as they are. The _Rufiji_,
however, has a more delicate constitution, and can only assimilate food
in small pieces. With the first glimmer of daybreak, the heavy hammer,
wielded by the strong right arm of a muscular _baharia_, crashes down on
the steel wedge held in position by another native sailor on the first
of the mangrove logs. Blow after blow shakes the deck; the tough wood
creaks and groans; at last the first morsel has been chopped up for the
ravenous boiler, and the fragments describe a lofty parabola in their
flight into the tiny engine-room. Then comes another crash which makes
the whole boat vibrate,—and so on, hour after hour, throughout the whole
day. Not till evening do the men’s arms rest, and our sea-sick brains
hail the cessation of work with sincere thankfulness, for the continuous
rhythm of the hammer, which seems quite tolerable for the first hour,
becomes, in the eleven which follow it, the most atrocious torture.
My black followers behaved exactly as had been foretold to me by those
best acquainted with the race. At Dar es Salam each of the twenty-seven
had received his _posho_, _i.e._, the means of buying rations for four
days. At Simba Uranga, the _mnyampara_ (headman) came to me with a
request that I should buy more provisions for himself and his
twenty-three subordinates, as they had already eaten all they had. The
complete lack of purchasable supplies in the forest saved me the
necessity of a refusal,—as it also did in the case of Moritz, who, with
his refined tastes, insisted on having some fish, and whom, with a calm
smile, I projected down the bridge ladder. That is just like these
improvident children of the Dark Continent; they live in the present and
take no thought for the future—not even for to-morrow morning.
Accordingly, I had to spend a few more rupees at Kilwa, in order to
quiet these fellows, the edge of whose insatiable appetite had not been
blunted by sea-sickness. Kilwa—called Kilwa Kivinje, to distinguish it
from Kilwa Kisiwani, the old Portuguese settlement further south,—has
sad memories for us, connected with the Arab rising of 1888, when two
employees of the German East African Company met with a tragic death
through the failure of our fleet to interfere. The officers in command
have been severely blamed for this; but to-day, after examining for
myself the topography of the place, I find that the whole deplorable
business becomes perfectly intelligible. The shallowness of the water
off shore is such that European steamers have to anchor a long way out,
and the signals of distress shown by the two unfortunate men could not
have been seen.
Under normal circumstances three days is a pretty liberal allowance for
the run from Dar es Salam to Lindi by the _Rufiji_; but we did not
accomplish it in the time. South of Kilwa we lost the shelter afforded
us for the last two days by the island of Mafia and the countless little
coral reefs and islets, and consequently felt the full force of the
south wind. Being now the only passenger, I had plenty of room, but was
if possible more wretched than before, as the supply of oranges—the only
thing I felt the slightest inclination to eat—was exhausted. Soon after
midday the captain and mate began to study the chart with anxious looks.
“When shall we get to Lindi?” I asked wearily, from the depths of my
long chair.
An evasive answer. The afternoon wore on, and the view to starboard: a
white, curling line of breakers, backed by the wall of mangroves with
their peculiar green, still remained the same. The captain and mate were
still bending over their chart when the sun was nearing the horizon.
[Illustration: LINDI ROADSTEAD]
“Is that headland Cape Banura?” I asked, thinking that we were on the
point of entering Lindi Bay, which once seen can never be mistaken.
Another evasive answer made it quite clear to me that our two navigators
could not be very familiar with this part of the coast. In fact the
captain was quite a new-comer, and the mate was acting temporarily in
the place of a man on leave. As the sun was now fast setting, we ran
into the first convenient inlet, passed a quiet night there, and did the
last three or four hours to Lindi on the fourth day, without further
incident. Our harbour of refuge was Mchinga Bay, which was unknown to
the two seamen and to me—though not, as afterwards appeared, to the two
engineers. Unluckily it happened—as it always does when our countrymen
are cooped up together in a small space for any length of time—that
there was an implacable feud between the after-deck and the engine-room,
and the latter had not thought fit to enlighten the former as to the
ship’s position.
There is something solemn and awe-inspiring about the entrance to Lindi
Bay. As the vessel rounds Cape Banura, a mighty basin, perhaps nine
miles by three, spreads itself out before us. The green hills
surrounding it are not high, but yet by no means insignificant, and they
fall away in steep declivities to the sea, especially on the south side.
The _Rufiji_ looks a black speck on this glittering silvery expanse. The
little town of Lindi lies picturesquely enough among groves of
coco-palms and _Casuarina_, on a tongue of land formed by the shore at
the back of the rectangular bay and the left bank of a seemingly vast
river, which we can see penetrating into the country behind Lindi. The
geographer knows, however, that this mighty channel—from 800 to 1,200
yards broad—represents the estuary of the tiny Lukuledi, which at the
present day could not possibly fill such a bed. What we look upon as its
mouth is really the whole valley of a much older Lukuledi, now sunk
beneath the level of the Indian Ocean. All our harbours on this coast
have originated in the same way:—Dar es Salam, Kilwa Kisiwani, Lindi and
Mikindani are all flooded river-valleys. Africa with its unwieldy mass
looks dull enough, I admit, on the map; but examined at close quarters
the continent is interesting in all its parts, as we find even before we
have landed on its shores.
[Illustration: ARAB DHOW. DRAWN BY STAMBURI, A SOLDIER BELONGING TO THE
AWEMBA TRIBE]
[Illustration: CHAIN-GANG. DRAWN BY SALIM MATOLA, A MNYASA]
CHAPTER III
APPRENTICESHIP
_Lindi_, July 9, 1906.
Africa is the land of patience. All my predecessors had ample
opportunity for acquiring and exercising that virtue, and it seems that
I am not to be spared the necessary trials. After being nearly three
weeks inactive at Dar es Salam, to be detained for about the same period
in another coast town is rather too much, especially when the time for
the whole journey is so limited, and the best part of the year—the
beginning of the dry season—is passing all too quickly.
At Dar es Salam the paucity of steamer communication furnished the
reason for delay, while here at Lindi it is the absence of the District
Commissioner and the consequent lack of available police. The
authorities will not hear of my starting without an armed escort, but
soldiers are only to be had when Mr. Ewerbeck returns, so that I am
compelled, whether I like it or not, to await his arrival. Not that I
have found the waiting wearisome, either here or at Dar es Salam. The
latter place, with its varied population and numerous European
residents, would be novel and striking enough to attract the mere
tourist, while, for my own part, I had an additional interest in the
preparation for my future work. This consisted in seeing as much of the
natives as time permitted. Many a morning and afternoon have I spent in
their huts or yards, and succeeded in securing some good phonographic
records of the songs sung at _ngoma_ dances, besides numerous solos and
melodies played by members of various tribes on their national
instruments. On one occasion, indeed, the officials very kindly got up a
dance expressly for my convenience. Unfortunately all the cinematograph
negatives I took on that occasion were either blurred by shaking or
over-exposed, so that we had to be content with some tolerable
photographs of the peculiar dances, and the excellent phonographic
records of the songs. Of the dances and their accompaniments I shall
have more to say later.
[Illustration: WOMEN’S DANCE AT DAR ES SALAM]
My stay at Lindi has passed off less peacefully and agreeably than I had
hoped. A day or two after landing here, I had to witness the execution
of a rebel. Such a function can never be a pleasure to the chief
performer, however callous; but if, after the reading of the long
sentence in German and then in Swahili, the proceedings are lengthened
by such bungling in the arrangements as was here the case, it can be
nothing less than torture even to the most apathetic black. It is true
that, as a precautionary measure, a second rope had been attached to the
strong horizontal branch of the great tree which serves as a gallows at
Lindi; but when the condemned man had reached the platform it appeared
that neither of the two was long enough to reach his neck. The stoical
calm with which the poor wretch awaited the dragging up of a ladder and
the lengthening of one of the ropes was extremely significant as an
illustration of native character, and the slight value these people set
on their own lives.
Lindi forms a contrast to many other Coast towns, in that its interior
keeps the promise of the first view from outside. It is true that the
long winding street in which the Indians have their shops is just as
ugly—though not without picturesque touches here and there—as the
corresponding quarters in Mombasa, Tanga and Dar es Salam; but in the
other parts of the straggling little town, the native huts are all
embowered in the freshest of green. Two elements predominate in the life
of the streets—the _askari_ and the chain-gang—both being closely
connected with the rising which is just over. The greater part of
Company No. 3 of the Field Force is, it is true, just now stationed at
strategic points in the interior—at Luagala on the Makonde Plateau, and
at Ruangwa, the former seat of Sultan Seliman Mamba, far back in the
Wamwera country. In spite of this, however, there is enough khaki left
to keep up the numbers of the garrison. This colour is most conspicuous
in the streets in connection with the numerous chain-gangs, each guarded
by a soldier in front and another in the rear, which are to be met with
everywhere in the neighbourhood of the old police _Boma_ and the new
barracks of the Field Force. I realize now what nonsense has been talked
in the Reichstag about the barbarity of this method of punishment, and
how superficial was the knowledge of the negro’s psychology and his
sense of justice shown by the majority of the speakers. Though competent
writers—men who, through a long residence in the country, have become
thoroughly familiar with the people and their character—have again and
again pointed out that mere imprisonment is no punishment for the black,
but rather a direct recognition of the importance of his offence, their
words have fallen on deaf ears. We Germans cannot get away from our
stereotyped conceptions, and persist in meting out the same treatment to
races so different in character and habit as black and white. Of course
I do not mean to imply that a man can under any circumstances be
comfortable when chained to a dozen fellow-sufferers (even though the
chain, running through a large ring on one side of the neck, allows each
one a certain freedom of movement), if only on account of the
difficulties involved in the satisfaction of natural necessities. But
then people are not sent to the chain-gang in order to be comfortable.
[Illustration: SELIMAN MAMBA]
However, men guilty of particularly heinous crimes and those of
prominent social position enjoy the distinction of solitary confinement.
In the conversation of the few Europeans just now resident at Lindi, the
name of Seliman Mamba is of frequent occurrence. This man was the leader
of the rising in the coast region, but was ultimately captured, and is
now awaiting in the Lindi hospital the execution of the sentence
recently pronounced on him. As he has a number of human lives, including
those of several Europeans on his conscience, he no doubt deserves his
fate. As a historical personage who will probably long survive in the
annals of our Colony, I considered Seliman Mamba worthy of having his
features handed down to posterity, and therefore photographed him one
day in the hospital compound. The man was obviously ill, and could only
carry his heavy chain with the greatest difficulty. His execution, when
it takes place, as it shortly must, will be a release in every sense of
the word.
By far more agreeable than these “echoes of rebellion” are the results
of my scientific inquiries among my own men and the Swahilis. My
Wanyamwezi seem quite unable to endure inaction, and ever since our
second day at Lindi, they have been besieging me from early morning till
late at night with mute or even vocal entreaties to give them something
to do. This request I granted with the greatest pleasure,—I made them
draw to their heart’s content, and allowed them to sing into the
phonograph as often as opportunity offered. I have already discovered
one satisfactory result from our adventurous and—in one sense
calamitous—voyage in the _Rufiji_. My men have wrought their sufferings,
and their consequent treatment at the hands of the crew into a song
which they now delight in singing with much energy and a really pleasing
delivery. Here it is:—[4]
[Music:
Air A.
Tu-ku-ke-yu-la pa-ka kwe-u-pe Tu-ku-ke-yu-la mu me-ri, wa.
Air B.
wa, tu-ku-ti-a na nan-ga u-lu-ke-uw-one ta-bu, wa-wa, ta-bu ya-fu.
ma kwe-li ya-ku-wu-la-ga yu-ku-fu-lu mun-gu su-mi-rai yu wa-ki-ba-lu.]
The general drift of it is something like the following:—“We were on
board day and night, till the day dawned, and then cast anchor. The
_Baharia_ (sailors) on board said, ‘You _Washenzi_ (pagans, bush people)
from the interior, you will vomit yourselves to death.’ But we came safe
to Lindi after all, and said (to the sailors): ‘You mocked at God (by
saying that we should die), but we came safe to land.’”
This love of singing is characteristic of the Wanyamwezi. In the course
of my enforced detention here, I have taken many a photographic stroll,
in which my men are always eager to accompany me. On these occasions I
have to divide the small amount of apparatus necessary to be taken with
me among as many of them as possible, so that everyone may have
something to carry. It is never very long before Pesa mbili the
_Mnyampara_ or caravan headman, lifts up his voice—a very good one
too—whereupon the chorus promptly falls in in excellent time. I may here
give a specimen of these little marching songs:—
Kabowe kabowe ku meso; Namuki kabowe ku meso. (1)
Wambunga kabowe ku meso; Namuki kabowe ku meso.
Ki! kabowe ku meso; Wamwera kabowe ku meso.
Ki! kabowe ku meso; Wakumbwa kabowe ku meso.
(1) We shoot with our eyes—we shoot the Namuki with our eyes,
The Wambunga, we shoot them with our eyes—the Namuki, we shoot them
with our eyes;
Bang! we shoot with our eyes—the Wamwera, we shoot them with our
eyes;
Bang! we shoot with our eyes—the Wakumbwa—we shoot them with our
eyes.
To judge by the words of this song, the Wanyamwezi must be exceedingly
loyal to the German Government, for they march against all the
rebellious southern tribes in turn and annihilate them. The Namuki are
identical with the Majimaji, the insurgents of 1905–6. The time is a
frantic recitative which makes a reproduction in our notation
impossible. The exclamation “_ki_” conveys, according to the unanimous
testimony of Pesa mbili and the most intelligent among his friends, the
expression of the force with which the Rugaruga (the auxiliaries) smash
the skulls of the wounded enemy, even though it should have to be done
with a stamp of the heel. At every repetition of the _ki_ the singers
stamp on the ground so that it quivers—so completely can these peaceable
Northerners throw themselves into all the horrors of the late rising;
one can almost hear the skulls crash at every _ki_. This song of
defiance is certainly not an original composition of my people’s, but
has been borrowed by them from some of their tribesmen who served in the
last campaign as Rugaruga and are now lounging about Lindi out of work.
I have been obliged to engage some of these men as carriers for the
march to Masasi; they are in their whole behaviour much more decided and
defiant than my gentle grown-up children from Dar es Salam, so that I
shall be glad to get rid of them when my destination is reached. I think
the above song must belong to them.
Now that I am on the subject I will reproduce a march of the Sudanese
soldiers which in its meaning closely resembles the one just given. This
was sung into the phonograph for me by _Sol_ (Sergeant-Major) Achmed Bar
Shemba and a couple of divisions from the third company of the Field
Force by order of that excellent African veteran, Captain Seyfried. The
little non-com. stood like a bronze statue in front of the machine, and
the gaunt brown warriors from Darfur and Kordofan closed up behind him,
as if they had been on the drill-ground, in two ranks, each man
accurately behind the one in front. We had no little trouble in making
them take up the wedge formation necessary to produce the desired
effect. The song runs thus:—
[Music:
Solo. (Air A) Chorus (Air A)
daim o daim al-lah al-la-ho daim al-lah daim o daim al-lah al-la-ho
daim al-lah
Solo. (A) Chorus
daim o daim al-lah al-la-ho daim al-lah daim o daim al-lah al-la-ho
daim al-lah
Solo. (B) Chorus
daim o daim al-lah al-la-ho daim al-lah daim o daim al-lah al-la-ho
daim al-lah
Solo. (A) Chorus
daim o daim al-lah al-la-ho daim al-lah daim o daim al-lah al-la-ho
daim al-lah
Solo. (B’) Chorus
Jum-be sa-ne pis al-lah al-la-ho daim al-lah daim o daim al-lah
al-la-ho daim al-lah
Solo. (B’) Chorus
Jum-be sa-ne pis al-lah al-la-ho daim al-lah daim o daim al-lah
al-la-ho daim al-lah
Solo. (B’) Chorus
Jum-be sa-ne pis al-lah al-la-ho daim al-lah daim o daim al-lah
al-la-ho daim al-lah
Solo. (A) Chorus
daim o daim al-lah al-la-ho daim al-lah daim o daim al-lah al-la-ho
daim al-lah
Solo. (B) Chorus
daim o daim al-lah al-la-ho daim al-lah daim o daim al-lah al-la-ho
daim al-lah
Solo. (B’) Chorus
Jum-be sa-ne pis al-lah al-la-ho daim al-lah daim o daim al-lah
al-la-ho daim al-lah
Solo. (B’) Chorus
Jum-be sa-ne pis al-lah al-la-ho daim al-lah daim o daim al-lah
al-la-ho daim al-lah]
[Illustration: YAO WOMEN AT MTUA]
The singers, who are principally Nubians, state that this song is in
their mother tongue, the Darfur dialect. I have not yet succeeded in
obtaining a literal translation. The general meaning of the words, which
are sung with enviable lung-power and indefatigable energy, is somewhat
as follows:
“We are always strong. The Jumbe (headman) has been hanged by the
command of Allah. Hongo (one of the insurgent leaders) has been hanged
by the command of Allah.”
Thus much as to the results of my musical inquiries so far as they
concern the foreign elements (foreign, that is to say, here at Lindi) of
the Wanyamwezi and Nubians. I have obtained some records of _ngoma_
songs from Yaos and other members of inland tribes, but I cannot tell
for the present whether they are a success, as I find to my
consternation that my cylinders are softening under the influence of the
damp heat, so that I can take records, but cannot risk reproducing them
for fear of endangering the whole surface. A cheerful prospect for the
future!
Very interesting from a psychological point of view is the behaviour of
the natives in presence of my various apparatus. The camera is, at any
rate on the coast, no longer a novelty, so that its use presents
comparatively few difficulties, and the natives are not particularly
surprised at the results of the process. The only drawback is that the
women—as we found even at Dar es Salam—usually escape being photographed
by running away as fast as their legs will carry them. The cinematograph
is a thing utterly outside their comprehension. It is an _enchini_, a
machine, like any other which the _mzungu_, the white man, has brought
into the country—and when the said white turns a handle on the little
black box, counting at the same time, in a monotonous rhythm,
“Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-one, twenty-two,” the native may be
pleasantly reminded of the droning measures which he is accustomed to
chant at his work; but what is to be the result of the whole process he
neither knows nor cares.
[Illustration: GIRLS FROM LINDI]
The phonograph, on the contrary, is an _enchini_ after the very heart,
not only of the black man, but even of the black woman. If I should live
to the age of Methuselah the scene in Mr. Devers’s compound at Dar es
Salam will always remain one of the most delightful recollections
connected with my stay in Africa. After spending some time in the native
quarter, watching the dances of various tribes—here a Manyema _ngoma_,
there one of the Wazaramo, or yonder again that of some coast people’s
club, and observing the costumes of the performers, sometimes hideous
but always picturesque, I returned to my own quarters, at the head of a
procession numbering some hundreds of the dancers, male and female, in
order to take down the audible part of the proceedings. Everything had
gone off in the most satisfactory way; but every time I changed the
diaphragms, took out the recorder and put in the reproducer, when the
full-voiced melody poured forth from the mysterious funnel in exactly
the same time and with the precise timbre which had been sung into
it—what measureless and at the same time joyful astonishment was painted
on the brown faces, all moist and shining with their exertions in
singing and dancing! Whenever this happened, all the more
unsophisticated souls joined in the chorus, to be speedily enlightened
by the derisive laughter of the more “educated” element.
But the most delightful instance of _naiveté_ came at the close of the
proceedings, after I had used up my small stock of Swahili idioms in
expressing my pleasure at a successful afternoon. Two women, who had
previously attracted my notice by their tremendous vocal power, as well
as by the elegance of their attire, came forward again; and, as the
crowd fell back, leaving a clear space in front of the phonograph, first
one and then the other approached the apparatus, dropped a curtsy in the
finest Court style, and waving her hand towards the mouthpiece said,
“_Kwa heri, sauti yangu!_”—“Good-bye, my voice!” This incident
illustrates the way in which the native mind cannot get away from what
is most immediately obvious to the senses. In the very act of uttering
their farewell, these two women could hear for themselves that they had
not lost their voices in the least, and yet because they had a moment
ago, heard them distinctly coming out of the phonograph, they regarded
themselves as deprived of them from that instant, and solemnly took
leave of them.
As to my inquiries into the artistic aptitudes of the natives, I prefer
to give the results in a connected form later on, when I shall have
brought together a larger amount of material on which to form a
judgment. So much, however, I can say even now: _c’est le premier pas
qui coûte_ is true, not only for the executant artist but also for the
investigator. At Dar es Salam, the matter was simpler. My “boy” Kibwana
(literally, “the Little Master”), a youth of the Wazegeju tribe from
Pangani, though, like Omari the cook (a Bondei from the north of the
colony), he had never had a pencil or a piece of paper in his hand
before, had been too long in the service of Europeans to venture any
objections when desired to draw something for me—say the palm in front
of my window, or my piece of India-rubber. He set to work, and
cheerfully drew away, with no anxieties as to the artistic value to be
expected from the result.
In the case of my Wanyamwezi, with whom I have made a beginning here, in
order to give them something to do, a mere order is of little use. If I
put a sketch-book and pencil into the hands of one of my followers with
the invitation to draw something, the inevitable answer is a perplexed
smile and an embarrassed “_Sijui, bwani_”—“I don’t know how, sir.” Then
one has to treat the man according to his individuality—with an
energetic order, or a gentle request; but in every case I found that the
best plan was to approach him on the side of his ambition. “Why, you’re
a clever fellow, you know—a _mwenyi akili_—just look at your friend Juma
over there—he is not nearly as clever as you—and yet, see how he can
draw! Just sit down here and begin drawing Juma himself!” This subtle
flattery proved irresistible to all but a few, who, despite everything I
could say by way of encouragement, stuck to it that they could not do
what was wanted. The rest are like the lion who has once tasted blood:
they are insatiable, and if I had brought two dozen sketch-books with
me, they would all be continuously in use. I found that, instead of
leaving the beginner to choose his own subject, it was a better plan (as
it is also educationally a sounder one) to suggest in the first instance
something quite familiar—a Nyamwezi hut, a fowl, a snake, or the like.
Then one finds that they set to work with some confidence in themselves,
and that they are inordinately proud of their masterpieces, if their
mzungu gives them the smallest word of praise. It is obvious that I
should never dream of finding fault—my object being, not criticism with
a view to improvement, but merely the study of the racial aptitudes and
the psychological processes involved in artistic production.
[Illustration: RUINED TOWER, LINDI (BUILT BY THE PORTUGUESE)]
My way of getting at the latter is to stipulate that each of my
draughtsmen, as soon as he feels that his degree of proficiency entitles
him to a reward, is to show me his work. Then comes a _shauri_[5]
usually of long duration, but extremely amusing for both parties. “What
is this?” I ask, pointing with my pencil to what looks a perplexing
complication of lines. “_Mamba_—a crocodile,” comes the answer, either
with a slight undertone of indignant astonishment at the European who
does not even know a crocodile when he sees it, or somewhat dejectedly
on finding the work to be so unsuccessful that even the omniscient
_mzungu_ cannot tell what it is meant for. “Oh! a crocodile—very good!”
I reply, and write the word beside the drawing. “Yes,” the artist never
fails to add, “but it is a _mamba_ of Unyamwezi,” or “of Usagara,” or
“in the Ngerengere,” as the case may be. One is brought up short by this
information, and asks, “Why? How so?” and then comes a long story in
explanation. This is a crocodile which the artist and his friends (here
follow their names in full), saw on the march from Tabora to the coast
with such and such a European, and which came very near being the death
of him at the crossing of such and such a swamp, or of the Ngerengere
river. When writing down the first few of these commentaries, I did not
pay any special attention to the fact of their always being connected
with a particular incident; but now, after having acquired a large
collection of drawings representing either single objects (animals,
plants, implements, etc.), or scenes from native life, it has become
clear to me that the African is incapable of drawing any object in the
abstract, so to speak, and apart from its natural surroundings—or indeed
from some particular surroundings in which he has met with it on some
particular occasion. If he is told to draw a Mnyamwezi woman he draws
his own wife, or at any rate some relative or personal acquaintance, and
if he is to draw a hut, he proceeds in exactly the same way, and depicts
his own or his neighbour’s. Just so with the _genre_ pictures, which are
not such in our sense of the word, but might almost be termed a species
of historical painting. I have already a whole series of sketches
representing a lion springing on a cow, or a hyæna attacking a man, or
some similar scene from the life-struggle of the higher organisms, and
the explanation is always something like this:—“This is a lion, and this
is a cow, but the cow belonged to my uncle and the lion carried it off
about four years ago. And this is a hyæna, and this man is my
friend—say, Kasona—who was taken ill on the march from Tabora to Mwanza
and had to stay behind, and the hyæna came and was going to bite him,
but we drove it away and saved Kasona.”
These are only one or two specimens of my methods and results. I am
convinced that I am on the right tack, though no doubt I shall make many
mistakes and need much additional experience.
My dynamometer, which did such excellent service on board the Red Sea
steamer in promoting friendly international relations, has not lost its
virtue here. When I am at the end of my resources for amusing my men and
the friends whom they have gathered round them since our arrival in
Lindi, I put the steel oval into the hand of honest Pesa mbili, who, of
course, must have the precedence in everything. He presses it, and then,
with the whole troop of his black friends crowding round, gazes with the
greatest excitement at the dial, as if he could read the mysterious
signs engraved on the brass arc. When I have glanced at the scale and
announced the result—of course the numbers only, as the kilogrammes
would merely serve to perplex them—it is received with a certain quite
comprehensible feeling of doubt; they do not yet know if the number
means much or little, having no standard of comparison. The second man
begins to excite interest; if, instead of his predecessor’s 35
kilogrammes, he can only reach 30, he is greeted by mildly derisive
laughter, but if he excels his rival, he is a _mwenyi nguvu_—a strong
man, worthy of the tribute of admiration which he receives with smiling
dignity.
So each man takes his turn, and they will go on for hours without
tiring. One thing only is felt by the more intelligent to be wanting—it
interests them to know which among themselves is the strongest or
weakest, but in order to get a higher and absolute standard of
comparison, they are all eagerness to know what their lord and master
can do. Of course I am willing to oblige them, at the close of the
meeting, and press the instrument, first in my right hand and then in my
left. When they hear the result (which, to my great satisfaction,
requires no cooking), a unanimous “_A-ah! bwana mkubwa!_” bursts from
the admiring circle—literally, “Ah! Great master!”—but about equivalent
to, “What a giant you are for strength!”
[Illustration: UNDER THE PALMS]
In fact we Europeans, as far as the _spontaneous_ putting forth of
strength goes, are as giants compared with the African. I made fairly
careful records of the figures for each man, not once only, but in
several successive trials, so that no allowance need be made for novelty
or want of practice, but how inferior they are to us! None of them could
compass a greater pressure than 35 kilos with the right hand and 26 with
the left, with the exception of one man who attained to something over
40 kilos; while I, even here in the damp heat of the coast region can
still manage over 60 with the right and over 50 with the left. And yet
nearly all my men are professional carriers, sturdy fellows with
tremendous chest-measurement, broad shoulders and splendidly developed
upper arm muscles. What they lack, as has so often been pointed out, is
the power of concentrating the strength of the whole body at a given
moment of time. These very Wanyamwezi are famous for their almost
incredible powers of endurance.
The natives thus, as a whole, indisputably present a picture not without
attractions from a psychological point of view; but in the six weeks or
so which I have by this time spent on the coast, the Europeans have
appeared to me almost more interesting still. Dar es Salam is so large
and contains so many of our race that the new-comer does not have the
contrasts between black and white forced on his notice, while the
contrasts to be found among the white population are less observable on
the wider field of a large settlement. Lindi, being very much smaller,
leaves no room for either possibility; in the narrowness of its
environment and the monotony of its life, there is nothing to modify the
shock of contrasted and clashing individualities, and in such a place
one sees with startling clearness the enormously powerful and rapid
effect of residence in the tropics on the mental balance of a foreign
race. It does not belong to my office to point to the—to say the least
of it, curious—excrescences of our German class and caste spirit, which
here, in a circle of Europeans numbering a dozen or less, brings forth
singularly unpleasant fruits. I need not relate how the military
element, recently “dethroned” by the establishment of a civil
administration, looks down with a superior smile on the officials of
that administration, or how the intrusion of the personal element into
affairs cuts off every possibility of social intercourse, and, what is
worse, of cordial cooperation in common work. To the new-comer,
expressing his astonishment at such a state of things, old residents say
(with a coolness contrasting strangely with their usual state of chronic
irritation): “What do you expect?—this is not the only place where
things are so—you will find it the same everywhere!” So it seems to be,
if I may judge by all I have heard during these instructive weeks; but
one may hope that this disagreeable phenomenon is only one of the many
infantile diseases incidental to the early stages in the life of every
colony. One thing, however, which I absolutely fail to understand is the
furious fits of rage to which every white man who has lived long in the
country appears to be subject. I am doing my best in the meantime to go
on my way without calling of names or boxing of ears, but everyone is
agreed in assuring me that I shall learn better in the course of the
next few months. I cannot judge for the present whether life is really
impossible without thrashing people—but I hope it is not the case.
In order not to dwell exclusively on the darker traits characteristic of
Europeans in the tropics, I must mention the admirable gifts of
household management possessed by most of them. Dar es Salam is so far a
centre of civilization as to possess bakers, butchers, and shops of all
kinds in plenty, yet even there I fancy that the office of mess
president is by no means a sinecure. But who shall describe how the
unlucky bachelor in a remote coast town has to rack his brains in order
to set before his messmates—not merely something new, but anything at
all! Only experience can teach how far in advance one has to provide for
all the thousand-and-one trifles which are inseparable from our
housekeeping. The price alone makes it impossible to depend to any great
extent on tinned goods, and it becomes necessary to have sufficient
stores on hand to last for days—sometimes for weeks and months, and, in
addition, to concoct eatable dishes out of the wild herbs which the cook
and kitchen-boy bring in. On the coast some variety is secured by the
abundance of good fish; in the interior this resource fails. And when it
happens—as it does just now—that even the standard typical bird of
Africa, the domestic fowl, and its product, the egg, are not to be had,
then the case is desperate indeed, and catering for a large number of
people becomes a serious problem.
It is remarkable, however, how skilled even the most inveterate
bachelors among the German residents are in solving this problem—not
always with elegance, and certainly not always to the satisfaction of
their critical predecessors in office, but yet so as to fill the novice
at any rate with astonished admiration. Dr. Franz Stuhlmann, who
accompanied Emin Pasha on his last disastrous journey—a thoroughly
competent ethnographer and the guardian and cherisher of the African
plant-world, so far as it can be adapted to the service of man—has long
been a celebrity in the culinary department throughout the whole Colony.
Stuhlmann has the reputation of being able to prepare a dainty dish from
every weed that grows beside the native path; he is a walking
encyclopædia of tropical cookery. Others are less proficient than this,
but I cannot yet get over my astonishment at the way in which Captain
Seyfried, for instance, can produce something eatable out of the most
elementary ingredients, at his achievements in salting and pickling, at
the unimpeachable jellies he contrives to serve up even at the present
temperature, and at the variety which always characterizes his bill of
fare.
I must here make an end, once for all, of one fallacy prevalent at home.
“Why, you surely cannot eat anything in that heat!” is a remark which
never fails to occur in any conversation having the tropics for its
subject, but which betrays a complete misconception of the conditions.
In the first place, the heat is not so unendurable as commonly supposed
by us—at any rate during the dry season, on the coast, where a fresh
sea-breeze always blows by day. But, in addition to this, the waste of
tissue goes on much more rapidly in tropical than in temperate climates.
Not even the new-comer is surprised to see “old Africans” consuming an
extensive “first breakfast” at a very early hour, in which various
preparations of meat figure, though fruit is also conspicuous. At midday
even a minor official never thinks of less than two courses and dessert,
and in the evening after office hours, all ranks and professions go in
for a repast which at home would certainly rank as a public banquet.
This seemingly luxurious mode of life, however, by no means deserves the
reprehension one may feel inclined to bestow on it. On the contrary, it
is physiologically both justifiable and necessary, if the body is to
offer permanent resistance to the deleterious influence of the climate.
The new-comer is not surprised by the appetite of others because,
unconsciously, he shares it. Personally, though I wield quite a
creditable knife and fork at home, my performances out here would make
me the terror of most German housewives.
The only article of diet I do not get on with is alcohol. At home I can
appreciate a glass of beer or wine, and on board the _Prinzregent_ we
passengers levied a pretty heavy toll on the supplies of “Münchener” and
“Pilsener”; but since I landed in this country I have taken no beer at
all and wine only in very small quantities, while I have been quite
unable to acquire a taste for whisky and soda, the national drink of all
Germans in East Africa. Such abstinence is easily understood at Lindi,
where there is no ice to be had; but even at Dar es Salam, where
Schultz’s brewery supplies the whole town with ice every day, I found I
had no taste for alcoholic beverages. This is a great advantage as
regards my journey into the interior, as I am saved the inconvenience of
taking loads of bottles with me.
I am glad to say that my enforced detention on the coast is nearing its
end. Commissioner Ewerbeck, who returned from the interior a few days
ago, is most kindly willing to start again with me to-morrow, so as to
escort me with a detachment of police through the Wamwera country—the
scene of the late rising—as far as Masasi. He has still work to do in
the Central Lukuledi Valley, for, though most of the insurgent leaders
have long ago been captured and adorn the streets of Lindi in the shape
of chain-gangs, the pursuit of others is still going on and will yet
cost many a _shauri_. From Masasi, Mr. Ewerbeck will have to return
immediately to Lindi, in time for the formal reception of the delegates
from the Reichstag, who are to visit the south of the Colony next month,
on their much-discussed tour through East Africa.
My first glimpse of the interior, by the bye, has hardly been a pleasant
one. In the course of the riding-lessons which Captain Seyfried has been
giving me, we one evening made an excursion to the Kitulo. This is a
long, fairly precipitous range of heights, about 570 feet above
sea-level, rising immediately behind Lindi and separating the narrow
sandy plain on which the town stands from the back country. A landmark
of our civilization—a tower built for the sake of the view—was, some
years ago, erected on the top of this Kitulo. When I ascended it by the
help of a somewhat decrepit ladder, the sun had already set, and the
whole western landscape—precisely the part of the Dark Continent which I
wish to penetrate within the next few days—lay extended before me as a
dark, menacing shadow. For one moment my mind was clouded by gloomy
forebodings, but I speedily recalled my old luck which has never yet
forsaken me. “Never mind—I’ll get the better of you yet!” I exclaimed,
_sotto voce_, as I lit a new cigar with the utmost philosophy, and
mounted my mule for the return journey.
[Illustration: THE LIKWATA DANCE BEING PHOTOGRAPHED BY THE AUTHOR. DRAWN
BY PESA MBILI, THE MNYAMWEZI HEADMAN]
CHAPTER IV
FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF THE INTERIOR
MASASI, July 20, 1906.
Few people, I fancy, will know where Masasi is, yet those interested in
the Colonies might well be acquainted with its situation, for in its own
small way it is quite a civilizing centre. The English Mission[6] has
been at work here for nearly the third of a century, and, since the
suppression of the rebellion, a native corporal with a dozen black
German soldiers has been gallantly maintaining his ground, in a _boma_
specially built for the purpose, in case of any renewed warlike impulses
on the part of the interior tribes.
I preferred to take up my quarters with the soldiers, not from any
hostility to religion, but because the two clergymen at the mission
station, about an hour’s walk from us, are both advanced in years, and
it would be unfair to trouble them with visitors. Besides their station
was burnt down during the rebellion, so that they are leading for the
moment a more idyllic than agreeable life in their former cattle-shed.
In spite of this, the two old gentlemen, as I had every opportunity of
convincing myself in the course of two long visits, enjoy
extraordinarily good health. Archdeacon Carnon, the younger of the two,
in particular, took as lively an interest in the German Emperor and his
family as if he lived in a London suburb, instead of in a negro village
at the ends of the earth. Canon Porter seems to be failing a little, but
this is only to be expected as he is getting on for eighty and has been
in the country nearly thirty years.[7] In former days I understand that
he studied the ethnology of his district (inhabited by Wanyasa, Wayao,
and Wamakonde) very thoroughly, so that up to yesterday I had great
hopes of profitable results from my intercourse with him and his more
active colleague. But in this I was disappointed. At the ceremonious,
and, I must say, sumptuous breakfast which the two clerical gentlemen
set before us two worldlings, Ewerbeck and me, whenever I began to speak
about the inhabitants of the neighbourhood and their tribal affinities,
the conversation was invariably diverted towards the Emperor and his
family! He must have made a truly extraordinary impression on other
nations.
However, our business is with the native African, not with the white
intruder, even though he should come in the peaceful guise of the
missionary.
My landing at Lindi of itself implied the main course of my journey. A
glance at the map of East Africa shows that the extreme south-eastern
corner of our colony, considered with regard to population, stands out
like an island from the almost uninhabited country surrounding it. The
region north of the Middle, and partly also of the Upper Rovuma is (as
Lieder, the geologist, whose early death is such a loss to science,
described it) a silent _pori_ for hundreds of miles, extending far
beyond the Umbekuru and into the hinterland of Kilwa—an uninhabited
wilderness, where not a single native village speaks of the large and
peaceable population found here by Roscher, Livingstone and Von Der
Decken nearly half-a-century ago. Only a narrow strip running parallel
to the coast some distance inland connects this island of population
with the north, while another, much more scantily peopled, runs up the
Rovuma to the Nyasa country.
[Illustration: MAKUA WOMEN FROM THE LUKULEDI VALLEY]
[Illustration: A MAN OF THE MWERA TRIBE AND A YAO]
Being thus cut off from surrounding tribes, the south-east—_i.e._, the
Makonde Plateau, the Lukuledi Valley north of it, and the wide plain to
the west of these highlands—forms a compact, well-defined whole, an
ideal sphere of work for one who, like myself, has only a limited time
at his disposal, but wishes the work done in this time to be as far as
possible complete. The Wamwera, whom I had in view in the first
instance, have had, to my great regret, to be postponed for the present.
I left Lindi on July 11th, with the Imperial District Commissioner, Mr.
Ewerbeck. Ngurumahamba, the first noticeable place on the Lukuledi road,
still bears the impress of the Coast—there is even a stone house among
the huts of the Waswahili; but on the second day we reach the Yao tribe
at Mtua. Here we first come in touch with the far interior, for these
are the advance guard of the great migration which brought this vigorous
and energetic race about the middle of the last century from its old
home south-east of Lake Nyasa towards the shores of the Indian Ocean,
and which is still going on. As to the way in which these migrations are
accomplished, we are apt to be misled by the picture—no doubt a very
incorrect one—which has remained in our minds from our school-days, in
connection with the migration _par excellence_—the great westward
movement of our own forefathers. We think of men, horses, and waggons, a
dense, compact wave of people, rolling on slowly but irresistibly across
the countries lying in its track. Here we find nothing of the sort. It
is true that these Mtua Yaos are not typical of their tribe in this
respect, as they were rescued from the Wangoni, further north, on the
eastern shore of Nyasa, about ten years ago by Captain Engelhardt, and
transferred to this settlement. But otherwise the immigration of foreign
(though still African) elements takes place, here in the south, quietly
and almost imperceptibly—a band, a horde, a group of families,
sometimes, but not always, under the command of a chief, appears one
fine day, hoes a piece of land at a suitable place in the _pori_, builds
a few airy huts, and the immigration is complete. Conflicts, more or
less sanguinary, between the aborigines and the intruders may have
occurred—may even have been the rule—in former times; nothing of the
kind seems to happen to-day. Whether the native has become more
tolerant, or the firm hand of the German Government, to whom every
accession of population must be welcome, has produced a change in his
views, I am compelled to leave undecided.
In outward appearance these Yaos can scarcely be distinguished from the
Swahilis of the coast. The women are dressed in precisely the same kind
of _kanga_ (calico printed in brightly-coloured patterns, and
manufactured in Holland), as the Coast women, though not so neatly and
fashionably as the girls at Dar es Salam, where the patterns in vogue
change faster than even at Paris. They also wear the same coquettish
little pin in the left nostril as the Coast ladies. Of Indian origin,
this _kipini_, called _chipini_ in Yao, has conquered the whole east
coast of Africa, and is spreading, as a symbol of higher culture and
refinement, among the more progressive tribes of the interior. In its
simplest form a mere cylinder of pith, the better specimens are
made—according to the means of the wearer—of ebony, tin, or silver. The
ebony pins are almost always very tastefully inlaid with tin. To our
notions, the _chipini_ hardly beautifies the human countenance; but once
the beholder is accustomed to its effect, it becomes quite pretty and
attractive, lending a coquettish touch to the brown face it adorns.
[Illustration: RUINS OF NYANGAO MISSION STATION]
The more distant hinterland inhabited by the Wamwera contrasts very
unfavourably with the well-cultivated zone near the coast. The condition
of Nyangao, the Benedictine Mission station, is a symptom of all the
misery which the rebellion so short-sightedly conjured up by the natives
has brought on this part of Africa. Up to the summer of 1905, the
Fathers and Sisters here were peacefully engaged in their work of
evangelizing and teaching, when the poison of the _majimaji_ (magic
water) idea spread to the Rondo Plateau and the central Lukuledi Valley.
Before the unsuspicious missionaries had even any thought of coming
disaster, it was already upon them. After fighting desperately for their
lives, and losing one of the Sisters, the whole staff had to fly, and
all the extensive buildings were destroyed by the rebels. The present
state of Nyangao is shown in the accompanying photograph. Three of the
Fathers (whose acquaintance I had the pleasure of making on board the
_Prinzregent_), have ventured back to their old station, and, living in
the house formerly occupied by the Sisters, surrounded by heaps of
ruins, have courageously and indefatigably taken up their work once
more.
The _Majimaji_ rebellion still forms the principal topic of conversation
at native camp-fires, though the Lindi District has long been at peace
again. Its origin belongs to the most interesting phenomena in military
history, showing, as it does, the general and almost instantaneous
amalgamation of the severed fragments of a race under the influence of a
superstitious notion, once it has gained a hold and welded them into a
unit animated by a common and fervid enthusiasm. So far as one can
gather at present, the idea underlying the rising was that of shaking
off the white man’s yoke by means of a concerted effort on the part of
the whole native population. Without _dawa_, _i.e._, charms of some
sort, such a rising would have been difficult, if not impossible to
bring about, and thus the instigators of this disastrous war had
recourse to the _dawa_ of the “magic water.” As to this, several
versions are current. According to one, the real ringleader was a man
living near the Pangani Rapids on the Rufiji, who taught that he was
commissioned by the Almighty, and communicated with Him by means of a
serpent which had its abode in the river. This serpent had told him to
make all the men drink the water of the hot springs at Kimambare, which
would give them strength and courage to drive the Germans into the sea,
and at the same time render them invulnerable to European bullets.
The other version current in Usagara, in the north of the Colony, says
nothing of the serpent or the hot water, but states that the sorcerers
began by ordering large beer-drinkings in every village. When the
_pombe_ had produced its effect, the villagers were initiated into the
conspiracy, and received their _dawa_, of whose composition no details
are given, but which, in this case also, was supposed to possess the
power of making them invulnerable, so that the bullets of the Germans
would simply be changed into water as soon as they left the
rifle-barrel. The Majimaji soon discovered, in the course of numerous
battles that this was not the case, but nevertheless, the fanaticism of
these natives, who, under a murderous fire, charged up to within a
spear’s length of the machine-guns—the _bumbum_, as they call them—is
truly astonishing.
From the coast to a little beyond Nyangao the character of the
vegetation is essentially different from that which we find farther
west. The greater part of the road (the _barabara_, in the carriers’
jargon, that is to say, the path cut to the regulation width on which
all the long-distance traffic takes place) runs as far as Nyangao
through thick scrub from 10 to 15 feet high, from which rise here and
there single trees of twice or three times that height. Several times in
the course of the day’s march the traveller comes across large open
spaces in the bush on either side of the path. It is clear from the
absence of underwood and the presence of charred stumps that this is old
cultivated ground—no doubt the sites of former villages. But where are
the huts and where the people who once hoed their gardens here? Here we
find a typical touch of African history, more especially in recent
times, when its primitive conditions have been modified by the modern
plantation system with its demand for labour and the necessity for a
native military force. Originally and in himself the African is by no
means shy, on the contrary, he is inquisitive and fully alive to the
attractions of town life and social intercourse. But he cannot stand
having his private affairs interfered with. Every caravan of inland
natives on their way to the coast, whether to sell their supplies of
wax, tobacco or what not, or to engage themselves as labourers to some
European, considered that they had a natural right to expect food and
drink from the villagers along their route. Even the caravan of a white
man is apt to make the same sort of demands on the villagers. How often
have I seen my men scatter at every halt, to ask for some service or
other—perhaps merely the loan of a gourd dipper—at one or other of the
straggling huts, which may be half-a-mile apart. However good-natured
and obliging the native may be, he cannot put up with an indefinite
continuance of such disturbances to the quiet of his home life, and
therefore prefers to pull down his huts and build new ones in the bush
at a distance from the main road, where they can only be reached by
narrow side paths.
Anthropologically speaking, one might take the Wamwera for Indians, such
is the lustrous copper tone of their skins. At first I thought that this
marked redness of tint was a peculiarity of the tribe, but have since
met with many individuals of exactly the same shade among the Makua of
Hatia’s, Nangoo and Chikugwe, and a few among the Yaos at this place and
those at Mtua, and Mtama. In fact, it seems to me very difficult to do
any really satisfactory anthropological work here—the types are too much
mixed, and it is impossible to tell from any man’s features the tribe to
which he belongs. Probably, indeed, there is no distinction of race at
all, for Wamwera, Wangindo, Wayao, Makonde, Matambwe and Makua alike
belong to the great sub-group of the East African Bantu. This is one
additional reason, when time is so precious, for giving to anthropology
even less attention than I had originally planned. Let the gentlemen
come out here themselves with their measuring instruments, compasses and
poles—we ethnographers have more urgent work to attend to.
The Wamwera are just now in a deplorable condition. The whole of this
tribe was concerned in the rising, and though refusing to acknowledge
defeat in battle after battle, were ultimately forced to take refuge in
the bush. The mere fact of living for months without shelter in the
rainy season would of itself cause suffering enough; and when we add
that they have had no harvest, being unable to sow their crops at the
beginning of the rains, it can readily be understood that numbers must
have perished. Now that most of the ringleaders have been secured and
sent down to the coast, the survivors are gradually coming forth from
their hiding-places. But what a spectacle do the poor creatures present!
encrusted more thickly than usual with dirt, emaciated to skeletons,
suffering from skin-diseases of various kinds, with inflamed eyes—and
exhaling a nauseous effluvium. But at least they are willing to face the
white man—a sign of newly-established confidence in our rule which must
not be undervalued.
Several hours’ hard marching from Nyangao bring us to the residence of
“Sultan” Hatia. He is the fourth of his name on this tiny throne of the
Makua. The grave of his predecessor, Hatia III, lies in a deep cave on
the Unguruwe mountain. This mountain is really a promontory of the
Makonde plateau projecting far into the Lukuledi plain. It is visible
from the road for several days before we reach it, with its gleaming red
cliff-face, which might fitly be described as the emblem of the whole
Central Lukuledi region. It also plays a great part in the myths and
legends of the local tribes. The traditions of the past had already
gathered round it before the burial of Hatia III; but now that the dead
chief rests in a dark ravine forbidden to every profane footstep, from
the toil and turmoil of his life, the Unguruwe has become in popular
belief a sanctuary where, on moonlight nights, Hatia rises from his
grave, and assembles the ghosts of his subjects round him for the dance.
Hatia IV had returned to his capital just before our arrival, having had
some months’ leisure on the coast, in which to think over the
consequences of the rising. He impressed me as a broken man, physically
in no better case than his subjects; moreover he was no better lodged,
and certainly no better provided with food than they. On the day of our
halt at his village, he was more than ordinarily depressed. A few hours
previously a lion, whose impudence has made him famous throughout the
country, had in broad daylight dragged a woman out of a hut, not far
from the chief’s dwelling. The prints of the enormous paws were still
quite clear in the sand, so that we could track the robber right round
the hut in which a man with his wife and child had been sitting at their
ease. The great brute had suddenly sprung on the woman who was sitting
next the door. Her husband tried to hold her, but was weak from illness,
and could offer no effectual resistance. Though for some time the poor
creature’s shrieks, “_Nna kufa! Nna kufa!_”—“I die! I die!”—could be
heard in the bush, growing fainter and fainter, no one could come to her
help, for the people have been deprived of their guns since the rising,
and even if they had had them, there was no ammunition, the importation
of this having been stopped some time ago.
The nephew and heir of Hatia IV is to take the part of avenger. He is a
handsome, jet-black youth with a small frizzled moustache on his upper
lip, and an enviably thick growth of woolly hair on his scalp. Armed
with a rifle, of which he is unconscionably proud, he has come with us
from Lindi in order to deliver his people from the plague of lions. Such
an expression is, in truth, no exaggeration as far as this place is
concerned. It is said that the whole length of the road from Nyangao to
Masasi has been divided between four pairs of lions, each of which
patrols its own section, on the look-out for human victims. Even the
three missionaries at Nyangao are not safe; Father Clement, when out for
a walk, not long ago, suddenly found himself face to face with a huge
lion, who, however, seemed quite as much startled by the incident as the
good Father himself.
After examining the architecture of the present Wamwera huts, I can
easily understand how the lion at Hatia’s could drag the woman out from
the interior. Anyone desirous of studying the evolution of the human
dwelling-house could very well see its beginnings here. Most of these
dwellings are nothing more or less than two walls, consisting of bundles
of grass roughly tied together, and leaning against each other in a
slanting position. The addition of gable-ends marks quite a superior
class of house. Besides this, the Wamwera have been compelled to build
their huts, such as they are, in the untouched jungle, since they have
lost all they had, even the necessary implements for tillage and for
clearing the bush. Their villages, containing their only possessions of
any value, were of course levelled with the ground by our troops. The
lion is shy of open spaces, but feels at home in the _pori_, which he
looks upon as his natural hunting-ground, and where he can creep unseen
close up to a hut before making his deadly spring.
One point I must not forget. Even before leaving Lindi, my mouth had
watered at the descriptions I heard of the extraordinary appearance
presented by the Wamwera women. But I find that these descriptions come
far short of the reality. The famous Botocudos of Brazil with their
labrets are nothing to the southern tribes of German East Africa. I had
long known that the Makonde plateau and the whole surrounding country
belong to the region of the _pelele_, or lip ring, but I have never come
across a good illustration of earlier date than my own. The accompanying
reproductions of photographs will show the nature of this extraordinary
decoration more clearly than any description.
The _pelele_, or, as it is called in Kimwera, _itona_, is only worn by
the women, but among them it is universal. It is a peg, in older persons
even an actual disc, of ebony, or else of some light-coloured wood
bleached snow-white with argillaceous earth, inserted in the upper lip,
which is perforated and stretched to receive it. Of course, a disc the
size of a two-shilling piece is not inserted all at once: the operation
is very gradual and begins by piercing the lip, between a girl’s seventh
and ninth year, with the end of a razor which is ground into the shape
of an awl.[8] The hole is kept open by inserting a foreign body of small
size, such as a thin stalk of grass, or the like. It is then enlarged by
adding another stalk at regular intervals; and after a time, a strip of
palm-leaf rolled up into a spiral is substituted. This, being elastic,
presses against the sides of the opening, and so, in due course renders
it large enough to receive the first solid plug. Among the Wamwera the
diameter of this varies from the thickness of a finger to the size of a
florin; the older Makonde women, however, are said to have them twice as
large. Naturally I am all impatience to see these people, whose country,
moreover, is as yet a complete _terra incognita_, as far as science is
concerned.
[Illustration: A MWERA WOMAN]
[Illustration: YOUNG MAN OF THE MWERA TRIBE]
Not content with the _itona_, the old women sometimes wear a pin or peg
in the lower lip, called _nigulila_. It is long and slender, ending in a
round knob, and is intended to divert the eye from the withered skin and
faded charms of the wearer.[9] Discs or plugs inserted in the lobe of
the ear are also very general. Furthermore, the countenance of these
fair ones are covered with extraordinary scars which, at a distance,
suggest that they must have passed their youth at a German university.
On a close inspection it will be found that these are not scars, left by
straight cuts, but consist of a multitude of small keloids arranged in
various patterns. The patterns are made by parallel rows of small cuts
(usually vertical), which have been prevented from healing by repeatedly
opening them during the process of cicatrization. Thus in the course of
weeks and months they take the form of conspicuous swellings which, in
their totality, give a distinctive character to the whole physiognomy.
[Illustration: MWERA WOMAN WITH PIN IN LOWER LIP]
Even this is not enough to satisfy the craving of the Wamwera women for
adornment. If the cloth draping chest and back slips aside for a moment,
either through an incautious movement on the part of the wearer or
through the inseparable baby being shifted from its usual place on its
mother’s back to her hip—the astonished eye discovers that the surfaces
thus revealed are adorned with markings similar to those on the face.
Even the hips and upper part of the thighs are said to be covered with
them. The ethnographer, reflecting on these and other queer
manifestations of human vanity, may be tempted, perhaps, to indulge in a
comfortable sense of superiority. But, after all, the fashion of wearing
earrings is not quite extinct in Europe; and the advantages of the
corset, considered as an aid to beauty, might be quite as much open to
discussion as the African ornaments we have just been describing. I am
alluding, of course, to those women who think that tight lacing improves
the figure. Otherwise I am inclined to agree with Max Buchner of Munich,
who thinks that some form of this article would be of great service to
the women of all the less-clothed races among whom appliances for
supporting the bust are unknown.
Up to the present, I have been able to see but little of the real life
of the inland tribes, yet that little has been very interesting. On the
march to Masasi I noticed that wherever the natives had taken an active
part in the rebellion, the roads were in perfect order, while in the
territory of the friendly tribes they were nearly impassable with high
grass, and sometimes bushes. These allies of ours are now, secure in the
consciousness of their past services, saying to themselves that they may
take things easy for a time, as the “Mdachi” will surely consider their
loyalty and make no very severe demands on them. Captain Ewerbeck,
however, has been laying down the law with great precision and energy to
the Akidas and Jumbes, the district chiefs and village headmen, who are
responsible for order within their own districts.
One can enjoy magnificent spectacles by night in Africa. Sitting in
front of my tent on the way here, or now, when I step out in front of
the Baraza—the rest-house in which I have taken up my abode—I see,
wherever I turn my eyes, the red glow of flames on the horizon. This is
the burning of the grass—a custom practised by the Africans for
thousands of years. It may be remembered that when Hanno, on his voyage
from Carthage, sailed down the West coast of Africa, nothing produced
such a deep and lasting impression of terror on himself and his crew as
the streams of fire seen to flow down from the coast-ranges at night. In
my opinion, which, of course, I do not consider decisive, these streams
of fire were certainly not, as has so often been maintained, connected
with any volcanic phenomena, but resulted from the processes still put
into operation by the inhabitants of the Dark Continent every night
during the dry season.
[Illustration: ROAD THROUGH THE BUSH IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF
CHINGULUNGULU]
Much has been written in our Colonial publications with regard to the
benefit or injury to be derived from this grass-burning. Some condemn it
as deleterious to the growth of trees, while others take the part of the
natives and say that only by burning off the high grass and brushwood of
the African forest at regular intervals can they possibly get the upper
hand of the vermin, which would otherwise increase by myriads. Besides,
it is said, the ashes are for the present the only manure that can be
applied on a large scale. I do not feel justified in attempting a
decision, but confine myself to admiring the magnificent effect of the
near and distant fires, reflected in the most varied gradations of light
and colour in the misty atmosphere. None of these fires, moreover, is
dangerous to the traveller; where the flames seize a patch of completely
dry grass, they rush along, it is true, with a noise like the crackling
of musketry-fire; but otherwise, and indeed in general, the people have
to keep up the conflagration by systematic kindling of the grass in
fresh places. In any case they have the direction and extent of the fire
fully under control.
This burning is, so far as I am enabled to judge, only possible where
the remarkable form of vegetation prevails which characterizes the
greater part of Africa, and covers the whole extent of the great plain
on the west and north-west of the Makonde plateau. This is the “open
bush and grass steppe” (_lichte Baumgras-steppe_) as it has been very
appropriately named by the geologist Bornhardt. In fact, this form of
vegetation is neither exclusively forest nor altogether steppe; it
unites the characters of the two. Imagine a particularly neglected
orchard, in some rural part of Germany (where I am sorry to say the
farmers still pay far too little attention to this branch of
cultivation), and fill up the spaces between the scattered apple, pear
or plum trees, not with our modest German grass but with the African
variety, two or three yards high and more like canes, mix this with
underwood—thorny, but not very close—and finally bind together the tops
of the trees (which are not very high—certainly none of them over forty
feet—and all varieties having a sort of general resemblance to our
maple) by means of a system of airy lianas. Having done all this, you
have, without any further strain on the imagination, a fairly correct
picture of what is here generally called _pori_, though in the North the
name of “_myombo_ forest” is more usually applied to it. During the
rains, and just after them, this _pori_ must undeniably have its
charms,—in fact, Ewerbeck and his companion Knudsen are indefatigable in
singing its praises as it appears in that season. Now, on the other
hand, in July, it is anything but beautiful: it neither impresses us by
the number and size of its trees, nor refreshes us with any shade
whatever, nor presents the slightest variation in the eternal monotony
which greets the traveller as soon as he leaves Nyangao and crosses to
the right bank of the Lukuledi and from which he only escapes after a
march of several weeks, high up on the Upper Rovuma. “So this is the
exuberant fertility of the tropics, and this is what an evergreen
primeval forest looks like!” I thought, after enjoying this spectacle
for the space of a whole day. Just as with regard to the alleged want of
appetite experienced by Europeans in the tropics, we ought to see that
the general public is more correctly informed as to the supposed
fertility of Equatorial Africa, and so saved from forming extravagant
notions of the brilliant future in store for our colonies.
The _pori_ becomes downright unpleasant wherever the owners of the
country have just been burning it. To right and left of the road extends
a thick layer of black or grey ashes, on which, here and there, lies a
dead tree, steadily smouldering away. Now that there is no grass to
obstruct the view, the eye ranges unhindered through what at other times
is impenetrable bush. For the sportsman this state of things is a
pleasure, as he can now see game at almost any distance; but for the
traveller, especially if encumbered with a large caravan, it is nothing
less than torture. This is not so much the case in the early morning,
when the fine particles of dust are laid by the heavy dews; but, when
the sun rises higher, marked differences of temperature are produced
within a comparatively small area. Tramping on through the glowing heat
of noon, suspecting no harm and intending none, the traveller suddenly
sees something whirling in front of his feet—a black snake spinning
round in a raging vortex, rises straight up, dances round him in
coquettish curves, and then vanishes sideways behind the trees, with a
low chuckle, as if in derision of the stranger and his immaculately
clean khaki suit. The native followers have not suffered, being of the
same colour as the insidious foe. But what is the aspect presented by
the leader of the expedition! Though not guaranteed to wash, he presents
a sufficiently close resemblance to a blackamoor, and under the
circumstances, the faithful Moritz and Kibwana, as soon as we have
reached camp, will have no more pressing task than to prepare the bath
for their master and thoroughly soap him down from the crown of his head
to the sole of his foot. And all this is the work of the _pori_
whirlwind.
In these small distresses of life on the march, the imperturbable
cheerfulness of the natives is always a comfort. Among the Wamwera on
the scene of the late rising, there was little inclination for dancing
and merriment—the prevailing misery was too great; but everywhere else,
before our camp was even half arranged, the inhabitants of the place had
assembled in crowds, and the scene which ensued was always the same in
its general features, though varying in detail. The negro _has_ to
dance. As the German, whenever anything lifts him out of the dead level
of the workaday mood, feels irresistibly impelled to sing, so the
African misses no opportunity of assembling for a _ngoma_. The word
_ngoma_, in its original signification means nothing more than a drum;
in an extended sense it denotes all festivities carried on to the sound
of the drum. These festivities have an indisputable advantage over ours,
in that the instrumental music, dancing, and singing are all
simultaneous. The band drums, but also occasionally improvises songs,
the audience standing round in a circle form the chorus and at the same
time march round the band to the rhythm of the song. This is the usual
picture, with all its strangeness so fascinating that the oldest
residents in the coast towns do not think it beneath their dignity to
honour this expression of aboriginal life by attending from time to
time, if only for a few minutes. Other and less sophisticated whites are
regular habitués at these festivals, and never let a Saturday evening
pass—this being the day when _ngomas_ are allowed by law—without
standing for hours among the panting and perspiring crowd. One of these
dances, executed by the women of every place I have so far visited, on
every possible occasion, is peculiarly pleasing. It is called _likwata_
(“clapping of hands”). A number of women and girls stand in a circle,
facing inwards. Suddenly arms rise into the air, mouths open, feet
twitch in unison, and all goes on in exact step and time; hand-clapping,
singing and dancing. With the peculiar grace which characterizes all
movements of native women, the whole circle moves to the right, first
one long step, then three much shorter. The hand-clapping, in time and
force, accurately follows the above rhythm, as does the song, which I
shall presently reproduce. Suddenly, at a certain beat, two figures step
out of the line of dancers—they trip in the centre of the circle, moving
round one another in definite figures, the movements in which,
unfortunately, are too rapid for the eye to follow—and then return to
their fixed places in the circle to make way for two more solo artists.
So the game goes on, without interruption or diminution of intensity,
hour after hour, regardless of the babies who, tied in the inevitable
cloth on their mothers’ backs, have gone through the whole performance
along with them. In this confined, hot, and often enough dirty
receptacle, they sleep, wake or dream, while the mother wields the heavy
pestle, pounding the maize in the mortar, or grinds the meal on the
stone, while she breaks the ground for sowing, hoes up the weeds or
gathers in the crops, while she carries the heavy earthen water-jar on
her head from the distant spring, and while, as now, she sways to and
fro in the dance. No wonder if, under such circumstances, the native
baby is thoroughly familiar with the national step and rhythm even
before he has left the carrying-cloth and the maternal breast. The sight
of tiny shrimps of three and four moving with absolute certainty through
the mazes of the grown people’s dance, would almost of itself be worth
the journey to East Africa.
And now come the very profound words accompanying this dance which seems
so full of meaning and poetry. The spectator standing by and watching
the varied and graceful movements of the women—perhaps working the
cinematograph at the same time—is apt, in spite of all previous
resolutions, to pay too little heed to the words sung. When, the dance
over, he arranges the performers before the phonograph, he is tempted to
believe that his ears have deceived him, so utterly inane are these
words. I have made records of the _likwata_ at a number of different
places, but never succeeded in getting any other result than the
following—
[Music:
Voices in Chorus. Hand-clapping.
_Da capo ad lib_:
äh äh äh äh äh äh][10]
The reader will agree that no undue amount of intellect has been
lavished on this ditty, but this is a trait common to all native songs
here in the South. Even those acknowledged _virtuosi_, my Wanyamwezi,
cannot do very much better in this respect. Here we have really every
right to say, “We Wazungu are better singers after all!”
[Illustration: MOUNTAINS NEAR MASASI. DRAWN BY SALIM MATOLA]
CHAPTER V
LOOKING ROUND
MASASI, July 25, 1906.
I have been here at Masasi quite a week. My abode is a hut in the purest
Yao style, built by the natives under the orders of the Imperial
District Commissioner, expressly for the benefit of passing European
travellers. This hut—or, I suppose I ought to say, this house, for it is
a sizeable building of some forty feet by twenty—lies outside the _boma_
which shelters the local police force. It is an oval structure whose
roof is exactly like an overturned boat. The material of the walls is,
as everywhere in this country, bamboo, and wood, plastered inside and
out with dark grey clay. My palace is superior to the abodes of the
natives in the matter of windows, though they are not glazed. At night,
before I creep under my mosquito-net into the camp bed, the openings are
closed with shutters constructed of strong pieces of bamboo. The floor,
as in all native huts, is of beaten earth, which can in general be kept
quite clean, but is not calculated for the sharp edges of European
boot-heels, which soon play havoc with its surface. The interior forms
an undivided whole, only interrupted by the two posts standing as it
were in the foci of the ellipse, and supporting the heavy thatched roof.
This projects outward and downward far beyond the wall of the house, its
outer edge being carried by a further ellipse of shorter posts, and so
makes a broad shady passage round the whole house, such as, under the
name of _baraza_ is an essential part of every East African residence.
The natives give the name of Masasi to a whole district alike
interesting from the point of view of geography, geology, botany or
geography.
Almost immediately after passing Nyangao, as one comes from the coast,
begins the “open bush and grass steppe” already mentioned, while at
the same time the edges of the Makonde plateau on the south and of the
high ground to the north of the Lukuledi retreat further and further.
As one walks on, day after day, across a perfectly horizontal plain
covered with the same monotonous vegetation, the journey is by no
means exciting. Then, suddenly, at a turn of the path, we see a huge
cliff of glittering grey. We draw a long breath and forget all our
fatigue in presence of this new charm in the landscape. Even the
heavy-laden carriers step more lightly. Suddenly the bush, which has
become fresher and greener as we approach the rock, ceases, and
instead of the one cliff we now see a whole long range of rocky peaks,
which seem to stand as a barrier right across our path. This, however,
is not the case, for close to the foot of the first mountain the road
turns sharply to S.S.E., running parallel and close to the range. When
the range ends, the road ends too, for there, embosomed in a circle of
“hill-children,”—as the native would say in his own language, _i.e._,
low hills of a few thousand feet or under,—lies the military station
of Masasi.
The dome-shaped gneiss peaks of Masasi are celebrated in geological
literature: they are, in fact, unique, not in their petrographic
constituents, but in the regularity of their serried ranks.
Orographically this whole region of East Africa which I am now
traversing is characterized by insular mountains (_Inselberge_), as they
are called by the geologist Bornhardt. The name is very appropriate,
for, if the land were to sink some three hundred feet, or the Indian
Ocean to rise in the same degree, the valleys of the Lukuledi, Umbekuru
and Rovuma, as well as, in all probability, several rivers in Portuguese
East Africa, and also the whole vast plain west of the Mwera and Makonde
plateaus would form one great lake. Here in the west, only these lumpy,
heavy gneiss peaks would rise as tiny islands above the waters, while
towards the coast the plateaus just mentioned would so to speak
represent the continents of this piece of the earth’s surface.
[Illustration: THE INSULAR MOUNTAIN OF MASASI]
In general these peaks are scattered irregularly over the whole wide
area of the country. If I climb one of the smaller hills immediately
behind my house, I can overlook an almost illimitable number of these
remarkable formations to north, west and south. They are mostly single
or in small clusters, but several days’ journey further west a large
number are gathered into a close cluster in the Majeje country. The
Masasi range in our immediate neighbourhood is the other exception.
Corresponding to their irregular distribution is a great variety in
height. Many are only small hillocks, while others rise to a sheer
height of 1,600 feet and over from the plain, which here at Masasi is
fully 1,300 feet above sea-level. The highest of these hills thus attain
about the middle height among our German mountains.
As to the origin of these strange mountain shapes, not being a
geologist, I am in no position to form an opinion. According to
Bornhardt, who in his magnificent work on the earth-sculpture and
geology of German East Africa[11] has described the geological features
of this landscape with admirable vividness, all these insular peaks
testify to a primeval and never interrupted struggle between the
constructive activity of the sea and the denuding, eroding, digging and
levelling action of flowing water and of atmospheric influences. He sees
this tract in primordial times as an immense unbroken plain of primitive
gneiss. In this, in course of time, streams and rivers excavated their
valleys, all more or less in the same direction. At the end of this
long-continued process, long hill ridges were left standing between the
different valleys. Then came another epoch, when stratification took the
place of destruction. Whereas formerly, rain, springs, brooks and rivers
carried the comminuted and disintegrated rock down to the sea, now, the
sea itself overflowed the land, filled the valleys, and probably covered
the whole former scene of action with its sediment. This sediment,
again, in the course of further ages became hardened into rock. Once
more the scene changed; again the land was left dry; and wind, rain and
running water could once more begin their work of destruction. But this
time their activity took a different direction. They had formerly
carried the detritus north or south, but now they swept it eastward, at
right angles to their former course, and so gradually ground and filed
away the whole of the later deposit, and also eroded the long ridges
which had survived from the first period of destruction. Finally, when
even this primitive rock had been worn away down to the bottom level of
the first valleys, nothing remained of the old sheet of gneiss except in
the angles formed by the crossing of the two lines of abrasion and
erosion. The superincumbent strata being swept away, the hard gneiss
cores of these angles of ground form the very insular peaks I have been
describing. Bornhardt’s theory is a bold one and assumes quite
immeasurable periods of time, but it has been generally accepted as the
most plausible of all attempts to explain the facts. In any case it is a
brilliant proof of the capacity for inductive reasoning possessed by
German scholars.
These mighty masses of rock, springing with an unusually steep slope,
direct from the plain, dominate their surroundings wherever one comes
across them, but where they appear in such a wonderfully regular series
as they do here—Mkwera, Masasi, Mtandi, Chironji, Kitututu, Mkomahindo,
and the rest of the lesser and greater elevations within my
horizon,—they present an incomparable and quite unforgettable spectacle.
When once the projected railway across the Umbekuru basin is completed,
the tourist agencies will have no more popular excursion than that to
the Masasi Range.
From a botanical point of view, also, the visitor finds himself well
repaid for his trouble. Once in the shadow of these hills, the
desolation of the _pori_ is forgotten as if by magic; one plantation
succeeds another, and patches of all the different varieties of millet
bow their heavy cobs and plumes in the fresh morning breeze, which is a
real refreshment after the stifling heat of the long day’s march through
the bush. Beans of all kinds, gourds and melons, rejoice the eye with
their fresh green, on either side of the path the _mhogo_ (manioc)
spreads its branches with their pale-green leaves and pink stalks.
Wherever there is an interval between these various crops, the _bazi_
pea rattles in its pod. This fertility (astonishing for the southern
part of German East Africa) is only rendered possible by the geological
constitution of the soil. Wherever we have set foot on the main road,
and north and south of the same, as far as the eye can reach, the
principal constituents of the upper stratum have been loamy sand and
sandy loam. In places where the action of water has been more marked, we
find an outcrop of bare, smooth gneiss rocks; or the ground is covered
with hard quartzite, crunching under foot. Only where these mighty
gneiss ranges break the monotony does anyone examining the country with
an eye to its economic value find full satisfaction. Gneiss weathers
easily and forms excellent soil, as the natives have long ago
discovered; and, though they by no means despise the less fertile
tracts, yet the most favoured sites for settlements have always been
those in the immediate vicinity of the gneiss islands. Masasi, with its
enormous extent, taking many hours to traverse, is the typical example
of such economic insight.
Since this would naturally attract people from all directions, it is not
to be wondered at if a question as to the tribal affinities of the
Masasi people should land one in a very chaos of tribes. Makua, Wayao,
Wangindo, a few Makonde, and, in addition a large percentage of Coast
men:—such are the voluntary immigrants to this little centre of social
evolution. To these we must add a miscellaneous collection of people
belonging to various tribes of the far interior, who are here included
under the comprehensive designation of Wanyasa. These Wanyasa are the
living testimony to an experiment devised in the spirit of the highest
philanthropy, which, unfortunately, has not met with the success hoped
for and expected by its promoters. This very region was some decades ago
the scene of an extremely active slave-traffic; the trade, kept up by
the Zanzibar and Coast Arabs, preferred the route through this
easily-traversed and at that time thickly-populated country. The
situation of Kilwa Kivinje on a bay so shallow that Arab slave-dhows,
but not the patrolling gun-boats of rigidly moral Powers, can anchor
there, is to this day a speaking testimony to that dark period in the
not excessively sunny history of Africa.
In order to get at the root of the evil, English philanthropists have
for many years been in the habit of causing the unhappy victims driven
down this road in the slave-stick, to be ransomed by the missionaries
and settled on their stations as free men. The principal settlement of
this kind is that among the gneiss peaks of Masasi. The Christian world
cherished the hope that these liberated slaves might be trained into
grateful fellow-believers and capable men. But when one hears the
opinion of experienced residents in the country, it is not possible
without a strong dose of preconceived opinion to see in these liberated
converts anything better than their compatriots. The fact remains and
cannot by any process of reasoning be explained away, that Christianity
does not suit the native; far less, in any case than Islam, which
unhesitatingly allows him all his cherished freedom.
Personally, however, I must say I have not so far noticed any
discreditable points in the character of the Masasi people; all who have
come in contact with me have treated me in the same friendly fashion as
the rest of those I have come across in this country. Such contact has
by no means been wanting in spite of the shortness of my stay here,
since I have thrown myself into my work with all the energy of which I
am capable, and am convinced that I have already seen with my own eyes
and heard with my own ears a large and important part of the people’s
life.
The very beginning of my studies was remarkably promising. The Mission
station of Masasi lies a short hour’s walk north north-eastward from us,
immediately under the precipitous side of Mtandi Mountain. This Mtandi
is the most imposing peak of the whole range; it rises in an almost
vertical cliff directly behind the straw huts of the Mission, ending, at
a height of nearly 3,100 feet in a flat dome. District Commissioner
Ewerbeck and I had already, when riding past it on the day of our
arrival, determined to visit this mountain; and we carried out our
project a day or two later. The trip was not without a certain
fascination. At 4.30 a.m. in a pitch-dark tropical night, we were ready
to march, the party consisting of two Europeans and half-a-dozen
carriers and boys, with Ewerbeck’s Muscat donkey and my old mule. As
quickly as the darkness allowed, the procession passed along the
_barabara_, turning off to the left as we approached Mtandi. The animals
with their attendants were left behind at the foot of the mountain,
while the rest of us, making a circuit of the Mission grounds, began our
climbing practice.
I had equipped myself for my African expedition with the laced boots
supplied by Tippelskirch expressly for the tropics. When I showed these
to “old Africans” at Lindi, they simply laughed at me and asked what I
expected to do in this country with one wretched row of nails on the
edge of the sole. They advised me to send the things at once to Brother
William at the Benedictine Mission, who earns the gratitude of all
Europeans by executing repairs on shoes and boots. Brother William, in
fact, very kindly armed my boots with a double row of heavy Alpine
hobnails, and I wore a pair the first day out from Lindi, but never
again on the march. They weighed down my feet like lead, and it soon
appeared that the heavy nails were absolutely unnecessary on the fine
sand of the _barabara_. After that first day, I wore my light laced
shoes from Leipzig, which make walking a pleasure. Here, on the other
hand, on the sharp ridges of Mtandi, the despised mountain boots
rendered me excellent service.
I prefer to omit the description of my feelings during this ascent. It
grew lighter, and we went steadily upwards, but this climbing, in single
file, from rock to rock and from tree to tree was, at any rate for us
two well-nourished and comfortable Europeans, by no means a pleasure. In
fact, we relinquished the ambition of reaching the highest peak and
contented ourselves with a somewhat lower projection. This was sensible
of us, for there was no question of the magnificent view we had
expected; the heights and the distant landscape were alike veiled in
thick mist, so that even the longest exposure produced no effect to
speak of on my photographic plates.
[Illustration: BUSH-FIRE ON THE MAKONDE PLATEAU]
[Illustration: OUR ASCENT OF MTANDI MOUNTAIN. DRAWN BY JUMA]
This ascent, though barren of results in other respects, has produced
one small monument of African art, a drawing of our climbing caravan,
which is here offered to the reader’s inspection. The native artist has
quite correctly indicated the steepness of the mountain by the vertical
line representing the road. The confusion of circles and curves at the
lower end stands for the buildings of the Mission station:—the
foundations of a church vast enough, should it ever be finished, to hold
all the converted heathen of Africa and the adjacent continents; the _ci
devant_ cowhouse, in which the two aged clergymen have found a primitive
refuge after the destruction of their beautiful buildings by the
_Majimaji_, the boys’ school and the girls’ school—two large bamboo huts
in the native style; and the dwellings of the native teachers and
boarders. The curly labyrinth at the upper end of the line is the top of
the mountain with its gneiss blocks. The two uppermost climbers are the
_kirongozi_ or guide and one of our men, the third is Captain Ewerbeck,
and the fourth myself. The District Commissioner is readily recognizable
by the epaulettes with the two stars denoting his military rank, which
belong to the uniform worn on duty by this class of officials. Of all
attributes of the white man this seems to make the greatest impression
on the native mind, since, in every drawing in my possession where
officers are represented, their rank is invariably (and always
correctly) indicated by the number of stars. In the same way the native
draughtsman never makes a mistake with regard to the stripes on the
sleeves of non-commissioned officers, black or white. The advantages of
a well-developed corporation are here evident! Ewerbeck and Seyfried are
about the same age as myself, and our chest and other measurements are
pretty nearly identical. This I suppose must be the reason why the
inhabitants of Lindi, and later on those of the interior, have promoted
me to the rank of captain; at Lindi I went by the name of _Hoffmani
mpya_, “the new captain” (_Hauptmann_). The drawing here reproduced is
evidence of my promotion, the artist having bestowed the epaulettes on
me as well as on Ewerbeck. The figures behind us are of no importance,
they are only the rest of our party. Now, however, comes the
psychologically noteworthy point; I figure in the picture twice over,
first laboriously climbing the mountain, and then in majestic pose at
the top, in the act of photographing the African landscape. You must
know that the tripod shown in the drawing is that of my 13 × 18 cm.
camera, the zig-zags between its legs are the brass struts which keep it
rigid; the long snake-like line is the rubber tube for the release of
the instantaneous shutter—of which, as a matter of fact, I could make no
use on account of the mist,—and the photographer is, as above stated,
myself. The men behind me are my personal attendants to whom the more
fragile parts of the apparatus are usually entrusted. The graphic
reproduction of this ascent is no great achievement on the part of the
native intellect, but nevertheless it is a very important document for
the beginnings of art in general and for the African point of view in
particular. To the ethnographer, of all men, the most apparently
insignificant matters are not without importance, and this is why the
prospect of working undisturbed for many months in these surroundings is
such a delight to me.
Our ascent of Mtandi was concluded, at any rate for the present, by a
ceremonious breakfast, to which the two missionaries had kindly invited
us. Englishmen, as is well known, live extremely well in their own
country; but abroad, too, even in the far interior of a continent, they
know how to make the best of things. I was here impressed with the fact
that Masasi must be a “very nourishing district,” as Wilhelm Raabe would
say. We had no champagne, it is true—Archdeacon Carnon had set it before
us on the previous day, in a huge water-jug, apologizing for the absence
of champagne glasses. We showed him that we were able to appreciate his
hospitality, even in the absence of such refinements.
The merriest part of our whole Mtandi expedition, however, was the ride
home, with the Mission pupils trotting along beside us. The little
fellows looked warlike enough with their bows and arrows, and seemed
desirous of shouting each other down. I could not at first make out what
they wanted, but on reaching home, that is to say, our police-post, I
soon understood that their object was nothing less than to offer me the
whole of their martial equipment for my ethnographic collection. But not
as a present—giving things away for nothing is not in the negro’s line,
and in this he resembles our German rustics. On the contrary, these
young people demanded fancy prices for the bows which they had made on
purpose to sell them to the _mzungu_, that remarkable character who buys
all sorts of native rubbish. I purchased such of their wares as seemed
suitable for my objects, and thought it advisable to prevent
disappointment to those whose offers had been refused by giving each a
copper or two out of the famous jar of which we shall hear again later
on. Before doing so, however, I instituted a pleasing experiment,
instructive for myself and highly enjoyable for the youth of Masasi, in
the shape of an archery competition.
Comparative ethnography has for a long time past busied itself with the
task of classifying and analyzing all the technical and mental
activities of man. Thus some decades ago, the American, Morse,[12]
ascertained that all men who shoot, or ever have shot, with the bow,
have certain definite ways of drawing it. There are about half-a-dozen
distinct methods, which are so distributed over the globe that, in some
places the same release (or “loose” as it is technically called) is
known to be common to the whole of a large area, while elsewhere the
most abrupt contrasts may be observed between contiguous nations or
tribes. It might be supposed that there could be no possible differences
in so simple an action as that of drawing a bow; but experiment shows
otherwise, and this experiment I have made over and over again in the
course of my lectures.
It is a thousand to one that any German (leaving out of consideration
the English and the Belgians, who still practise archery according to
the rules of the game, and can distinguish a good “loose” from a bad
one), when he has taken the bow in his left hand and grasped the arrow
and the string in his right, will hold the notch as it rests on the
string between his thumb and forefinger, and thus only indirectly draw
the string by means of the arrow. This, which is the “loose” we used on
the little toy bows of our boyhood, is the very worst conceivable, as
anyone who understands the other methods can convince himself by every
shot he tries. It is obvious that the arrow must slip from the fingers
if a moderately strong pull is given. The best proof of the inferiority
of this particular “loose” is the fact that it is very seldom found
among those sections of mankind who still use the bow as a serious and
effective weapon, whether in war or hunting. These handle it after a
very different fashion. Only where the bow is a mere survival, and only
used as a toy by children (the most conservative class in the
community), as for instance among ourselves, this method, quite useless
for an effective shot, is practised simply because no better is known.
If I felt compelled to take the boys at Masasi Mission as a standard for
estimating the culture of the race, I should have to say that here too
the bow is a survival, for nine-tenths of the whole multitude shot in
the same way as our boys at home, but with one difference; we hold the
bow horizontally, the African boys held it vertically, the arrow lying
on the left side of the string between the index and middle finger. Only
one-tenth of the whole number used a different “loose,” and these,
significantly enough, were older boys, who therefore had evidently taken
over with them into their Christianity a considerable dose of old
African conservatism.
My competition was arranged with a view, not so much of registering the
number of hits and misses, as of observing the method of drawing; but,
notwithstanding, I must say that the little archers acquitted themselves
by no means contemptibly. It is true that the distances were short, and
my mark was scarcely a small one, being a copy of the _Tägliche
Rundschau_; but the greater number sent their arrows inside the rings I
had hastily drawn on this improvised target. They were proud of their
success, too; and when I praised a good shot it was good to see the
triumphant looks that the little black hero cast round on his admiring
companions.
As to the other methods, if I were asked the question in my Leipzig
lecture-room, I should have to answer it at once. As it is, I am enabled
to claim the privilege of the investigator and excuse myself from giving
further information till I have collected sufficient material by a
series of fresh observations. I hope to gratify my readers’ thirst for
knowledge when I have traversed the whole plain north of the Rovuma,
and, encamped on the cool heights of the Makonde plateau, find leisure
to look back and take stock of my studies. Till then—_Au revoir,
Messieurs!_
[Illustration: MNYASA HUNTER WITH DOG. DRAWN BY SALIM MATCLA]
CHAPTER VI
NATIVE LIFE SEEN FROM THE INSIDE
MASASI, end of July, 1906.
Every normal human being is a walking demonstration of the theory of
adaptation to environment. I have been in Africa barely two months, and
only as yet a fraction of a month in the interior, and yet I feel quite
at home already. After all, I could scarcely do otherwise. On the 21st,
when we had only lived together a few days, Mr. Ewerbeck marched away
before daybreak, by the light of a lantern borne before him through the
darkness of the tropic night, to attend to higher duties at Lindi, viz.,
the reception of the eight delegates from the Reichstag, now fairly
embarked on that desperate adventure which for many months past has kept
our daily press busy celebrating their heroism.
Nils Knudsen remains behind as the last relic of civilization. His name
alone is sufficient to indicate his Scandinavian origin, and he is, in
fact, a fair-haired descendant of the Vikings. He joined the expedition
so unobtrusively that at first I scarcely noticed the presence of a
third European. While Ewerbeck and I marched proudly at the head of our
long line of followers, Knudsen usually brought up the rear, and in camp
he remained modestly in the background. Now that we have fixed our
headquarters at Masasi, he has become prominent by virtue of his office;
he is supposed to keep things straight here and exercise some
supervision over the native local authorities. Whether this is
necessary, I am at present unable to judge, having as yet no insight
into the difficulties of internal administration in a large district
like Lindi. However, a man who knows the country as well as Ewerbeck
does, would hardly have taken such a measure without good reason. In the
meantime I have persuaded Knudsen to quit his tent—which, to judge by
its venerable appearance, must have been left behind as too far gone to
take away, by Vasco Da Gama when he landed in this part of Africa—and
come to live with me in the rest-house. Now he is installed, with his
scanty possessions—two old tin trunks, which do not even appear to be
full—on one side of the spacious apartment, while I with my princely
outfit reside on the other. He is, however, abundantly compensated for
the niggardliness with which fortune has treated him by goodness of
heart and fineness of feeling. Knudsen’s life has been adventurous
enough, and recalls to some extent the fate of that English sailor who
was wrecked among the aborigines of South-East Australia, and had to
live as a savage among savages. My fair-haired neighbour did not fare
quite so badly as that; but he has had plenty of time to “go Fanti” had
he been so disposed. So far as I have yet ascertained anything about his
personal affairs, he started life as cabin-boy on board a merchant
vessel, from which he ran away about ten years ago, when it was anchored
in a harbour of Madagascar. He wandered about this island for some
years, and at last found his way across to the mainland and into the
hinterland of Lindi. He says that he never learnt a trade, but professes
to know something of a great many, and can act on occasion as mason,
builder, carpenter, and locksmith. Indeed he erected all the buildings
at the Luisenfelde mines, far south near the Rovuma, which I may yet be
able to visit, and was general factotum there as long as they continued
working. Since then the municipality of Lindi has appointed him head
instructor at the industrial school, from which post he is at present on
leave of absence.
[Illustration: THROUGH THE BUSH ON A COLLECTING EXCURSION]
Our manner of life here is, of course, essentially different from that
followed on the march. Life on the march is always full of charm, more
especially in a country quite new to one; and mine has so far been
entirely without drawbacks. In African travel-books we find that almost
every expedition begins with a thousand difficulties. The start is fixed
for a certain hour, but no carriers appear, and when at last the leader
of the expedition has, with infinite pains, got his men together, they
have still endless affairs to settle, wives and sweethearts to take
leave of, and what not, and have usually vanished from the traveller’s
ken on the very first evening. In my case everything went like clockwork
from the start. I can blame no one but myself for the quarter of an
hour’s delay in starting from Lindi, which was caused by my being late
for breakfast. On the second morning the _askari_ could not quite get on
with the folding of the tent, and Moritz with the best will in the world
failed to get my travelling-lamp into its case, which was certainly a
very tight fit. But with these exceptions we have all behaved as if we
had been on the road for months. Anyone who wants a substantial
breakfast first thing in the morning, after the English fashion, should
not go travelling in Africa. I have given directions to wake me at five.
Punctually to the minute, the sentinel calls softly into the tent,
“_Amka, bwana_” (“Wake up, sir”). I throw both feet over the high edge
of the trough-like camp bed, and jump into my khaki suit. The water
which Kibwana, in the performance of his duties as housemaid, has
thoughtfully placed at the tent door overnight, has acquired a
refreshing coolness in the low temperature of a tropic night in the dry
season. The shadow of the European at his toilet is sharply outlined on
the canvas by the burning lamp, which, however, does not confine its
illumination to its owner, but radiates a circle of light on the shining
brown faces of the carriers and the _askari_. The former are busy tying
up their loads for the march, while the soldiers are ready to rush on
the tent like a tiger on his prey, so soon as the white man shall have
finished dressing and come out. In the twinkling of an eye the tent is
folded, without a word spoken, or a superfluous movement; it is division
of labour in the best sense of the word, faultlessly carried out.
Meanwhile the traveller goes to his camp-table, takes a hurried sip of
tea, cocoa, or whatever his favourite beverage may be, eating at the
same time a piece of bread baked by himself, and now stands ready for
the march. “_Tayari?_” (“Ready?”) his voice rings out over the camp.
“_Bado_” (“Not yet”) is the invariable answer. It is always the same
lazy or awkward members of the party who utter this word beloved of the
African servant. The beginner lets himself be misled by it at first, but
in a few days he takes no more notice of the “_Bado_,” but fires off his
“_Safari!_” (literally “Journey!”) or (as speedily introduced by me),
“_Los!_”[13] at the band in general, flourishes his walking-stick boldly
in the air, thereby indicating to the two leading _askari_ the direction
of the march, and the day’s work has begun.
I do not know how other tribes are accustomed to behave at the moment of
starting, but my Wanyamwezi are certainly neither to hold nor to bind on
these occasions. With evident difficulty each one has got his load
lifted to head or shoulder, and stands in his place bending under the
weight. At the word of command arises an uproar which baffles
description. All the pent-up energy of their throats rings out into the
silent forest; stout sticks rattle in a wild, irregular rhythm on the
wooden cases, and, alas! also on the tin boxes, which furnish only too
good a resonator. The noise is infernal, but it is a manifestation of
joy and pleasure. We are off! and, once on the march, the Wanyamwezi are
in their element. Before long the chaos of noise is reduced to some
order; these men have an infinitely delicate sense of rhythm, and so the
din gradually resolves itself into a kind of march sung to a drum
accompaniment, whose charm even the legs of the _askari_—otherwise too
dignified for such childish goings-on—cannot resist.
[Illustration: READY FOR MARCHING (MASASI)]
Oh! the beauty of these early mornings in the tropics! It is now getting
on for six o’clock; the darkness of night has quickly yielded to the
short twilight of dawn; the first bright rays gild the light clouds
floating in the sky, and suddenly the disc of the sun rises in its
wonderful majesty above the horizon. With swift, vigorous strides, and
still in close order, the procession hastens through the dew-drenched
bush, two soldiers in the van, as if in a military expedition; then,
after an interval we Europeans, immediately followed by our personal
servants with guns, travelling-flask and camp-stool. Then comes the main
body of the soldiers followed by the long line of carriers and the
soldiers’ boys, and, lastly, to keep the laggards up to the mark, and
also to help any who have to fall out from exhaustion or illness, two
soldiers bringing up the rear. An admirable figure is the _mnyampara_ or
headman. His position is in a sense purely honorary, for he receives not
a farthing more wages than the lowest of his subordinates. Perhaps even
this expression should not be used; he is rather _primus inter pares_.
The _mnyampara_ is everywhere. He is in front when the master sends for
him, and he is back at the very end of the line (which becomes longer
with every hour of the march) if there is a sick man needing his help.
In such a case he carries the man’s load himself, as a matter of course,
and brings him safely to camp. It seems to me that I have made an
unusually happy choice in Pesa mbili. He is young, like the great
majority of my men, probably between 23 and 25, of a deep black
complexion, with markedly negroid features, and a kind of feline glitter
in his eyes; he is only of medium height, but uncommonly strong and
muscular; he speaks shocking Swahili—far worse than my own—and withal he
is a treasure. It is not merely that he is an incomparable singer, whose
pleasant baritone voice never rests whether on the march or in camp, but
he thoroughly understands the organization of camp life, the
distribution of tasks and the direction of his men. The demands made on
such a man by the end of the day’s march are arduous enough.
The delicious coolness of the morning has long since given place to a
perceptibly high temperature; the white man has exchanged his light felt
hat or still lighter travelling-cap for the heavy tropical helmet, and
the naked bodies of the carriers are coated with a shining polish.
These, who have been longing for the day to get warm ever since they
awoke shivering round the camp fire at four, have now reached the goal
of their desires; they are warm—very warm—and the white man will do well
to march at the head of the caravan, otherwise he will find
opportunities more numerous than agreeable for studying the subject of
“racial odours.” After two hours, or two hours and a half, comes the
first halt. The European shouts for his camp-stool and sits watching the
long string of loads coming up and being lowered to the ground. A frugal
breakfast of a couple of eggs, a piece of cold meat, or a few bananas,
here awaits the traveller, but the carriers, who started without a meal,
steadily fast on. It seems incomprehensible that these men should be
able to march for many hours with a load of sixty or seventy pounds,
while practising such abstinence, but they are quite content to have it
so. In the later hours of the day, it is true, they begin to flag, their
steps become slower and shorter, and they lag more and more behind the
personal “boys” who have no heavy loads to carry. Yet when they reach
camp at last, they are as merry and cheerful as they were in the early
morning. The same noise—though now with quite different words from the
throats of the singers—overwhelms the European, who has long been seated
at the halting-place. My company seem to be obsessed by the
“_Central-Magazin_” at Dar es Salam, where they entered my service; they
are celebrating this spacious building in the closing song of their
day’s march.
[Illustration: CAMP AT MASASI]
The duties of my followers—whether boys, _askari_, or porters—are by no
means over when they have reached camp. By the time they come up, the
leader of the expedition has looked round for a place to pitch his tent,
a matter which seems to me to require special gifts. The fundamental
principles to bear in mind are: that it should be within reach of good
drinking water and free from noxious insects, such as ticks, mosquitoes,
and jiggers. The second point, but one by no means to be overlooked, is
the position of the tent-pole with regard to the course of the sun, and
the next the shade of leafy trees, if that is attainable. I find it
simplest to draw the outline of the tent on the sandy ground, after the
spot has been carefully swept, indicating the place where I want the
door to be by a break in the line. That is quite enough for my corporal
in command. Scarcely have the two unfortunates, whose shoulders are
weighed down by my heavy tent, come up panting and gasping for breath,
when the loads are unrolled, and in a twinkling every warrior has taken
up his position. “One, two, three!” and the two poles are in their
places, and the next moment I hear the blows of the mallet on the
tent-pegs. While this is going on, the two boys, Moritz and Kibwana, are
amusing themselves with my bed. This occupation seems to represent for
them the height of enjoyment, for it seems as if they would never be
done. Neither scolding nor threats can avail to hasten their movements.
It seems as if their usually slow brains had become absolutely torpid.
Mechanically they set up the bedstead; mechanically they spread the cork
mattress and the blankets over it; in the same dull, apathetic way they
finally set up the framework of the mosquito-net. The soldiers have
taken their departure long before my two gentlemen condescend to carry
the bed into the tent.
My carriers meanwhile have found all sorts of work to do. Water has to
be fetched for the whole caravan, and fires to be made, and the sanitary
requirements of the camp provided for; and noon is long past by the time
their turn comes and they can live their own life for an hour or two.
Even now they cannot be said to revel in luxury. This southern part of
the German territory is very poor in game, and in any case I have no
time for shooting, so that meat is almost an unknown item in my people’s
menu. _Ugali_, always _ugali_—stiff porridge of millet, maize or manioc,
boiled till it has almost a vitreous consistency, and then shaped with
the spoon used for stirring into a kind of pudding—forms the staple of
their meals day after day.
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF A NATIVE HUT IN THE ROVUMA VALLEY]
Here at Masasi the tables are turned; my men have a good time, while I
can scarcely get a minute to myself. My escort are quite magnificently
housed, they have moved into the _baraza_ or council-house to the left
of my palatial quarters and fitted it up in the native way. The negro
has no love for a common apartment; he likes to make a little nest apart
for himself. This is quickly done: two or three horizontal poles are
placed as a scaffolding all round the projected cabin, then a thick
layer of long African grass is tied to them, and a cosy place, cool by
day and warm by night, is ready for each one. The carriers, on the other
hand, have built themselves huts in the open space facing my abode,
quite simple and neat, but, to my astonishment, quite in the Masai
style—neither circular hut nor _tembe_. The circular hut I shall discuss
in full later on, but in case anyone should not know what a _tembe_ is
like, I will here say that the best notion of it can be got by placing
three or four railway carriages at right angles to one another, so that
they form a square or parallelogram, with the doors inward. This _tembe_
is found throughout most of the northern and central part of German East
Africa, from Unyamwezi in the west to the coast on the east, and from
the Eyasi and Manyara basin in the north to Uhehe in the south. The
Masai hut, finally, can best be compared with a round-topped trunk.
Though the Masai, as everyone knows, usually stand well over six feet,
their huts, which (quite conformably with the owners’ mode of life as
cattle-breeders _par excellence_) are neatly and fragrantly plastered
with cowdung, are so low that even a person of normal stature cannot
stand upright in them. My Wanyamwezi, however, never attempt to stand up
in their huts; on the contrary, they lie about lazily all day long on
their heaps of straw.
My activities are all the more strenuous. The tropical day is short,
being only twelve hours from year’s end to year’s end, so that one has
to make the fullest possible use of it. At sunrise, which of course is
at six, everyone is on foot, breakfast is quickly despatched, and then
the day’s work begins. This beginning is curious enough. Everyone who
has commanded an African expedition must have experienced the
persistence of the natives in crediting him with medical skill and
knowledge, and every morning I find a long row of patients waiting for
me. Some of them are my own men, others inhabitants of Masasi and its
neighbourhood. One of my carriers has had a bad time. The carrier’s load
is, in East Africa, usually packed in the American petroleum case. This
is a light but strong wooden box measuring about twenty-four inches in
length by twelve in width and sixteen in height, and originally intended
to hold two tins of “kerosene.” The tins have usually been divorced from
the case, in order to continue a useful and respected existence as
utensils of all work in every Swahili household; while the case without
the tins is used as above stated. One only of my cases remained true to
its original destination, and travelled with its full complement of oil
on the shoulders of the Mnyamwezi Kazi Ulaya.[14] The honest fellow
strides ahead sturdily. “It is hot,” he thinks. “I am beginning to
perspire. Well, that is no harm; the others are doing the same.... It is
really very hot!” he ejaculates after a while; “even my _mafuta ya
Ulaya_, my European oil, is beginning to smell.” The smell becomes
stronger and the carrier wetter as the day draws on, and when, at the
end of the march, he sets down his fragrant load, it is with a double
feeling of relief, for the load itself has become inexplicably lighter
during the last six hours. At last the truth dawns on him and his
friends, and it is a matter for thankfulness that none of them possess
any matches, for had one been struck close to Kazi Ulaya, the whole man
would have burst into a blaze, so soaked was he with Mr. Rockefeller’s
stock-in-trade.
Whether it is to be accounted for by a strong sense of discipline or by
an almost incredible apathy, the fact remains that this man did not
report himself on the first day when he discovered that the tins were
leaking, but calmly took up his burden next morning and carried it
without a murmur to the next stopping place. Though once more actually
swimming in kerosene, Kazi Ulaya’s peace of mind would not even now have
been disturbed but for the fact that symptoms of eczema had appeared,
which made him somewhat uneasy. He therefore presented himself with the
words a native always uses when something is wrong with him and he asks
the help of the all-powerful white man—“_Dawa, bwana_” (“Medicine,
sir”), and pointed significantly, but with no sign of indignation, to
his condition. A thorough treatment with soap and water seemed indicated
in the first instance, to remove the incrustation of dirt accumulated in
seven days’ marching. It must be said, in justice to the patient, that
this state of things was exceptional and due to scarcity of water, for
Kazi Ulaya’s personal cleanliness was above the average. I then dressed
with lanoline, of which, fortunately, I had brought a large tin with me.
The patient is now gradually getting over his trouble.
Another case gives a slight idea of the havoc wrought by the jigger. One
of the soldiers’ boys, an immensely tall Maaraba from the country behind
Sudi, comes up every morning to get _dawa_ for a badly, damaged great
toe. Strangely enough, I have at present neither corrosive sublimate nor
iodoform in my medicine chest, the only substitute being boric acid
tabloids. I have to do the best I can with these, but my patients have,
whether they like it or not, got accustomed to have my weak disinfectant
applied at a somewhat high temperature. In the case of such careless
fellows as this Maaraba, who has to thank his own lazy apathy for the
loss of his toe-nail (which has quite disappeared and is replaced by a
large ulcerated wound), the hot water is after all a well-deserved
penalty. He yells every time like a stuck pig, and swears by all his
gods that from henceforth he will look out for the _funsa_ with the most
unceasing vigilance—for the strengthening of which laudable resolutions
his lord and master, thoroughly annoyed by the childish behaviour of
this giant, bestows on him a couple of vigorous but kindly meant cuffs.
As to the health of the Masasi natives, I prefer to offer no opinion for
the present. The insight so far gained through my morning consultations
into the negligence or helplessness of the natives as regards hygiene,
only makes me more determined to study other districts before
pronouncing a judgment. I shall content myself with saying here that the
negro’s power of resisting the deleterious influences of his treacherous
continent is by no means as great as we, amid the over-refined
surroundings of our civilized life, usually imagine. Infant mortality,
in particular, seems to reach a height of which we can form no idea.
Having seen my patients, the real day’s work begins, and I march through
the country in the character of Diogenes. On the first few days, I
crawled into the native huts armed merely with a box of matches, which
was very romantic, but did not answer my purpose. I had never before
been able to picture to myself what is meant by Egyptian darkness, but
now I know that the epithet is merely used on the principle of _pars pro
toto_, and that the thing belongs to the whole continent, and is to be
had of the very best quality here in the plain west of the Makonde
plateau. The native huts are entirely devoid of windows, a feature which
may seem to us unprogressive, but which is in reality the outcome of
long experience. The native wants to keep his house cool, and can only
do so by excluding the outside temperature. For this reason he dislikes
opening the front and back doors of his home at the same time, and makes
the thatch project outward and downward far beyond the walls. My
stable-lantern, carried about the country in broad daylight by Moritz,
is a great amusement to the aborigines, and in truth our proceeding
might well seem eccentric to anyone ignorant of our object. In the
darkness of a hut-interior, however, they find their complete
justification. First comes a polite request from me, or from Mr.
Knudsen, to the owner, for permission to inspect his domain, which is
granted with equal politeness. This is followed by an eager search
through the rooms and compartments of which, to my surprise, the
dwellings here are composed. These are not elegant, such a notion being
as yet wholly foreign to the native consciousness; but they give
unimpeachable testimony to the inmates’ mode of life. In the centre,
midway between the two doors is the kitchen with the hearth and the most
indispensable household implements and stores. The hearth is simplicity
itself: three stones the size of a man’s head, or perhaps only lumps of
earth from an ant-heap, are placed at an angle of 120° to each other. On
these, surrounded by other pots, the great earthen pot, with the
inevitable _ugali_, rests over the smouldering fire. Lying about among
them are ladles, or spoons, and “spurtles” for stirring the porridge.
Over the fireplace, and well within reach of the smoke, is a stage
constructed out of five or six forked poles. On the cross-sticks are
laid heads of millet in close, uniform rows, and under them, like the
sausages in the smoke-room of a German farmhouse, hang a great number of
the largest and finest cobs of maize, by this time covered with a
shining layer of soot. If this does not protect them from insects,
nothing else will; for such is the final end and aim of the whole
process. In the temperate regions of Europe, science may be concerned
with preserving the seed-corn in a state capable of germination till
sowing-time; but here, in tropical Africa, with its all-penetrating
damp, its all-devouring insect and other destroyers, and, finally, its
want of suitable and permanent building material, this saving of the
seed is an art of practical utility. It will be one, and not the least
welcome, of my tasks, to study this art thoroughly in all its details.
As to the economy of these natives, their struggle with the recalcitrant
nature of the country, and their care for the morrow, I am waiting to
express an opinion till I shall have gained fuller experience. In the
literature dealing with ethnology and national economy, we have a long
series of works devoted to the classification of mankind according to
the forms and stages of their economic life. It is a matter of course
that we occupy the highest stage; all authors are agreed on one point,
that we have taken out a lease of civilization in all its departments.
As to the arrangement of the other races and nations, no two authors are
agreed. The text-books swarm with barbarous and half-barbarous peoples,
with settled and nomadic, hunter, shepherd, and fisher tribes, migratory
and collecting tribes. One group carries on its economic arts on a basis
of tradition, another on that of innate instinct, finally, we have even
an animal stage of economics. If all these classifications are thrown
into a common receptacle, the result is a dish with many ingredients,
but insipid as a whole. Its main constituent is a profound contempt for
those whom we may call the “nature-peoples.”[15] These books produce the
impression that the negro, for instance, lives direct from hand to
mouth, and in his divine carelessness takes no thought even for to-day,
much less for to-morrow morning.
The reality is quite otherwise, here and elsewhere, but here in an
especial degree. In Northern Germany, the modern intensive style of
farming is characterized by the barns irregularly distributed over the
fields, and in quite recent times by the corn-stacks, both of which,
since the introduction of the movable threshing-machine, have made the
old barn at the homestead well-nigh useless. Here the farming differs
only in degree, not in principle; here, too, miniature barns are
irregularly scattered over the _shambas_, or gardens; while other
food-stores which surprise us by their number and size are found close
to and in the homestead. If we examine the interior of the house with a
light, we find in all its compartments large earthen jars, hermetically
sealed with clay, containing ground-nuts, peas, beans, and the like, and
neatly-made bark cylinders, about a yard long, also covered with clay
and well caulked, for holding maize, millet and other kinds of grain.
All these receptacles, both outdoor and indoor, are placed to protect
them from insects, rodents and damp, on racks or platforms of wood and
bamboo, from fifteen inches to two feet high, plastered with clay, and
resting on stout, forked poles. The outdoor food-stores are often of
considerable dimensions. They resemble gigantic mushrooms, with their
thatched roofs projecting far beyond the bamboo or straw structure,
which is always plastered with mud inside and out. Some have a door in
their circumference after the fashion of our cylindrical iron stoves;
others have no opening whatever, and if the owner wishes to take out the
contents, he has to tilt the roof on one side. For this purpose he has
to ascend a ladder of the most primitive construction—a couple of logs,
no matter how crooked, with slips of bamboo lashed across them a yard
apart. I cannot sketch these appliances without a smile, yet, in spite
of their primitive character, they show a certain gift of technical
invention.
The keeping of pigeons is to us Europeans a very pleasing feature in the
village economy of these parts. Almost every homestead we visit has one
or more dovecotes, very different from ours, and yet well suited to
their purpose. The simplest form is a single bark cylinder, made by
stripping the bark whole from the section of a moderately thick tree.
The ends are fastened up with sticks or flat stones, a hole is cut in
the middle for letting the birds in and out, and the box is fastened at
a height of some five or six feet above the ground, or hung up (but this
is not so common) like a swinging bar on a stand made for the purpose.
This last arrangement is particularly safe, as affording no access to
vermin. As the birds multiply, the owner adds cylinder to cylinder till
they form a kind of wall. Towards sunset, he or his wife approaches the
dovecote, greeted by a friendly cooing from inside, picks up from the
ground a piece of wood cut to the right size, and closes the opening of
the first bark box with it, doing the same to all the others in turn,
and then leaves them for the night, secure that no wild cat or other
marauder can reach them.
[Illustration: DOVECOTE AND GRANARY]
I have found out within the last few days why so few men are to be seen
in my rounds. The settlements here scarcely deserve the name of
villages—they are too straggling for that; it is only now and then that
from one hut one can catch a distant glimpse of another. The view is
also obstructed by the fields of manioc, whose branches, though very
spreading, are not easily seen through on account of the
thickly-growing, succulent green foliage. This and the _bazi_ pea are,
now that the maize and millet have been gathered in, the only crops left
standing in the fields. Thus it may happen that one has to trust
entirely to the trodden paths leading from one hut to another, to be
sure of missing none, or to the guidance of the sounds inseparable from
every human settlement. There is no lack of such noises at Masasi, and
in fact I follow them almost every day. Walking about the country with
Nils Knudsen, I hear what sounds like a jovial company over their
morning drink—voices becoming louder and louder, and shouting all
together regardless of parliamentary rules. A sudden turn of the path
brings us face to face with a drinking-party, and a very merry one,
indeed, to judge by the humour of the guests and the number and
dimensions of the _pombe_ pots which have been wholly or partially
emptied. The silence which follows our appearance is like that produced
by a stone thrown into a pool where frogs are croaking. Only when we
ask, “_Pombe nzuri?_” (“Is the beer good?”) a chorus of hoarse throats
shouts back the answer—“_Nzuri kabisa, bwana!_” (“Very good indeed,
sir!”)
As to this _pombe_—well, we Germans fail to appreciate our privileges
till we have ungratefully turned our backs on our own country. At Mtua,
our second camp out from Lindi, a huge earthen jar of the East African
brew was brought as a respectful offering to us three Europeans. At that
time I failed to appreciate the dirty-looking drab liquid; not so our
men, who finished up the six gallons or so in a twinkling. In Masasi,
again, the wife of the Nyasa chief Masekera Matola—an extremely nice,
middle-aged woman—insisted on sending Knudsen and me a similar gigantic
jar soon after our arrival. We felt that it was out of the question to
refuse or throw away the gift, and so prepared for the ordeal with grim
determination. First I dipped one of my two tumblers into the turbid
mass, and brought it up filled with a liquid in colour not unlike our
Lichtenhain beer, but of a very different consistency. A compact mass of
meal filled the glass almost to the top, leaving about a finger’s
breadth of real, clear “Lichtenhainer.” “This will never do!” I growled,
and shouted to Kibwana for a clean handkerchief. He produced one, after
a seemingly endless search, but my attempts to use it as a filter were
fruitless—not a drop would run through. “No use, the stuff is too
closely woven. _Lete sanda_, Kibwana” (“Bring a piece of the shroud!”)
This order sounds startling enough, but does not denote any exceptional
callousness on my part. _Sanda_ is the Swahili name for the cheap,
unbleached and highly-dressed calico (also called _bafta_) which, as a
matter of fact, is generally used by the natives to wrap a corpse for
burial. The material is consequently much in demand, and travellers into
the interior will do well to carry a bale of it with them. When the
dressing is washed out, it is little better than a network of threads,
and might fairly be expected to serve the purpose of a filter.
I found, however, that I could not strain the _pombe_ through it—a few
scanty drops ran down and that was all. After trying my tea and
coffee-strainers, equally in vain, I gave up in despair, and drank the
stuff as it stood. I found that it had a slight taste of flour, but was
otherwise not by any means bad, and indeed quite reminiscent of my
student days at Jena—in fact, I think I could get used to it in time.
The men of Masasi seem to have got only too well used to it. I am far
from grudging the worthy elders their social glass after the hard work
of the harvest, but it is very hard that my studies should suffer from
this perpetual conviviality. It is impossible to drum up any
considerable number of men to be cross-examined on their tribal
affinities, usages and customs. Moreover, the few who can reconcile it
with their engagements and inclinations to separate themselves for a
time from their itinerant drinking-bouts are not disposed to be very
particular about the truth. Even when, the other day, I sent for a band
of these jolly topers to show me their methods of basketmaking, the
result was very unsatisfactory—they did some plaiting in my presence,
but they were quite incapable of giving in detail the native names of
their materials and implements—the morning drink had been too copious.
It is well known that it is the custom of most, if not all, African
tribes to make a part of their supply of cereals into beer after an
abundant harvest, and consume it wholesale in this form. This, more than
anything else, has probably given rise to the opinion that the native
always wastes his substance in time of plenty, and is nearly starved
afterwards in consequence. It is true that our black friends cannot be
pronounced free from a certain degree of “divine carelessness”—a touch,
to call it no more, of Micawberism—but it would not be fair to condemn
them on the strength of a single indication. I have already laid stress
on the difficulty which the native cultivator has of storing his
seed-corn through the winter. It would be still more difficult to
preserve the much greater quantities of foodstuffs gathered in at the
harvest in a condition fit for use through some eight or nine months.
That he tries to do so is seen by the numerous granaries surrounding
every homestead of any importance, but that he does not invariably
succeed, and therefore prefers to dispose of that part of his crops
which would otherwise be wasted in a manner combining the useful and the
agreeable, is proved by the morning and evening beer-drinks already
referred to, which, with all their loud merriment, are harmless enough.
They differ, by the bye, from the drinking in European public-houses, in
that they are held at each man’s house in turn, so that every one is
host on one occasion and guest on another—a highly satisfactory
arrangement on the whole.
My difficulties are due to other causes besides the chronically bemused
state of the men. In the first place, there are the troubles connected
with photography. In Europe the amateur is only too thankful for bright
sunshine, and even should the light be a little more powerful than
necessary, there is plenty of shade to be had from trees and houses. In
Africa we have nothing of the sort—the trees are neither high nor shady,
the bushes are not green, and the houses are never more than twelve feet
high at the ridge-pole. To this is added the sun’s position in the sky
at a height which affects one with a sense of uncanniness, from nine in
the morning till after three in the afternoon, and an intensity of light
which is best appreciated by trying to match the skins of the natives
against the colours in Von Luschan’s scale. No medium between glittering
light and deep black shadow—how is one, under such circumstances, to
produce artistic plates full of atmosphere and feeling?
For a dark-room I have been trying to use the Masasi _boma_. This is the
only stone building in the whole district and has been constructed for
storing food so as to prevent the recurrence of famine among the
natives, and, still more, to make the garrison independent of outside
supplies in the event of another rising. It has only one story, but the
walls are solidly built, with mere loopholes for windows; and the flat
roof of beaten clay is very strong. In this marvel of architecture are
already stacked uncounted bags containing millet from the new crop, and
mountains of raw cotton. I have made use of both these products,
stopping all crevices with the cotton, and taking the bags of grain to
sit on, and also as a support for my table, hitherto the essential part
of a cotton-press which stands forsaken in the compound, mourning over
the shipwreck it has made of its existence. Finally, I have closed the
door with a combination of thick straw mats made by my carriers, and
some blankets from my bed. In this way, I can develop at a pinch even in
the daytime, but, after working a short time in this apartment, the
atmosphere becomes so stifling that I am glad to escape from it to
another form of activity.
[Illustration: RAT TRAP]
On one of my first strolls here, I came upon a neat structure which was
explained to me as “_tego ya ngunda_”—a trap for pigeons. This is a
system of sticks and thin strings, one of which is fastened to a strong
branch bent over into a half-circle. I have been, from my youth up,
interested in all mechanical contrivances, and am still more so in a
case like this, where we have an opportunity of gaining an insight into
the earlier evolutional stages of the human intellect. I therefore, on
my return to camp, called together all my men and as many local natives
as possible, and addressed the assembly to the effect that the _mzungu_
was exceedingly anxious to possess all kinds of traps for all kinds of
animals. Then followed the promise of good prices for good and authentic
specimens, and the oration wound up with “_Nendeni na tengenezeni
sasa!_” (“Now go away and make up your contraptions!”).
How they hurried off that day, and how eagerly all my men have been at
work ever since! I had hitherto believed all my carriers to be
Wanyamwezi—now I find, through the commentaries which each of them has
to supply with his work, that my thirty men represent a number of
different tribes. Most of them, to be sure, are Wanyamwezi, but along
with them there are some Wasukuma and Manyema, and even a genuine Mngoni
from Runsewe, a representative of that gallant Zulu tribe who, some
decades ago, penetrated from distant South Africa to the present German
territory, and pushed forward one of its groups—these very Runsewe
Wangoni—as far as the south-western corner of the Victoria Nyanza. As
for the _askari_, though numbering only thirteen, they belong to no
fewer than twelve different tribes, from those of far Darfur in the
Egyptian Sudan to the Yao in Portuguese East Africa. All these
“faithfuls” have been racking their brains to recall and practise once
more in wood and field the arts of their boyhood, and now they come and
set up, in the open, sunny space beside my palatial abode, the results
of their unwonted intellectual exertions.
The typical cultivator is not credited in literature with much skill as
a hunter and trapper; his modicum of intellect is supposed to be
entirely absorbed by the care of his fields, and none but tribes of the
stamp of the Bushmen, the Pygmies and the Australian aborigines are
assumed by our theoretic wisdom to be capable of dexterously killing
game in forest or steppe, or taking it by skilful stratagem in a
cunningly devised trap. And yet how wide of the mark is this opinion of
the schools! Among the tribes of the district I am studying, the Makua
are counted as good hunters, while at the same time they are like the
rest, in the main, typical hoe-cultivators—_i.e._, people who, year
after year, keep on tilling, with the primitive hoe, the ground
painfully brought under cultivation. In spite of their agricultural
habits their traps are constructed with wonderful ingenuity. The form
and action of these traps is sufficiently evident from the accompanying
sketches; but in case any reader should be entirely without the faculty
of “technical sight,” I may add for his benefit that all these murderous
implements depend on the same principle. Those intended for quadrupeds
are so arranged that the animal in walking or running forward strikes
against a fine net with his muzzle, or a thin cord with his foot. The
net or the string is thereby pressed forward, the upper edge of the
former glides downwards, but the end of the string moves a little to one
side. In either case this movement sets free the end of a lever—a small
stick which has hitherto, in a way sufficiently clear from the
sketch—kept the trap set. It slips instantaneously round its support,
and in so doing releases the tension of the tree or bent stick acting as
a spring, which in its upward recoil draws a skilfully fixed noose tight
round the neck of the animal, which is then strangled to death. Traps of
similar construction, but still more cruel, are set for rats and the
like, and, unfortunately, equal cunning and skill are applied to the
pursuit of birds. Perhaps I shall find another opportunity of discussing
this side of native life; it certainly deserves attention, for there is
scarcely any department where the faculty of invention to be found in
even the primitive mind is so clearly shown as in this aspect of the
struggle for existence.
[Illustration: TRAP FOR ANTELOPES]
Of psychological interest is the behaviour of the natives in face of my
own activity in this part of my task. When, we two Europeans having
finished our frugal dinner, Nils Knudsen has laid himself down for his
well-deserved _siesta_, and the snoring of my warriors resounds, more
rhythmically than harmoniously from the neighbouring _baraza_, I sit in
the blazing sun, like the shadowless Schlemihl, only slightly protected
by the larger of my two helmets, sketching.
[Illustration: TRAP FOR GUINEA-FOWL]
[Illustration: TRAP FOR LARGE GAME]
The ability to make a rapid and accurate sketch of any object in a few
strokes is one whose value to the scientific explorer cannot be
overrated. Photography is certainly a wonderful invention, but in the
details of research-work carried on day by day, it is apt to fail one
oftener than might be expected, and that not merely in the darkness of
hut-interiors, but over and over again by daylight in the open air.
I am sitting sketching, then. Not a breath of air is stirring—all nature
seems asleep. My pen, too, is growing tired, when I hear a noise
immediately behind me. A hasty glance shows me that the momentum of
universal human curiosity has overcome even the primæval force of
negroid laziness. It is the whole band of my carriers, accompanied by a
few people belonging to the place. They must have come up very softly,
as they might easily do with their bare feet on the soft, sandy soil.
Presently the whole crowd is looking over my shoulder in the greatest
excitement. I do not let them disturb me; stroke follows stroke, the
work nears completion,—at last it is finished. “_Sawasawa_?” (“Is it
like?”) I ask eagerly, and the answering chorus of “_Ndio_” (“Yes”) is
shouted into my ears with an enthusiasm which threatens to burst the
tympanum. _“Kizuri?_” (“Is it fine?”) “_Kizuri sana kabisa_” (“Very
fine, indeed”), they yell back still more loudly and enthusiastically;
“_Wewe fundi_” (“You are a master-craftsman”). These flattering critics
are my artists who, having practised themselves, may be supposed to know
what they are talking about; the few _washenzi_, unlettered barbarians,
unkissed of the Muse, have only joined in the chorus from gregarious
instinct, mere cattle that they are.
Now comes the attempt at a practical application. I rise from my
camp-stool, take up an oratorical attitude and inform my disciples in
art that, as they have now seen how I, the _fundi_, set about drawing a
trap, it would be advisable for them to attempt a more difficult
subject, such as this. It is dull work to keep on drawing their friends,
or trees, houses, and animals; and they are such clever fellows that a
bird-trap must surely be well within their powers. I have already
mentioned the look of embarrassed perplexity which I encountered when
beginning my studies at Lindi. Here it was even more marked and more
general. It produced a definite impression that the idea of what we call
perspective for the first time became clear to the men’s minds. They
were evidently trying to express something of the sort by their words
and gestures to each other; they followed with their fingers the
strangely foreshortened curves which in reality stood for circles—in
short, they were in presence of something new—something unknown and
unimagined, which on the one hand made them conscious of their
intellectual and artistic inferiority, and on the other drew them like a
magnet to my sketch-book. None of them has up to the present attempted
to draw one of these traps.
Travellers of former days, or in lands less satisfactorily explored than
German East Africa, found the difficulties of barter not the least of
their troubles. Stanley, not so many years ago, set out on his
explorations with hundreds of bales of various stuffs and innumerable
kinds of beads, and even thus it was not certain whether the natives of
the particular region traversed would be suited; not to mention the way
in which this primitive currency increased the number of carriers
required by every expedition. In German East Africa, where the Colonial
Administration has so often been unjustly attacked, the white man can
now travel almost as easily as at home. His letter of credit, indeed,
only holds good as far as the coast, but if his errand is, like mine, of
an official character, every station, and even every smaller post, with
any Government funds at its disposal, has orders to give the traveller
credit, on his complying with certain simple formalities, and to provide
him with cash. The explanation is not difficult: the fact that our
rupees are current on the coast compels all the interior tribes to adopt
them, whether they like it or not. I brought with me from Lindi a couple
of large sacks with rupees, half and quarter rupees, and for immediate
needs a few cases of _heller_.[16] This copper coin, long obsolete in
Germany, has been coined for circulation in our colony, but the natives
have not been induced to adopt it, and reckon as before by pice—an egg
costs one pice (_pesa_) and that is enough—no one thinks of working out
the price in hellers. Neither is the coin popular with the white
residents, who deride its introduction and make feeble puns on its
name—one of the poorest being based on the name of the present Director
of Customs, which happens to be identical with it.
I find, however, that the natives are by no means averse to accepting
these despised coins when they get the chance. On our tramps through the
villages, Moritz with the lantern is followed by Mambo sasa, the Mngoni,
carrying on his woolly head a large jar of bright copper coin newly
minted at Berlin.
After a long, but not tedious examination of all the apartments in the
native palaces, I return to the light of day, dazzled by the tropical
sunshine. With sympathetic chuckles, my bodyguard—those of my men who
are always with me and have quickly grasped, with the sympathetic
intuition peculiar to the native, what it is that I want—follow,
dragging with them a heap of miscellaneous property. Lastly come the
master of the house and his wife, in a state of mingled expectation and
doubt. Now begins the bargaining, in its essentials not very different
from that experienced in the harbours of Naples, Port Said, Aden and
Mombasa. “_Kiasi gani?_” (“What is the price?”) one asks with
ostentatious nonchalance, including the whole pile in a compendious wave
of the hand. The fortunate owner of the valuables apparently fails to
understand this, so he opens his mouth wide and says nothing. I must try
him on another tack. I hold up some article before his eyes and ask,
“_Nini hii?_” (“What is this?”), which proves quite effectual. My next
duty is to imagine myself back again in the lecture-hall during my first
term at college, and to write down with the utmost diligence the words,
not of a learned professor, but of a raw, unlettered _mshenzi_. By the
time I have learnt everything I want to know, the name, the purpose, the
mode of manufacture and the way in which the thing is used, the native
is at last able and willing to fix the retail price. Up to the present,
I have met with two extremes: one class of sellers demand whole rupees,
_Rupia tatu_ (three) or _Rupia nne_ (four), quite regardless of the
nature of the article for sale—the other, with equal consistency, a
_sumni_ as uniform price. This is a quarter-rupee—in the currency of
German East Africa an exceedingly attractive-looking silver coin, a
little smaller than our half-mark piece or an English sixpence. Possibly
it is its handiness, together with the untarnished lustre of my
newly-minted specimens in particular, which accounts for this
preference. One thing must be mentioned which distinguishes these people
very favourably from the bandits of the ports already mentioned. None of
them raises an outcry on being offered the tenth or twentieth part of
what he asks. With perfect calm he either gradually abates his demands
till a fair agreement is reached, or else he says, at the first offer,
“_Lete_” (“Hand it over”). At this moment Moritz and my jar of coppers
come to the front of the stage. The boy has quickly lifted the vessel
down from the head of his friend Mambo sasa. With the eye of a
connoisseur he grasps the state of our finances and then pays with the
dignity, if not the rapidity, of the cashier at a metropolitan bank. The
remaining articles are bargained for in much the same way. It takes more
time than I like; but this is not to be avoided.
When the purchase of the last piece is completed, my carriers, with the
amazing deftness I have so often admired, have packed up the spoil, in
the turn of a hand, in large and compact bundles. A searching look round
for photographic subjects, another last glance at the house-owner
chuckling to himself over his newly-acquired wealth, and then a vigorous
“_Kwa heri_” (“Good-bye”), and lantern and jar go their way. We had only
just settled into our house here when we received a visit from the
chief’s son, Salim Matola, a very tall and excessively slender youth of
seventeen or eighteen, magnificently clad in a European waistcoat, and
very friendly. Since then he has scarcely left my side; he knows
everything, can do everything, finds everything, and, to my delight,
brings me everything. He makes the best traps, shows me with what
diabolical ingenuity his countrymen set limed twigs, plays on all
instruments like a master, and produces fire by drilling so quickly that
one is astonished at the strength in his slight frame. In a word, he is
a treasure to the ethnographer.
One thing only seems to be unknown to my young friend, and that is work.
His father, Masekera Matola, already mentioned, has a very spacious
group of huts and extensive gardens. Whether the old gentleman ever does
any perceptible work on this property with his own hands, I am not in a
position to judge, as he is for the present most strenuously occupied in
consuming beer; but at every visit, I have noticed the women of the
family working hard to get in the last of the crops. The young prince
alone seems to be above every plebeian employment. His hands certainly
do not look horny, and his muscles leave much to be desired. He strolls
through life in his leisurely way with glad heart and cheerful spirit.
[Illustration: MY CARAVAN ON THE MARCH. DRAWN BY PESA MBILI]
CHAPTER VII
MY CARAVAN ON THE SOUTHWARD MARCH
CHINGULUNGULU, beginning of August, 1906.
It is not very easy to locate my present abode on the map. Masasi and
its exact latitude and longitude have been known to me for years, but of
this strangely named place,[17] where I drove in my tent-pegs a few days
ago, I never even heard before I had entered the area of the inland
tribes.
One trait is common to all Oriental towns, their beauty at a distance
and the disillusionment in store for those who set foot within their
walls. Knudsen has done nothing but rave about Chingulungulu ever since
we reached Masasi. He declared that its _baraza_ was the highest
achievement of East African architecture, that it had a plentiful supply
of delicious water, abundance of all kinds of meat, and unequalled fruit
and vegetables. He extolled its population, exclusively composed,
according to him, of high-bred gentlemen and good-looking women, and its
well-built, spacious houses. Finally, its situation, he said, made it a
convenient centre for excursions in all directions over the plain. I
have been here too short a time to bring all the details of this highly
coloured picture to the test of actual fact, but this much I have
already ascertained, that neither place nor people are quite so
paradisaical as the enthusiastic Nils would have me believe.
[Illustration: YAO HOMESTEAD AT CHINGULUNGULU]
To relate my experiences in their proper order, I must, however, go back
to our departure from Masasi which, owing to a variety of unfortunate
circumstances, took place earlier than originally planned. To begin
with, there was the changed attitude of the inhabitants, who at first,
as already stated, showed the greatest amiability, and allowed us, in
the most obliging way, to inspect their homes and buy their household
furnishings. In my later sketching and collecting expeditions, I came
everywhere upon closed doors and apparently deserted compounds. This
phenomenon, too, comes under the heading of racial psychology. However
much he may profit by the foreigner’s visits, the African prefers to
have his own hut to himself.[18]
In the second place, we began, in the course of a prolonged residence,
to discover the drawbacks of our quarters in the rest-house. Knudsen,
who is very sensitive in this respect, insisted that it was damp, and we
soon found that the subsoil water, which indeed reached the surface as a
large spring on the hillside a little below the house, was unpleasantly
close to our floor. Even on the march up from the coast, Knudsen had
suffered from occasional attacks of fever. These now became so frequent
and severe that he was scarcely fit for work. His faithful old servant,
Ali, nursed him with the most touching devotion, and never left his
bedside night or day.
I had myself on various occasions noticed a curious irritation of the
scalp, for which I could discover no cause, in spite of repeated
examination. One day, while hastening across from the dark-room to the
rest-house, with some wet plates in my hand, I was conscious of intense
discomfort among my scanty locks, and called out to Moritz to take off
my hat and look if there was anything inside it. He obeyed, inspected
the hat carefully inside and out, and, on pursuing his researches under
the lining, turned grey in the face, and ejaculated with evident horror,
“_Wadudu wabaya!_”[19] The case becoming interesting, I put my plates
down and instituted a minute investigation into Moritz’s find, which
proved to consist of a number of assorted animalcules, with a sprinkling
of larger creatures resembling ticks. This was somewhat startling. I had
come to Africa with a mind entirely at ease as regards malaria—I swear
by Koch and fear nothing. But remittent fever is another matter. In Dar
es Salam I had heard enough and to spare about this latest discovery of
the great Berlin bacteriologist, and how it is produced by an
inconspicuous tick-like insect which burrows in the soil of all sites
occupied for any length of time by natives. The mosquito-net, I was
told, is a sufficient protection against the full grown _papasi_, as
they are called, but not against their hopeful progeny, which can slip
unhindered through the finest mesh. This particular kind of fever,
moreover, was said to be most especially trying—you were never seriously
ill, and yet never really well, or fit for work; and nothing, not even
quinine, would avail to keep the attacks from recurring every few days.
Small wonder if, at the sight of these _wadudu wabaya_ in the shape of
ticks, I too turned pale at the thought of the ignoble end possibly
awaiting my enterprise before it was well begun.
I had already found out that Masasi was not precisely an abode of all
the virtues, and that an appreciable percentage of the soldiers forming
the garrison at the _boma_ were suffering from venereal diseases; but
the incident which precipitated our departure was the following. The
_akida_, or local headman (a former sergeant in the Field Force), was
the owner of a small herd of cattle, and with the good-nature which is
one of the most striking traits in the African character, earned my
warmest gratitude by sending me a small jar of milk every day. After a
time we heard, and the rumour gained in definiteness with each
repetition, that the _akida_ was a leper. I could not refuse the milk,
which continued to arrive regularly, and came in very handy for fixing
my pencil drawings.
[Illustration: THE YAO CHIEF MATOLA]
In their totality the evils enumerated may not signify more than a
succession of pin-pricks; but even such trifling interferences with
human well-being may in the end appreciably diminish one’s enjoyment of
life. With the attractions of Chingulungulu as an additional inducement,
it was not surprising that only a day or two intervened between the
first suggestion that we should migrate southward and our actual
departure. With their usual monkeylike agility, my carriers one evening
packed a large heap of specimens in convenient loads, and as quickly the
order was given to Saleh, the corporal in command of the _askari_, and
Pesa mbili, the leader of the porters, “_Safari_ to-morrow at six!”
Next to Matola, the Yao chief of Chingulungulu, no man in the country is
oftener in men’s mouths than his illustrious colleague and fellow
tribesman, Nakaam, of Chiwata in the north-western part of the Makonde
plateau. The Europeans on the coast are not agreed as to which of these
two chiefs is the more powerful. In the interior, however, Matola seems
to be far more looked up to by the natives than the chief of Chiwata.
Nevertheless, I thought it absolutely necessary to visit the latter and
his people. My plans are not based on any fixed line of march, but were
expressly arranged so that I should be able to take whatever route
circumstances might render most convenient.
I must confess that my stay at Masasi has turned out a disappointment as
regards the customs, habits and ideas of the natives, though I have
gained a very fair insight into the outward, material details of their
life. But here too, Nils Knudsen is ready with consolation and
encouragement. “What can you expect, Professor? the people here are a
terribly mixed lot, after all, and have lost all their own traditions
and customs. Don’t waste any more time in this wretched hole of a
Masasi, but come to Chingulungulu; you have no idea what a fine place
that is!”
[Illustration: NAKAAM, A YAO CHIEF]
We marched at daybreak on July 31. The road through the Masasi district,
as already mentioned, skirts the great chain of insular mountains on the
east, passing, at a sufficient height to afford an extensive view to the
east and south, over an escarpment formed by the products of aerial
denudation from the gneiss peaks. Did I say the plain? it is an ocean
that we see spread out before our eyes, a white, boundless expanse,
studded with islands, here one, there another, and yonder, on the misty
horizon, whole archipelagoes. This wonderful spectacle, passing away all
too quickly as the sun climbs higher—the peaks rising like islands from
the sea of the morning mist, while our caravan trails its length along
the shore—pictures for us as in a mirror the aspect it presented in
those distant ages when the blue waves of the primæval ocean rolled
where now the blue smoke of lowly huts ascends to the heavens.
The goal of our first day’s march was Mwiti, where, to judge from the
importance given to it on the map, I expected a large native settlement.
Not far from the Masasi Mission station, the road to Mwiti branches off
from the Coast road on the right. I order a halt; the column opens out;
I shout into the fresh morning air “_Wapagazi kwa Lindi!_” (“the
carriers for Lindi!”); and the oldest and also the tallest of my
porters, a Mnyamwezi of pronounced Masai type, strides up with a heavy,
swaying motion like a camel.
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF A COMPOUND AT MWITI]
His name, Kofia tule, was at first a puzzle to me. I knew that _kofia_
means a cap, but, curiously enough it never occurred to me to look up
_tule_ (which, moreover, I assumed to be a Nyamwezi word) in the
dictionary. That it was supposed to involve a joke of some sort, I
gathered from the general laughter, whenever I asked its meaning. At
last we arrived at the fact that _kofia tule_ means a small, flat cap—in
itself a ridiculous name for a man, but doubly so applied to this black
super-man with the incredibly vacant face.
Kofia tule, then, comes slowly forward, followed by six more Wanyamwezi,
and some local men whom I have engaged as extra carriers. With him as
their _mnyampara_ they are to take my collections down to the Coast, and
get them stored till my return in the cellars of the District
Commissioner’s office at Lindi. The final instructions are delivered,
and then comes the order, “You here, go to the left,—we are going to the
right. March!” Our company takes some time to get into proper marching
order, but at last everything goes smoothly. A glance northward over the
plain assures us that Kofia tule and his followers have got up the
correct _safari_ speed; and we plunge into the uninhabited virgin
_pori_.
There is something very monotonous and fatiguing about the march through
these open woods. It is already getting on for noon, and I am
half-asleep on my mule, when I catch sight of two black figures, gun in
hand, peeping cautiously round a clump of bushes in front. Can they be
Wangoni?
For some days past we have heard flying rumours that Shabruma, the
notorious leader of the Wangoni in the late rebellion, and the last of
our opponents remaining unsubdued, is planning an attack on Nakaam, and
therefore threatening this very neighbourhood. Just as I look round for
my gun-bearer, a dozen throats raise the joyful shout of “Mail-carrier!”
This is my first experience of the working of the German Imperial Post
in East Africa; I learnt in due course that, though by no means
remunerative to the department, it is as nearly perfect as any human
institution can be. It sounds like an exaggeration, but it is absolutely
true, to say that all mail matter, even should it be only a single
picture post-card, is delivered to the addressee without delay, wherever
he may be within the postal area. The native runners, of course, have a
very different sort of duty to perform from the few miles daily required
of our home functionaries. With letters and papers packed in a
water-tight envelope of oiled paper and American cloth, and gun on
shoulder, the messenger trots along, full of the importance of his
errand, and covers enormous distances, sometimes, it is said, double the
day’s march of an ordinary caravan. If the road lies through a district
rendered unsafe by lions, leopards, or human enemies, two men are always
sent together. The black figures rapidly approach us, ground arms with
soldierly precision and report in proper form:—Letters from Lindi for
the _Bwana mkubwa_ and the _Bwana mdogo_—the great and the little
master. As long as Mr. Ewerbeck was with us, it was not easy for the
natives to establish the correct precedence between us. Since they
ranked me as the new captain, they could not possibly call me _Bwana
mdogo_. Now, however, there is not the slightest difficulty,—there are
only two Europeans, and I being, not only the elder, but also the leader
of the expedition, there is nothing to complicate the usual gradation of
ranks.
[Illustration: CAMP AT MWITI]
By the middle of the afternoon, a broken hilly country had taken the
place of the undulating plain. Every few minutes our path was crossed by
clear streams, running in steep-sided gullies almost impassable for my
mule and the heavily-laden carriers. The vegetation became greener and
more abundant, but at the same time the heat in these narrow ravines
proved well-nigh suffocating. I rode along, trying to read my home
letters, regardless of the logs which from time to time formed barriers
across the path, or the thorny bushes which overhung it. Our guide, no
other than Salim Matola, the lanky jack-of-all-trades, had marched on
far ahead. I had on the previous day, attracted by his many good
qualities, formally engaged him as my collector-in-chief; whereupon,
true to his character, he inaugurated his new functions by demanding a
substantial sum in advance. Unfortunately for him, I am already too old
in African experience to be caught so easily. “First show me what you
can do,” was my response, “and then in a few weeks’ time you may ask
again. Now be off and be quick about it!” Salim had declared on oath
that he knew the road well. The map is not to be relied on for this part
of the country; but according to our calculation we should have reached
Mwiti long before this. With a sudden resolution I struck my heels into
the flanks of my lazily-ambling mule and, starting him into a gallop,
soon overtook the guide striding along at the head of the column.
“_Mwiti wapi?_” (“Where is Mwiti?”) I roared at him. “_Sijui Bwana_” (“I
don’t know, sir,”) was the somewhat plaintive answer. “_Simameni!_”
(“Stop!”), I shouted at the top of my voice, and then followed a grand
_shauri_. None of my carriers knew the country, nor did any of the
_askari_ or their boys appear any better informed. There was nothing for
it but to march by the map, that is to say, in our case, turn to the
right about till we struck the Mwiti stream again, and then follow it up
till we reached the place itself. It was late in the afternoon when the
longed-for goal at last came in sight. Salim Matola now brought back a
half-rupee received from me, protesting that it was “bad,” by which he
meant that the Emperor’s effigy had sustained a very slight damage. The
young man’s exit from my presence was more speedy than dignified, and
illustrated the miraculous effect of an energetic gesture with the
_kiboko_ (hippo-hide whip). But such are the ways of the native.
[Illustration: SHUTTER WITH INLAID _SWASTIKA_, in NAKAAM’S HOUSE AT
MWITI]
Africa is the land of contrasts. Masasi, at a height of from 1,300 to
2,000 feet, was on the whole pleasantly cool, while we had been
half-roasted on the march across the plain between the insular mountains
and the Makonde plateau; and now at Mwiti a heavy fur coat would have
been acceptable, so bitterly cold is the strong wind which, directly the
sun has set, sweeps down from the heights with their maximum atmospheric
pressure to the rarefied air of the plain which has been baking in the
heat all day long. Our camping-place seemed to have been specially
designed to catch all the winds of heaven. With startling strategic
insight, Nakaam has chosen for his palace a site on a promontory ending
a long range of heights and surrounded on three sides by a loop of the
Mwiti River. On these three sides it falls away in precipitous cliffs,
the only easy access being from the south. If I call Nakaam’s house a
palace, I am not exaggerating. This chief has not only the reputation of
being the shrewdest native in the southern district, but he must be
comparatively wealthy; otherwise he would scarcely have been able to
employ a competent builder from the Coast to erect for him a really
imposing house with many rooms and a high, steep roof. The rooms are
actually well lighted with real though unglazed windows, which, in the
apartments devoted to the chief’s harem, can be closed with shutters.
The architect has put the finishing touch to his work by ornamenting all
the woodwork in the typical Coast style with incised arabesques. From my
long chair, into which I threw myself quite worn out on arriving, I
gazed in astonishment at the wide verandah shading the front of this,
considering its surroundings, doubly remarkable building. Suddenly I
started up and, leaping over the confusion of trunks and packing cases
just laid down under the verandah by the carriers, hastened to one of
the windows, scarcely able to believe my eyes. A _swastika_, the
“fylfot,” the ancient symbol of good fortune, here in the centre of the
Dark Continent! “May you bring me luck too!” I murmured to myself, still
greatly surprised. In fact, it was the well-known sign, or something
exceedingly like it, neatly inlaid in ivory in the centre of the
shutter. When Nakaam appeared, within four hours, in response to an
urgent summons despatched on our arrival, one of my first questions,
after the customary ceremonious salutations, related to the name and
meaning of the figure let into this window-shutter. My disappointment
was great when he simply answered “_Nyota_—a star.” We must therefore
suppose that the _swastika_ is unknown to the natives of the interior.
In the present case it was probably, like the rest of the ornamentation,
introduced by the builder from the Coast. At Mwiti we remained a day and
a half and two nights, without much benefit to my ethnographical
collection. Either Nakaam has very little influence over his subjects,
or they must be very few in number. The passing traveller can scarcely
judge of this, for the hilly nature of the country prevents any
comprehensive survey, and the tribes hereabouts live scattered over so
wide an extent of ground that the small area visible in one view is no
criterion for the whole. All the more varied and interesting are the
psychological observations I have been able to make in this place.
Nakaam himself is a short, stout man of middle age, dressed quite after
the Swahili fashion in a long white kanzu or shirt-like upper garment.
As to his nationality I had been already informed—the jolly _pombe_
drinkers at Masasi had told me with malicious grins that Nakaam in his
conceit called himself a Yao, but was in reality “only” a Makua.
[Illustration: YAO HUT]
In the evening, Nakaam, Knudsen and I were sitting under the verandah,
by the light of my lamp, which, however, maintained a very precarious
existence in spite of all the mats and blankets we had hung up to
windward, and was more than once extinguished by the furious hurricane
which roared down from the crest of the plateau. Nakaam accepted with
much dignity two bottles of so-called “_jumbe’s_ cognac,”[20] which I
found among my stores, and the conversation began with a discussion of
Chiwata, its situation, the number of its inhabitants, the tribes they
belonged to, and similar matters, We ascertained that Nakaam’s subjects
were chiefly Wayao, “And you—are you a Yao yourself?” “_Ndio_” (“Yes”),
he replied with evident conviction. But I could not refrain from
objecting, “All the men in this country say you are not a Yao but a
Makua.”
The negro, unfortunately, cannot blush[21] or it would have been very
interesting to see whether this noble representative of the race was
liable to that reflex action. He wriggled for a time, and at last, in a
quite inimitable accent, came his answer, “Long ago, it is true, I was a
Makua, but now, for a very long time, I have been a Yao.”
His metamorphosis will appear somewhat strange to those who have paid no
attention to African ethnography. It is only intelligible in the light
of what has taken place among the population of this region in the
course of the last hundred years. In Livingstone’s time, between forty
and fifty years ago, the whole Rovuma territory was at peace, the people
who had lived there from time immemorial planted their millet and
manioc, and went hunting whenever they pleased.[22] Then from the far
south, hostile elements swept into the country in successive waves,
rolling northward on both shores of Lake Nyasa. Bands of armed warriors,
in sudden onset, without the slightest warning, throw themselves on the
old, defenceless tribes, and sweep them before their onward rush. Not
till they reach the north end of Nyasa does the devastating flood come
to a stop, two or three Zulu kingdoms—for the intruders belong to that
brave and warlike race—are founded, and a new era begins. But what
consequences ensue for the whole of East Africa! In wars and raids
repeated again and again over hundreds of miles, the new rulers of the
land have made a wilderness of the old thickly-populated and well-tilled
land. Under the name of the Mazitu, they were the terror of the country
between Nyasa and Tanganyika by the end of the sixties. Later on, in the
early days of German colonial rule, they became, under that of Mafiti, a
far worse terror to the whole vast region between Nyasa and the Indian
Ocean. Under the further designations of Wamachonde, Magwangwara and
Wangoni, they still form an unpleasant topic of conversation at caravan
camp-fires. To-day, indeed, there is scant justification for the dread
they inspire, for within the last few years the supremacy of these Zulus
has come to an end—the effect of the German arms has been too lasting.
Only one of their chiefs, the Shabruma already mentioned, is still, with
a small band of followers, making the country unsafe; all the others
have unconditionally accepted our terms.
This Wangoni invasion—Wangoni is the name which by tacit agreement is
used to include all these immigrant South African elements—has been the
proximate cause of the following remarkable process.
The old residents of the country, so far as they remained—for in many
cases their men were all killed by the Wangoni, and the women and
children carried off to the cool, damp region east of the north end of
Lake Nyasa, and incorporated with the Zulu tribe—saw that the Mngoni,
with his short spear, his oval hide shield and his fantastic ornaments
of vulture’s feathers, strips of leopard-skin and so forth, was
irresistible. These people never understood that the formidable
appearance of the enemy was only in a slight degree responsible for this
result, which in truth was mainly achieved by the greater courage of the
Wangoni and their serried charge with the short stabbing assagai—a
terrible weapon, indeed, at close quarters. They took the appearance for
the reality, copied the Wangoni style of dress, and tried also to
imitate the rest of their martial equipment. This notion is prevalent
among the same tribes even at the present day.[23] This whole process
may be described, in biological terms, as a kind of mimicry, still more
interesting by reason of the circumstance that it has found its exact
counterpart in the north of the colony, near Kilimanjaro, and in the
districts west and south-west of it. There the resident Bantu tribes,
having experienced the superiority of the Masai with their gigantic
spears, their huge, strong leather shields, and their fantastic war
ornaments, have immediately drawn their own conclusions, and to-day one
sees all these tribes—Wachaga, Wapare, Wagweno, Wagogo, and so on, in a
get-up which makes the nickname “apes of the Masai” appear quite
justified.
Here in the south, however, the part played by mimicry in native life is
by no means exhausted by this aping of the Wangoni. The far-reaching
confusion which, since the Zulu king, Tshaka, took the stage in 1818,
has never allowed South Africa to come to rest, has set off other tribes
besides the Zulus on a northward migration. The peoples most immediately
affected by this were the Yaos and the Makua: the former are penetrating
from their original seats between the Rovuma and the Zambezi, slowly but
persistently into the German territory, while the Yaos are moving
forward, as imperceptibly and perhaps still more persistently, from
their country which lies further west, at the south end of Nyasa. Thus
these two waves of population collide just here, in the district I am
studying, at an acute angle, and this was one of my principal reasons
for proceeding to this remote corner, when the rebellion prevented my
journey to Iraku.
Now the Makua, or at least some individuals among them, seem to be like
many Germans abroad—they begin to look on themselves and their
nationality as something inferior and contemptible, and their first
preoccupation is to dismiss from their minds every recollection of their
own country and their native language. In this country, since the terror
of the Wangoni, whose last raids took place about 1880, has somewhat
faded from the memory of the rising generation, the Wayao are the
aristocrats. No wonder that so vain a man as Nakaam undoubtedly is,
flatly denies his own nationality, in order to be considered socially up
to the mark.
A most comical effect is produced when a native wishes to emphasize some
notion as being quite out of the common—as for instance when he wishes
to say that something is very high or very distant, very beautiful, or
only to be expected in the far future, or the like. This is expressed by
an inimitable screwing up of the voice on the adjective or adverb in
question to the highest possible falsetto. I shall come back later to
this, which is an unusually interesting point in linguistics; for the
present I can only recall with intense pleasure my amusement when
Nakaam, in saying “_Mimi Makua, lakini wa zamani_” (“I am a Makua, but
one of long ago”) so lengthened out the syllables “_mani_” and elevated
the “_ni_” so far into the top of his head, that I feared he would never
find his way back to the present.
Having thus convinced Nakaam, though not precisely to his own
satisfaction, of his real origin, we were about to pass on to a
different and, for him, more pleasing topic, when we suddenly found
ourselves in the dark. The roar of the gale had steadily increased
through the evening, the occasional squalls had become fiercer and more
frequent, and now a real hurricane was raging round the swastika-palace
and the tents; and our mats and blankets were flapping about our ears
like storm-lashed sails. The heavy roof of the house creaked and groaned
in all its joists, and our tents could scarcely stand against the
tremendous force of the wind. Every attempt to light the lamp once more
would have been vain, and considering the highly inflammable nature of
our surroundings, extremely dangerous. There was nothing for it but to
put an end to the interview, just as it began to grow interesting, and
crawl into one’s tent, to bed.
Sleeping in Africa has its peculiar discomforts. First, the trough-like
camp bed is less conducive to rest than the broad iron bedsteads of the
coast; then, the fall in the temperature about an hour before sunrise
awakens one and forces one to reach for another blanket; and, finally,
the chorus of coughing always to be heard from a large caravan most
effectually murders sleep! On the march from Lindi to Masasi, the whole
troop of police had always camped for the night in a close circle round
our tents, heads pointing outward; and in the bitterly cold nights at
Nangoo and Chikugwe, there was such a coughing and spitting that one did
not know which deserved most compassion, the unhappy wretches shivering
outside, or ourselves. Here at Mwiti, I wanted to quarter both the
escort and the carriers at a distance from my own tent; but the corporal
in command of the dozen men assigned me in the former capacity by
Ewerbeck, explained that it would not do, as the Wangoni were
approaching. So I had once more to let them lay down their mats, and
plant the poles on which to hang their guns and cartridge-belts, all
round my tent, and could get no sleep for their coughing; but this time
pity was stronger than irritation. There was only too much cause for the
former: the small open space in front of Nakaam’s house, where we have
pitched our tent, is almost treeless and quite unprotected against the
icy wind from the heights. Each man builds a good fire beside his mat,
but this does not avail to keep them warm in their thin khaki suits.
The native is certainly, an incomprehensible being. Next morning I
called all the men together and told them to build themselves grass
huts, or, if that was too much trouble, at least screens to protect them
against the wind.—“_Ndio, Bwana_,” (“Yes, sir,”) answered the whole
company; but when the afternoon came, and I inquired about their
shelters, it came out that there were none. I was going on in a few
days, it seemed, and so there was no object in building shelters. “Very
good!” I replied coldly, “then you may just freeze. But those who come
to me with colds, in the next few days,” I added to myself, “shall not
be treated with anything pleasant, like aspirine, but with quinine; and
they shall not have it in water, but dry; and I mean to make the rascals
chew this beautiful strong _dawa_ before my eyes.” Thus does Africa
spoil the character and, unfortunately, not that of the natives only.
[Illustration: ELDERLY MAKONDE WOMAN IN GALA DRESS]
My second day at Mwiti was fraught with yet other instructive
experiences. The fever, from which I have only just recovered, must
still be hanging about me, for I felt a strange slackness, and quietly
went to sleep during the forenoon in my long chair under Nakaam’s
_baraza_. I was awakened by strange sounds, a smack and a howl
alternately, and, glancing to the left, perceived that the fair-haired
Nils, in his quality of interim sub-prefect, was dispensing justice like
a second Solomon. I have been present at several trials since I first
arrived at Lindi, but such an experience is always interesting; so I was
on the spot in a moment. The delinquent had in the meantime, howling
loudly, received his five blows in full tale, and now stood upright once
more, rubbing the injured part with excusably mixed feelings, though
still looking impudent enough. Being, according to the present custom of
the country, somewhat disguised in drink, he had, in the course of his
examination, gone so far as to address Knudsen by a particular
name—apparently the nickname by which he was known to the natives behind
his back. This could not be passed over: hence the execution. The
native, it may be said, looks on this as a matter of course, and would
be much astonished if any want of respect failed to meet with condign
punishment on the spot. In fact, he would think us very slack, and quite
unfit to be his masters.
The next case, of which likewise I only witnessed the conclusion, also
had a touch of tragi-comedy. I saw Corporal Saleh hastening across the
square with a piece of stout cocoa-nut rope, such as is used by carriers
to tie up their loads, in his hand. Before I could look round he had
seized a young man standing before Knudsen and bound his arms tightly
behind his back. The culprit submitted quietly, but a deafening outburst
of talk arose when Saleh, throwing the rope like a lasso, fastened the
other end round the waist of a young woman standing by, who chiefly
attracted my attention by the truly Hottentot development of her figure
about the hips. I ventured to interrupt this remarkable scene by
inquiring what was up.
“Just look at this other man,” said the modern Solomon, “He is the
woman’s husband, and she has been living for months with the other,
while he was away on a journey. And when he came back and found them
together, the scoundrel bit him in the hand into the bargain.”
“Oh! and to reward this precious couple you are fastening them
together?”
“Not exactly as a reward; but they must be sent down to Lindi for trial.
He is sure to get a month or two on the chain-gang; and I have no other
way of sending them down.”
I have seldom seen such delighted faces as those of the two delinquents
as they were led away.
All day long I had seen one of my carriers lurking about my tent. In the
afternoon he plucked up courage and approached, saying that he wanted
_dawa_. “What for?” I asked, somewhat distantly. “For a wound.” I
supposed that he had somehow hurt himself on the march, and sent for
Stamburi, the soldier who is entrusted with the treatment of all cases I
do not care to undertake myself. Stamburi had some little difficulty in
getting rid of the crust of dirt which encrusted the wounded leg, but at
last succeeded in laying bare an old ulcer on the shin, which had eaten
down to the bone and was in a horrible condition. Indignantly I turned
on Mr. Sigareti,—such is the dirty fellow’s name—and told him that he
had cheated me; he was no porter, but a sick man who ought to be in
hospital. This wound was not recent, but months old, and I should send
him back to Lindi at the first opportunity. With quiet insolence he
replied, “_Lindi hapana, Bwana_;” he had been engaged for six months,
and should not dream of leaving any sooner. It was a very unpleasant
predicament for me, ignorant as I was of the regulations bearing on the
case. If I kept the man it was probable that he might become
incapacitated, or even die on the road; if I sent him off into the bush,
he was sure to be eaten by lions. In any case it is interesting to note
the one-sided development of this honest fellow’s sense of justice—he
insists on the letter of his bond, but only so far as it is to his own
advantage. The whole black race may best be characterized by two little
words, _hapana_ (literally “there is not” or “it is not there,” but
usually employed in the sense of “no”), and _bado_, “not yet.” At least
ninety-nine out of every hundred questions are answered by one or other
of these two expressions. “Have you done so and so?” or, “Where is such
a thing?”—asks the European: the answer will be in the first case,
“_Bado_,” and in the second, “_Hapana_.” I have before now suggested
that all the Bantu idioms of East Africa might be comprehended under the
collective designation of Kibado or Kihapana. At first one finds it
rather amusing, especially if one notices the affected intonation of the
“_bado_” but in the end the incessant repetition of these two words,
never varied by a _Ndio_ (“Yes,”) or “_Nimekwisha_” (“I have finished,”)
becomes monotonous, and drives the long-suffering traveller to his
_kiboko_.
Towards the evening of this same memorable day, about an hour before
sunset, a small boy of eight or nine came up and offered for sale a
number of small ornamental combs. The things were indeed beautifully
made, the comb itself being composed of thin, rounded slips of wood, and
the upper end covered with different-coloured pieces of straw, arranged
in neat geometrical patterns. “Where are these things made?” I demanded
of the little merchant. “_Karibu sana_” (“Very near”), was the prompt
answer. “And who makes them?” “A _fundi_” (a master-workman), said the
boy, evidently surprised at the ignorance of the white man, who might
surely be expected to know that in this country everything is made by a
_fundi_. The bargain was quickly concluded, and having as quickly
exchanged my sun-helmet for a light felt hat, and told Kibwana (who ran
up with unusual nimbleness) with some asperity to leave behind the gun
which he had hastily snatched up, I started on my way through the
forest. The little man hastened forward at a wonderful pace. Five, ten,
fifteen minutes passed, and every time I asked whether we were not
nearly there, came the deprecatory reply, “_Karibu sana!_” The fifteen
minutes became forty and then sixty, and when the sun had already sunk
behind the hills, we seemed to be no nearer the goal. All my questions
produced evasive answers; sometimes a distant _shamba_ was pointed out
as the _fundi’s_ abode, sometimes he was affirmed to be just in front of
us.
At last, growing tired, I sprang on our fleet-footed little guide from
behind, seizing him, in the absence of any other suitable point of
attack, by the ears. A severe cross-examination, assisted by gentle
reminders applied in the same quarter, elicited the fact that our
destination was high up in the hills, and quite as far ahead as we had
already come. This meant that I should not get there before seven, or
perhaps eight, by which time it would be quite dark; and I was unarmed
and had no prospect of shelter for the night. My enthusiasm for native
arts and crafts not running to such a length as that, I pulled our
guide’s ears once more, with a short explanation of European views on
the subject of distance, dismissed him with a slight slap, and returned
empty-handed. At that time I was filled with irritation at this
inscrutable people and their ways; to-day, when I come to think of it, I
am forced to acknowledge that things are really not so very different at
home: one man thinks twenty miles a mere trifle, another finds half a
mile quite enough for a day’s march. I have already noticed, however,
that the native is accustomed to greater distances and bases his
calculations on greater powers of walking than we.
Once more the lamp is flickering unsteadily under Nakaam’s _baraza_,
which is better protected than yesterday, though the storm is out of all
proportion more violent.
“So there are sixty millions of people in Ulaya?” asks Nakaam in
astonishment. “Sixty millions! But what is a million? Is it _elfu elfu
elfu_—a thousand times a thousand times a thousand?”
Heavens! think I—the fellow is going it! 1,000 × 1,000 × 1,000—that is a
thousand millions. Sixty thousand millions of Germans! My poor country!
Population statistics for ever! But shall I undeceive Nakaam? Certainly
not—we have not so much prestige that we can afford to part with a jot.
So I answer “_Ndio, elfu elfu elfu_” and let it go at that.
“And how many soldiers has the Sultani ya Ulaya, the German Emperor?”
Here I felt quite justified in sticking to the truth. “When we are not
at war we have 600,000 _askari_, but in war-time we have six millions.”
Nakaam is not a man to be easily impressed, but as he silently made the
calculation, “six times _elfu elfu elfu_” it was plain that we were
rising in his estimation. However, he is not only of a critical turn of
mind, but also knows something of recent history.
“Is it not true,” he asks, “that in the great war between the Russians
and the Japanese, the Russians were beaten?” This fact I could not
indeed deny, however much I might wish to do so; but I thought it
advisable to add, in the same breath with my affirmative answer, that
this defeat signified nothing to us, for we, the Wadachi, were much
stronger than the Russians, the Japanese and the English all together.
Nakaam certainly looked convinced, but whether he was genuinely so or
not, who can tell?
In geography my boy Moritz headed the class till recently. I heard him
giving his friends, and anyone else who cared to listen, long lectures
on Ulaya and America. He spoke of Berlin, Hamburg and Leipzig and
explained to an interested audience with inexhaustible patience what was
the end and aim of his master’s being in distant Ulaya. I was the _Bwana
mkubwa_, so he said, of a great—a very great house—in which were the
mats and stools and pots and spoons and cocoa-nut graters of all the
tribes in the world; and I had come into this country to get more of
such things and take them to Ulaya. It must be acknowledged that Moritz
gave a pretty fair interpretation of the end I had in view; but his fame
was soon eclipsed when, a day or two before we left Masasi, Ali, the
far-travelled, came up from Lindi, to enter Knudsen’s service once more.
Moritz’s squeaky voice was now silenced, for Ali was able to relate what
he had seen with his own eyes at Berlin and Hamburg, having once visited
Germany with a former master. His only regret was that he did not know
Leipzig.
Nakaam’s topographical knowledge was, like Moritz’s, of a purely
theoretic nature, and it only went as far as Berlin. But what an intense
interest this man took in every possible detail of a European town! He
wanted to know the length of the streets, the height of the houses, and
how one could ascend such towers as they seemed to be, and how many
people lived in one house, where they cooked their food, and a hundred
other things. For me, with my scanty Swahili vocabulary, it was, of
course, quite impossible to satisfy this thirst for information to its
fullest extent, and I was the more grateful to Knudsen for his help.
Next day we marched to a God-forsaken hole called Mkululu, not as yet
marked on any map. The miserable huts here were a complete contrast to
Nakaam’s house, and the village square and _baraza_ were dirty and
neglected. Both had to be thoroughly cleaned before we could have our
tents pitched close to the rest-house. Yet we were compelled to be
grateful to the fate which had instinctively as it were directed our
steps to the shelter of its thatched roof. The gale which had spoilt our
evenings at Mwiti arose here likewise, soon after sunset. It would have
been absolutely impossible to remain out of doors with such a quantity
of dust, leaves, grass and twigs whirling through the air. Even under
the _baraza_ it was unendurable, so there was nothing for it but to make
for our tents and get into our warm beds. Alas! this adjective did not
apply, and all efforts to get warm, even with the help of a second
camel’s hair blanket, were vain. I shivered with cold and my teeth
chattered so that at intervals they were audible above the roaring of
the gale. This roaring became louder and more formidable every quarter
of an hour, and, thinking that the chill I felt was merely due to the
usual fall of temperature in the evening, I got up to make the tent a
little more weather-tight. Though I did not even get outside, I was
sincerely thankful to return to its shelter. The world outside was given
up to a veritable witches’ sabbath. Howling, shrieking and whistling,
the storm, carrying with it dense clouds of dust and rubbish, raged
round my tent; and the moment I attempted to set foot out of doors the
whirlwind seized me in its embrace. At the same time an incessant
crashing of falling trees and breaking branches, some of them, to judge
by the sound, of considerable size, went on all round us. I never closed
an eye during this night: the cold fit soon yielded to a violent
perspiration, and only the inexorable necessity of marching on got me
out of bed in the early morning.
I should prefer to say nothing about the forced march from Mkululu to
Chingulungulu, as I must have played but a sorry part that day in the
eyes of our followers. Knudsen, too, was suffering from fever. In the
early morning, while the air was still cool and the bush fresh and
green, it was not so bad, though riding was out of the question. Our way
now ran close under the western edge of the Makonde plateau, through an
area of deep sedimentary deposits, and at the same time of numerous
springs. Consequently, every few hundred yards, the caravan found itself
on the edge of a deep ravine with almost vertical sides, excavated by a
stream in the loose soil. With unsteady feet one stumbles down the steep
declivity, and only succeeds in scrambling up the other side by
straining every muscle and nerve in the fever-weakened body. After this
has happened more than a dozen times, the guide turns off the path to
the right and disappears in the bush. This now becomes more and more
open the farther we leave the escarpment of the plateau behind us, and
at last it is the typical “open tree and grass steppe:” every tree
exactly like every other; fresh foliage only at intervals; underwood
also rare, but thorny where it occurs; grass in most places already
burnt off. Where this is the case, an impenetrable cloud of ashes,
stirred up by local whirlwinds, and still more by the steps of our
party, circles round us in the glowing heat of noon, covering everything
with a thick layer of black dust. I have long ago dropped the reins on
the mule’s neck, and he has twice, in his innate apathy and
determination to keep a straight course, run into a thornbush, so that I
had to let myself fall off him backwards, whether I liked it or not. At
last the Yao chief Zuza’s stately house came into view, and a few
minutes later we and our men lay panting in its shade.
[Illustration: GROUND PLAN OF HUT]
The strength of will of a civilized man is after all something to be
proud of. In spite of our wretched condition, Knudsen and I could
scarcely hold out five minutes on our camp stools, before we entered
Zuza’s house and began to ask questions, sketch and collect. It proved a
very good opportunity, for Zuza seems not only to be personally quite a
unique representative of his race, but his house is arranged in a way
one would never expect from a native. He himself, with his long black
beard and intelligent face, is well and cleanly dressed in white calico,
and his house is high, with an unusually neat and clean plastering of
clay, light and airy. The hearth is really, in its way, a small work of
art; the usual three stones rest on a raised clay platform about a yard
wide, close to the wall and occupying the whole width of the kitchen.
All round the fire itself is a series of very curious clay stands, by
their shape evidently intended for supports to the round-bottomed pots.
In Zuza’s own sleeping apartment we see—not indeed a European sofa, such
as every Kamerun native has in his hut (I am thankful to see that the
East Africans have not yet advanced so far)—but the prototype of all
couches: a clay platform, about a foot high and something over a yard
wide, with bevelled edges, and an inclined plane at the upper end, to
rest the head and shoulders on, the whole being covered with
beautifully-made clean mats.
[Illustration: ZUZA’S COUCH AND FIREPLACE]
Yet even a man like Zuza cannot change his skin. After inspecting every
part of the interior, we walked round the house; and I noticed an object
hanging from a stick fixed under the eaves, strongly resembling a large
sausage. It was the fruit of the _Kigelia_, which is called by Europeans
the “German sausage tree,” though its resemblance to a sausage ends with
its appearance. Zuza, after some hesitation, explained that this fruit
was _dawa_—a medicine or a charm, or whatever is the proper name for
such a preservative. Its task was no easy one, and consisted in
protecting the house against the whirlwinds which habitually blow here
with such violence that it is said they frequently carry away the roofs
of huts. What association of ideas led these people to attribute to this
inoffensive fruit the power of vanquishing Nature in her strongest
manifestations, Zuza could not or would not inform me.
[Illustration: YAO WOMEN WITH NOSE-STUDS]
Not only our halt at this place, but the preceding march through the
bush gave me the opportunity for one or two interesting observations. We
had halted for breakfast at a comparatively green spot in the bush—my
caravan lying on the ground in picturesque confusion, Knudsen and I
seated somewhat apart, as my olfactory nerves were at this stage of the
fever more sensitive than usual. Suddenly I heard shouts whose import
resembled the coarse witticisms uttered by our soldiers at home when any
being of the female sex passes within earshot of a company. In fact,
when I looked, I saw a young woman trying to avoid the group of
strangers by making a circuit of twenty or thirty yards. This in itself
was nothing particularly exciting, but suddenly my men, who have long
ago discovered what interests me, shouted all together, “_Kipini,
bwana!_” (“The nose-pin, sir!”) In another second, some of them had
brought the fair one before me. She had, in fact, an exceptionally fine
specimen of an ebony stud in her left nostril, inlaid with tin if
possible still more prettily and gracefully than usual. At first she
flatly refused all offers to purchase, but in the end the fear of so
many strange men, wild-looking ones, too, seemed to be more effectual
than even the lustre of a quarter-rupee. Hesitatingly she put her left
hand to her nose, the right following almost instantaneously. She must
have taken out the _kipini_ with a dexterous pressure of the former, for
the next moment she was already handing over the ornament, while all the
time, with an inexplicable shyness and persistency, she kept her nose
covered so that the process of extraction was quite invisible. Even long
after receiving her piece of silver, she still held her hand to her
face, in spite of a renewed fire of jokes from my men. Undoubtedly the
removal of the _kipini_ is felt to be a breach of modesty, hence the
instinctive concealment of the exposed spot.
Such a displacement, as we may call it, of the sense of modesty is
nothing rare in ethnography. It is a never-failing delight to me to
re-read the passage in what I may call my Bible, viz., Peschel’s
_Völkerkunde_, where the author describes the feelings of a pious Muslim
from Ferghana if he were to be present at a European ball. Peschel
thinks that the bare shoulders of our wives and daughters, the
quasi-embraces of our round dances, would fill him with silent wonder at
the long-suffering of Allah, who has not yet rained down fire and
brimstone on this sinful and shameless generation. It is quite
consistent with the same views that the Arab woman should bare her foot,
leg or bosom without embarrassment, while to let anyone see the back of
the head is supposed to be still more indecent than the exposure of the
face, carefully as the latter is hidden. Still more divergent from our
ideas are those of the Chinese, who would think it the height of
immodesty for a woman to show a man her deformed foot, of which, in
fact, it is improper even to speak. If we were in this way to make a
survey of the whole world, we should encounter an immeasurable mass of
the most various and, according to our ideas, the strangest notions, as
to what is proper and improper. Our own views on this point are only a
single item in a long series, and they have no better foundation than
any of the rest; for all these opinions have this in common as regards
their origin, that nothing appears reprehensible or objectionable _a
priori_. Only after a definite view has been formed as to which parts of
the body are to be covered and which left uncovered, a breach of the
rule becomes an act to be reprobated—not before.
[Illustration: INFANT’S GRAVE (MAKUA)]
The other observation is of a more serious nature. While riding through
the _pori_, half dozing in the heat, I suddenly found myself nearly
thrown out of the saddle, and saw, on recovering my balance, that my
mule had shied at a mysterious object rising obliquely from the ground.
This on closer inspection resolved itself into a bark cylinder half
buried in the earth. The thing is about half-a-yard in length and closed
at the uncovered upper end with two or three slabs of bark stuck into
the ground in front of the opening. None of our men knew what to make of
this, but some local natives happening to come along at the time,
explained that it was the grave of a still-born child. The Makua, it
appears, always bury them in this fashion.
After a short rest at Zuza’s, we started once more in order to reach
Chingulungulu the same day. On the march, Knudsen and I were again
attacked by fever. I could only maintain myself in the saddle by
convulsively clinging on, and Knudsen had the greatest difficulty in
keeping on his feet. We could see no end to the deadly monotony of the
open scrub gliding past us, tree after tree. I had lost all feeling in
my legs; the incessant throbbing and hammering in my skull amounted to
torture; and the misery of our progress lengthened out the hours
seemingly to infinity, so that I caught myself looking at my watch every
few minutes.
At length there appears a fixed point in the boundless ocean of trees; a
fallen giant blocks our path. The Norwegian sinks down on it like a log,
and only by long-continued persuasion can I induce him to make a fresh
start. We struggle on once more, till suddenly a confused murmur of
voices breaks on the ear. As if through a haze I recognize Matola, whom
I have already met at Masasi, surrounded by a number of men dressed in
white; they keep on bowing solemnly, while I smile and wave my hand. We
come to a house with many pillars. I dismount with infinite trouble, my
teeth chattering in spite of the almost vertical sun. With a pleasant
smile, Matola places his pillared mansion at my disposal and offers me a
jug of deliciously cool milk. My thoughts are not fixed on material
enjoyments—I want nothing but rest and darkness. My eye seeks Knudsen
and finds him just as he vanishes staggering into the tent the men have
hastily set up. Two minutes later I, too, am wrapped in a couple of warm
camel’s hair blankets, to my inexpressible comfort! And now here goes
for my first fever.
NOTE.—It is a little surprising to find Dr. Weule complaining (see p.
108) that he should have been unable, in a stay of less than a
fortnight, to get at the psychology of the native. His disappointment
at Matola’s, in the next chapter, (p. 139) seems even less reasonable,
and it seems strange that he should have expected to get information
on subjects of which natives are never very eager to talk, by means of
direct leading questions. This, quite apart from the fact that, by his
own admission, his methods were not always conciliatory.—[TR.]
[Illustration: MATOLA’S COMPOUND]
CHAPTER VIII
AT MATOLA’S
CHINGULUNGULU, middle of August, 1906.
With all its evils, a downright good fever has one advantage,—when it is
over the convalescent has such an appetite that “eating” is far too mild
a term to apply to the process of gratifying it. In this state of health
a whole roast fowl is just about enough for a breakfast, that is if it
has been preceded by a large plate of tinned soup and is to be followed
by a still larger omelette with bananas. But when this stage is reached
the patient is well on the way to recovery, and soon begins to enjoy his
cigar, which, according to Wilhelm Busch,[24] is the surest test of
fitness. Only a certain feeling as if the brain did not quite fill its
allotted space and therefore broke in waves at the edges every time you
move your head, remains for some days as an unpleasant reminder of the
attack.
“Reality” _versus_ “Dream,” or “Prose” _versus_ “Poetry,” might be a
very good name for the famous Chingulungulu. One would need to have
lived for ten years in the bush, like Nils Knudsen, to look on this
emporium of mud, dirt, and dust as the paradise which he still honestly
believes it to be. Of course we have taken up our abode in the famous
_baraza_, which is, in fact, quite a handsome building. True, it is
nothing but a thatched roof supported on posts; but it is no less than
sixteen yards across, and the ridge of the roof is at least twenty feet
from the floor. It is no contemptible achievement as regards
architecture; the posts are arranged in three concentric circles round
the central pillar, and the floor is of beaten clay mixed with ashes. To
bring it to the proper degree of firmness and smoothness they use a
wooden beater, bent into an obtuse angle and ending in a broad, flat
surface. A raised ledge, about fifteen inches high, and broken by three
openings at angles of 120°, runs round the building. This represents the
seats of the “thingmen,” for the _baraza_ is in fact neither more nor
less than the parliament-house of the village elders. The chief sits in
the middle of the spacious building, and round him in a serried throng
squat, sit, or stand his black fellow-citizens. Every native village has
such a _baraza_, but the Chingulungulu one is the most famous of all.
Matola is naturally not a little proud of being able to lodge his guests
in so distinguished a building.
But even his private residence is a notable feat of architecture. It is
surrounded, like all other houses, by a verandah, the ground under the
wide eaves being raised a few inches out of the wet. Here Matola holds
his court every day and all day long, which is interesting, but hardly
agreeable, as far as I am concerned, since the auditorium is hardly
thirty yards from my seat, and native voices are little accustomed to
restraint. And when the women take part in the general discussion, or
conduct their own defence in a trial, the noise becomes appalling.
The interior of Matola’s house is scarcely in keeping with its spacious
dimensions. The whole front is taken up by what Matola calls his evening
_baraza_, a long narrow apartment, into which the inmates of the house
and their friends withdraw on wet or stormy evenings. The furniture
consists of a single _kitanda_, or coast-fashion bedstead. The rest of
the house is occupied by three rooms of about fifteen feet by fifteen
each. The two lateral ones are intended for sleeping-rooms, as shown by
a couple of bedsteads and large heaps of ashes, the remains of the fire
which every native keeps up beside his couch at night. These rooms are
only accessible through doors leading from the central one, windowless,
and therefore pitch dark. The central room serves as a kitchen, but how
elementary and primitive is Matola’s hearth compared with Zuza’s! The
latter has a substructure for the system of cooking-stones, pots and
other culinary appurtenances, which is quite correct in material and
workmanship, while at Matola’s there is nothing but a chaos of ashes, in
the midst of which two or three lumps, as big as a man’s head, of earth
from an ant-heap indicate where the royal meals are prepared. At the
same time this Yao chief has the reputation of being a wealthy man, as
wealth goes in Africa, and of having great hoards of bright silver
rupees hidden somewhere about his huts.
[Illustration: BEER-DRINKING]
Matola’s compound, however, is rather more interesting. On my first
visit to him, he was somewhat embarrassed, being obviously ashamed of
the shabbiness of his interior; but he took me over his back premises
with evident pride, for which indeed he had ample justification. The
back verandah is occupied by an unbroken row of food-stores of the most
diverse sizes and shapes. Here we find beehive-shaped receptacles about
six feet high for millet and maize, and cylindrical ones, of nearly
equal height for ground-nuts, beans and peas; while in the dark spaces
between them the eye after a while makes out small bark boxes or earthen
jars containing less important vegetable products. All these receptacles
are thickly plastered with clay, to protect them from vermin and
weather. If we turn to the back of the large rectangular compound, where
a high palisade keeps out unauthorised intruders, we again find proof of
a very far-seeing and prudent economy, for here, too, everything is
arranged in order to make the crops of the current year last over till
the next harvest. Large and small food-stores are ranged round it, and
in the centre is a large granary, on whose ground floor, so to speak,
some women are busy at a fireplace, while the whole roof-space is filled
with heads of millet and cobs of maize. And if we step outside Matola’s
compound on the eastern side, there is a scaffolding some seven or eight
feet high and about as wide running along the whole length of the
palisade. On this, in spite of the lateness of the season, large
quantities of grain just harvested are drying in the sun. And, lastly,
walking round the estate to the west side of the house, we come face to
face with a granary of truly gigantic size, and without doubt of very
rational construction, which is shown in the illustration at the head of
this chapter. Like all the other food-stores, this granary is built on
piles; but, while in the usual form the scaffolding is only about two
feet high, and from three to five feet square, it is in this case
between ten and twelve feet high and at least ten feet across. On this
platform rests the granary itself, which in shape can best be compared
to a brewer’s mash-tub. Just now it is only half full of millet, and
therefore not yet closed, and the whole is covered in with the usual
wide-eaved, heavy, thatched roof. Access to this marvel of architecture
and economic science is gained by the same kind of antediluvian ladder
which excited my risible faculties at Masasi—two strong gnarled logs,
with a couple of wretched sticks tied across them—not too firmly—a yard
apart.
Matola, however, saved up the most striking feature of his whole farm
till the last. Grunts and squeaks expressive of the utmost well-being
were heard proceeding from the shadows about a gloomy structure which
was described to me as a prison. A prison in Africa? Certainly; the
native is not an angel, and when he is on the chain-gang he must have
some shelter at night. But for the present we were more interested in
the origin of the above sounds, which proved to proceed from a sow with
twelve piglings. This merry company, we soon found, was all over the
place, examining the baggage of the _askari_, calling on Nils Knudsen in
his tent, but most persistent of all in visiting our kitchen after
dinner and helping the cook and his boy to clean up our dishes. Every
facility is afforded them for this pursuit, as, in the first place, our
kitchen is only a sheltered corner under the eaves of the prison, and in
the second, when a native has eaten his fill and is lying spread-eagled
on the ground snoring through his _siesta_, you might cut him to pieces
at your leisure without waking him. Thus every afternoon witnesses the
remarkable spectacle of a khaki-clad European, uttering frantic
vituperations of the lazy black villains and their whole continent, as
he rushes across the square of Chingulungulu brandishing a kiboko, to
drive the affectionate mother and her family away from his cooking-pots.
Of course, whenever this takes place, the careless kitchen-staff comes
in for a few blows in passing, but my beloved Omari cares very little
for that. Knudsen and I have vowed vengeance on the pigs, to the effect
that they shall indeed find their way into our cooking-pots one day,
whether they like it or not.
How Matola obtained these pigs, so rare a sight in a Moslem country (for
as such we must count this district), I have not yet heard, but I assume
that he got them, like his herd of cattle, from the English Mission. The
cattle are sheltered in a kraal immediately adjoining his
dwelling-house—a mere enclosure of stakes into which the animals are
driven soon after sunset, to leave it the next morning after the dew is
off the grass. They are herded by several boys, and number about twenty
head, all of the humped breed, and most of them evidently suffering from
the _tsetse_ disease. Only one young bull and a couple of cows look
healthy and vigorous, and are playful enough to put some life into the
whole mournful company. I am glad to see some milch cows among them—in
fact it is they who provide the jar Matola sends me every morning.
This is Matola’s residence in the more immediate sense. The best way to
become acquainted with his whole territory is to mount and ride over it,
for Chingulungulu is a settlement of extraordinary extent. Broad roads,
as straight as a rule can make them, and planted with rubber-trees, run
north, east and west from the square surrounding the _baraza_. To right
and left of these roads lies a vast expanse of fields, from which
emerges here and there the greyish-brown roof of a hut, larger or
smaller as the case may be. During the whole of my stay here at
Matola’s, I have been doing my best to get acquainted with all the
details of this negro settlement, and I must confess that the charms of
this occupation have so far consoled me for an evil which under other
circumstances would long ago have disgusted me with the place. By this I
mean the difficulty of obtaining information as to the more intimate
customs, habits and opinions of the people, and thus penetrating as
deeply as I certainly wish to do, into their intellectual and moral
life. At Masasi the epidemic conviviality of the whole male population
was a totally unforeseen impediment to this object, and here at
Chingulungulu it seems either that Matola has not sufficient influence
to obtain wise men for me to question, or that he does not care to
reveal the wisdom of his people to a stranger. It is true that he
possesses a good deal of information himself, and has already on more
than one occasion sat with us and talked about the history of his tribe,
but whenever I particularly want him, he is not to be found, and we are
told that he is hunting on the Rovuma.
From an anthropological point of view the population here, in the
political centre of the great plain between the Masasi mountains and the
Rovuma, is as heterogeneous as at Masasi itself, only that down here the
Wayao are not merely at present numerically in the majority, but
politically supreme over their neighbours. These are, as in the north,
Makua, Wangindo, Wamatambwe and Makonde, and, here as there, the various
tribes live side by side according to no fixed rule. The history of the
Yaos, up to the time when they settled and came to rest in this plain,
is full enough of change and adventure. For a long time—from the moment
when they first became known to Europeans, almost to the present day,
they were unhesitatingly reckoned as belonging to the Kafir family. As,
like the Wangoni, and almost simultaneously with them, they migrated
from south to north—that is to say, from the region east of the Shire
and south end of Nyasa to the Rovuma and Lujende, and as they at the
same time showed equal freshness and physical vigour with those warlike
hosts from the far south-east of the continent, it was natural that they
should be considered as immigrants from sub-tropical South Africa, in
other words, Kafirs. This view is now known to be erroneous; their
language obviously belongs to the group of Eastern Bantu idioms, and it
is quite clear that they have nothing to do with the southern extremity
of Africa.
If we get the history of this people related to us by men who are either
old enough to remember several of the many decades over which the tribal
wanderings extended, or else, like Zuza, Matola and Nakaam, hold a
position which makes them by right of birth transmitters of the tribal
tradition,—we always find the region east of the south end of Nyasa
mentioned as the starting point of all these (mostly involuntary)
migrations.
A couple of aged Yaos, whom we had summoned, independently of Matola,
through the agency of two or three sturdy _askari_, gave me the
following report:—“Once, long ago, the Yaos lived at Kwisale
Kuchechepungu. Kuchechepungu is the name of the chief under whom they
lived at peace in the hill country of Kwisale. Then there befell a war
in which the Yaos were beaten, and they went to the country of the Makua
chief Mtarika. But that is very long ago; I, Akundonde (the spokesman of
this historical commission) only know it from men older than myself.
“At Mtarika’s also the Yaos fared badly, for this powerful Makua chief
made war on them and drove them out. And they went to Malambo, which
lies behind Mkula. At Malambo the Yaos remained for a long time, but at
last they were driven thence by the same Mtarika; then they settled near
the Lumesule river in the Donde country, and from thence they afterwards
went on to Masasi.”
This took place when Akundonde was a big lad. As the old gentleman must
be some years over sixty, this march into the Masasi plain must be dated
towards the end of the fifties. At Masasi the Yaos were attacked by the
Wangoni, but defeated them and drove them back in the direction of Kilwa
Kivinja. In spite of this success, the Yaos retired to the greater
security of the Makonde plateau. Here they were once more attacked by
the Wangoni at Mahuta, but this was in the time of the elder Matola.
After that Bakiri came from Zanzibar, and this was the beginning of an
entirely new epoch.
[Illustration: MATAMBWE WOMAN DECORATED WITH NUMEROUS KELOIDS]
This Bakiri of Zanzibar and his appearance on the Rovuma show
unmistakably how little we know, at bottom, of the native and his
history. Herr Ewerbeck has resided in the country over ten years, and
has always taken a keen interest in the history of his district; but he
never heard anything more than vague rumours of an embassy from the
Sultan of Zanzibar. All the more vivid is the recollection of this event
among those concerned, in the country itself. In the case of Akundonde
and his contemporaries, who must have been grown-up men at the time,
this is not to be wondered at; but even Matola and his generation, who
were then mere children, or perhaps not even born, at once become
excited when the conversation turns on Bakiri (already somewhat of a
legendary character), and his memorable march.
This expedition, which, according to information elicited by Ewerbeck’s
inquiries, had for its objective the coal measures of the Lujende, the
great southern tributary of the Rovuma, has in the consciousness of the
local tribes entirely lost its character as a journey, and has assumed
that of the _shauri_ familiar to and characteristic of all these tribes.
But this _shauri_—this assembly of all the local notables and their
tribesmen—has fixed itself indelibly in the people’s memory. It is the
famous _shauri_ of Nkunya, a place still in existence at the
south-western corner of the Makonde plateau. Matola the Younger gives
the following account of its causes, its course, and its consequences:—
“The Yaos in old times lived much further away to the west and south,
but they were badly off there. The old Makua chief Mtarika of Metho made
war on them, and when he was gone the Mazitu came from the other side
and also made war on them. They killed or enslaved the men of the Yaos
and carried off the women and children. This happened when old Matola
was quite a young man. Now he would be very old, if he were still
living; but he died twelve years ago, at a great age, but still quite
strong.[25]
“In the end Matola had to fly; he went first to the Upper Bangala and
then down that river till he was three hours’ march from the Rovuma,
where his second brother died. At this place Matola was only a small
chief, for he had in all only five huts. But he was brave and clever, he
raided other tribes and was also a great hunter, who killed much game
and exchanged the meat for corn. From the Lower Bangala, Matola moved to
the Newala River and built his huts down in the valley at the foot of
the Makonde plateau. Here he lived a long time; but the land belonged to
Mawa, a Makua. Then a man came up from Mikindani to Nkunya, by name
Bakiri, to hold a _shauri_. He called all the tribes together: Wayao,
Wamakua, Wamatambwe and Wangoni. They came, all of them, in troops, and
Bakiri acted as judge. The Wangoni and Wamatambwe grew frightened and
ran away; the Makua also ran away; there remained only Matola, Mawa, and
some of the Makua. The _shauri_ lasted from morning till evening and all
night long till the next morning, and in the morning Bakiri said to
Matola: ‘I give you the whole country; it is true that till now I have
heard very little about you and your chieftainship, but all the others
have run away and you only remained; I see, therefore, that you are
trustworthy. So you shall rule over the whole country.’ Mawa, too,
agreed to this. He said: ‘I am old, and I shall soon die; do you rule
over the whole country.’ And so it came to pass. Matola I. ruled wisely
and justly, though severely. First he moved to Mikindani and planted
palms there, then he went back inland, halfway to Newala, and from
thence, at last, to Newala itself. There he lived at first on the
plateau, because of the attacks of the Mazitu; then he came down into
the valley, but in the end he had to go back to the heights again. He
died up there at Newala, and there he lies buried.”
It is in many respects highly interesting to watch these dusky elders
while engaged in recalling their memories of the past. They usually
speak well; it is well known that most African natives do; they have a
natural eloquence which avoids artificial phraseology but is quick to
find the simple, natural expression and fit it into the structure of the
sentence. Only now and then we find a man whose faculties are blunted
with old age and whose speech flows less smoothly from his toothless
mouth. The teeth of old natives are by no means in the flourishing
condition one might expect from the dazzling white rows of ivory which
characterise the youth of the black race. The crowns of their teeth are
rapidly worn down by the large amount of grit which enters into their
daily food. Millet, maize and rice are alike ground on stones; the wear
and tear to which these are subject are shown by the deep hollow in the
lower and the rapid diminution in size of the upper, when they have been
in use for any length of time. The resulting minute particles of stone
do not exactly conduce to the benefit of the teeth, whose premature
decay, moreover, is assisted by the artificial deformations of which I
shall have much to say later on.
The kind of intellectual activity which goes on is also worth notice.
The European investigator has, from the start, to take up a very
critical attitude towards the native and his statements on any subject
whatever, for our black brother’s standard of truthfulness is
notoriously not very exacting. But here, in the department of history,
the narrators check each other, whether consciously or unconsciously I
cannot decide. One begins—the stream of his eloquence flows on
peacefully for a time, and then another suddenly interrupts him with
“_A! A!_”—an inimitable, abruptly-uttered sound twice repeated and
accompanied by a still more inimitable gesture of deprecation, as who
should say, “Stop, my friend, you are talking nonsense!” But the
objection has hit its mark, the narrator breaks off, consults his
historical conscience, and then presents the fact under discussion in a
version which, on questioning the others, is found to have their
approval.
It is characteristic of life in these parts that each narrator can only
give the history of his own immediate tribal group. All these men,
whether Yao or Makua by nationality, have been whirled about the country
in numerically small sections, to which one may give the name of horde,
clan, or troop, as one pleases. In this way a definite,
historically-grounded tribal consciousness could not be formed, and, if
it was already in existence, had every chance of being lost. So, too,
they know nothing except about themselves and their own immediate
neighbourhood. It is the task of ethnology to collect as many as
possible of such individual accounts, in order ultimately to build them
up into the complete structure of a tribal history. As far as I am
concerned, there shall be no want of industry and perseverance in the
collection of such narratives.
Now, however, comes the last and most delightful touch—a most
characteristically African one. In the absence of writing, the native
has no means of arriving at a correct estimate of time. His astonishment
and perplexity when asked his own age are fully expressed in the stare
which meets the questioner; and one never finds people able to give even
the approximate ages of their own children and grandchildren. Life flows
along far too monotonously and uneventfully, while at the same time it
is too full of their small cares and small pleasures, to leave them any
time for special exercises of memory, even if they had the smallest
desire for such unnecessary mental exertion. Finally—and this is
probably the really decisive cause—there is no such thing as compulsory,
or other registration; and so the small black citizen of the world grows
up untroubled by questions of space and time; he takes to himself a
wife—or wives—and raises a family, and no one thinks of inquiring
whether he and his age have been duly entered on the register.
[Illustration: MANUAL CHRONOLOGY. “THAT HAPPENED WHEN I WAS SO HIGH”]
The entire absence of a fixed chronology makes itself felt more
especially in tribal history. Considering, on the one hand, the sublime
indifference to space and time already referred to, and on the other the
difficulty of framing intelligible questions guaranteed not to produce
misleading answers, I was ready to despair of any satisfactory result;
but I soon found that my informants possessed a primitive yet tolerably
trustworthy method of dating occurrences.
“When was it that you lived on the Lumesule?” I asked old Akundonde.
Without a word, he stretched his right arm out horizontally, at a height
about corresponding to that of a twelve-year-old boy, and bent his hand
gracefully upward, so that the elbow formed nearly a right angle. I
watched this manœuvre in silent astonishment, but Knudsen immediately
furnished the explanation amid an approving murmur from all present. It
seems that this is the native way of indicating the height (and
consequently the age) of a human being; the height of an animal is
always shown by stretching the arm out straight without raising the
hand. I must confess that, among all the new and strange impressions
which have hitherto crowded in on my mind here in Africa, this delicate
and yet so significant distinction between man and beast is the most
striking. Nakaam at Mwiti made use of a somewhat different pantomime
when relating to me the history of the Yaos. Nakaam draws a distinction
between pure and mixed Yaos; reckoning among the former the Chiwaula,
the Katuli, and the Kalanje. This is a point not hitherto recognised in
the ethnological literature dealing with the Yaos; and it must be
reserved for later criticism to test the evidence of my intelligent but
perhaps somewhat slippery Chiwata informant. According to Nakaam, the
home of the true Yaos is Likopolwe, a hilly district in the Chisi
country, in Portuguese territory between Mataka’s and Unangu Mountain.
They were expelled thence by the chief Mputa, when Nakaam’s mother was
still a little child crawling on all fours. Nakaam is, on his own
testimony, the fourth child of his mother, and may be any age from forty
to forty-five. After Mputa came others of the Makua, and broke up the
Yao tribe still more. Nakaam undoubtedly ranks as an intellectual giant,
comparatively speaking, but even he could give no exact chronological
date. Some compensation for this was to be found in the comical sight
presented when the portly chief—who was usually dignity personified—was
so carried away by his narrative as to forget what was due to his
exalted position and show us, in most realistic pantomime, how his
mother crawled about the ground when she was a baby.
Matola is in almost every point a contrast to Nakaam. The difference is
seen even in their costume: Nakaam dresses, like a coast man, in the
long, snow-white _kanzu_, while Matola is a European above and a Yao
below, wearing a coloured cotton waist-cloth, like all his subjects,
below a commonplace European jacket. The indications of cunning, so
characteristic of Nakaam, are here quite absent; Matola impresses one as
an honest man, and such, in fact, he is, if we may judge by the evidence
of all the Europeans at Lindi who have ever come in contact with him. He
is always occupied—either he is holding a court under his _baraza_, that
is to say talking to the dozen or two dozen men who drop in and out
there in the course of the day, or he is engaged with us and the
satisfaction of our wants. In manners he differs little from his
subjects. Smoking is all but unknown here, but everyone takes snuff and
chews tobacco. One consequence of this habit is that the people are
always expectorating, and Matola is no exception. Another objectionable
habit, which he shares with his neighbours, is that of perpetually
scratching himself. In fact, when one is surrounded by a crowd of them,
it is difficult, in the midst of the universal scratching, to refrain
from following the agreeable example. I assume that it is a result of
the prevailing want of cleanliness; the water from the two or three
holes in the nearest stream-bed is only just enough for cooking and
drinking; there is none of the precious fluid left to wash one’s face,
to say nothing of one’s whole body.
Of all my senses the olfactory is the best developed, and daily causes
me acute suffering. When a party of natives honour me with a visit,
their coming is heralded from afar off by a smell whose ingredients,
including racial odour, perspiration, rancid oil, wood smoke, and a
hundred others, our language is too poor to specify in full. What comes
nearest to it is, perhaps, the exhalation from a large flock of sheep.
And then the flies! Along with the smell, which, so to speak, marches
ahead of the main body, they come rushing in swarms on the unlucky
European. I thought myself a model of prudence and foresight in bringing
with me from Leipzig two pairs of spectacles with smoked glasses. One of
these has long had its abiding-place on Moritz’s nose. The rascal
appeared one fine day suffering from acute conjunctivitis, which, thanks
to my energetic treatment, is by this time quite cured. But it has never
entered the conceited fellow’s head to restore the glasses, which, in an
access of exaggerated philanthropy, I had placed at his disposal. That
he no longer really requires them is sufficiently shown by the fact that
he usually takes them off in the bright sunlight, but wears them instead
in the dusk of the house and of course stumbles over everything that
happens to be standing about. The other pair serve me excellently well
out of doors, but under the dark _baraza_ they absorb too much light,
and thus I am left without protection from the swarms of flies the
natives bring with them. These African insects and our European
house-flies are not to be mentioned in the same breath. Like a flash of
lightning, a creature the size of a small bee comes rushing at you—not
hitting the eye straight, but describing a tangent, and passing along
inside the whole eyelid, with such incredible swiftness that defence is
absolutely impossible. This is repeated over and over again, while the
victim, in mingled astonishment and horror, watches the little wretches
preparing for the attack by a short halt on the inflamed eyelids of the
natives. Instinctively one hits out wildly all round to no purpose: the
raid has already been successfully accomplished. Knudsen suffers less
from this plague than I, and apparently also from the one previously
mentioned; for, while I always feel more or less ill after a _shauri_
lasting several hours, the blonde Norwegian sits all day long among the
people unmoved.
There is not much to be seen of the women here. Matola has repeatedly
issued stringent orders that they are all to come and be photographed,
but so far only four or five have appeared. They no sooner see me than
they make their escape as quickly as their native dignity and the
peculiarities of the feminine mode of progression will permit.
On the other hand, I am persistently besieged by the male youth of the
place. Our residence is surrounded by a perfect wall of small boys
squatting on the ground, their mouths wide open, staring stupid and
motionless at the white stranger. This open mouth is universal among the
children here—as is also the well-known pot-belly; hardly a surprising
phenomenon, if one sees the amount of indigestible vegetable food which
one of these boys will stuff into himself in the course of the day. I am
unable to judge how this unintentional deformation of the body
disappears afterwards, but that it must do so is certain, the adults
being without exception well-built men.
[Illustration: OUR CAMP AT CHINGULUNGULU]
The Dark Continent has no love for me; on the march it persecuted me
daily with its whirlwinds, and here at Chingulungulu it pursues a
systematic plan for expelling me from its interior. Knudsen and I dine
between twelve and one. Originally the hour had been fixed at twelve
precisely. With measured step Moritz and Knudsen’s Ali approach from the
direction of the kitchen with the inevitable plate of tinned soup. We
are ready to fall to cheerfully, each—as is customary out here—at his
own camp-table, when we hear the sound of a rushing mighty wind coming
nearer and nearer. Dust, grass, and leaves are whirled into the air; one
instinctively holds one’s hand or one’s cap over the plate, but all in
vain—a gyrating chaos of ashes, dust, tufts of grass, and all the
various kinds of dirt which can only be studied in this country,
overwhelms us from behind; the _baraza_ groans in all its beams; the
boys fly out, unresisting and helpless into the open space in front; and
then all is over. When we can open our eyes under the crust of foreign
matter which covers our faces and everything else, we are just in time
to see the thatch of the huts waltzing through the air before the whole
phenomenon vanishes into the _pori_. On the first day, of course, we
were quite helpless; on the second we were again overwhelmed while
thinking no evil; on the third I suggested that dinner should be
postponed for a quarter of an hour. It was no use, the whirlwind came
just a quarter of an hour later. We have gone on waging a regular war
against this midday whirlwind, and, so far, we have been beaten all
along the line. It always springs up the moment the soup is brought in.
Moritz and Ali have scarcely time to clap the lids of a couple of tins
over our plates when it is upon us. To protect ourselves against it, and
also, it must be said, against the troublesome curiosity of the children
of the land, small and great, we have built ourselves in under Matola’s
_baraza_ by carrying a screen of millet stalks right across the hall
high enough to reach the roof, and erecting two other screens at the
ends of the first and converging on each other, so that we are now in a
closed room. But my intimate enemy, the _chimbunga_, penetrates even
into this carefully protected apartment.
The water-supply of this region forms a subject by itself. Of all the
charms of Chingulungulu this was what Knudsen had dwelt on most
lovingly—one might be ever so ill and wretched, but a draught from this
unrivalled spring would restore health to the most infirm. One of our
first walks after getting through the fever which marked our arrival at
this place, was to its principal wells. They are close to the road from
Zuza’s, and I should have seen them just before we arrived had I not
been at that time more dead than alive. With expectations raised to the
highest pitch, I walked along the path leading to the spot in
question—two hundred yards distant at most—followed by a long train of
boys and half-grown lads. “Here we are,” said my companion suddenly, as
we caught sight of a number of women and several young girls squatting
in three roomy pits about six feet deep.
“Well, how about the spring?” I asked, the Norwegian’s glowing
descriptions being still present to my mind’s eye.
“Why, down there—those holes—those are the springs; don’t you see the
women drawing water?” That I certainly did see, and my illusions
vanished in the twinkling of an eye. But their place was taken with
equal rapidity by the scientific interest attaching to the hydrography
of the country in general and Chingulungulu in particular; and of this I
was enabled to get a fairly clear notion after walking round the three
pits and scrambling down into each of them.
[Illustration: WATER-HOLES AT CHINGULUNGULU]
The rivers and streams here on the inland slope of the Makonde plateau
are of the kind called _wadi_ in North Africa or _Omurambe_ in the
distant German territory of the south-west—that is to say, they have
water all the year round, but only in the subsoil; on the surface the
water does not flow except in the rainy season, and immediately after
it. The rains, which are extremely abundant, were over months ago, so
that it is no wonder if the people have to dig deeper every day into the
stream-beds to find water. Here they have in places penetrated right
through the superincumbent strata, and Moritz cannot say enough in
praise of this water which comes straight from the living rock. It may
indeed be comparatively poor in bacteria and innocuous even for
Europeans, but what I have seen of the way in which it is obtained has
induced me to keep up, from the moment of my arrival, and insist on
having scrupulously carried out, the procedure customary with me ever
since we left Lindi, of having all the drinking-water treated with alum,
filtered, and boiled.
In no department of daily life is the contrast between Europe and Africa
more sharply defined than in this matter of the water-supply. Instead of
the brass tap and clear, cool water in a clean glass, we find, brooding
over a muddy water-hole, an almost equally muddy woman. Behind her, on
the high bank, stands her portly earthen jar. She sits gazing
apathetically into the narrow opening, the usual ladle (the
half-cocoa-nutshell with a wooden handle stuck through it) in her right
hand. At last enough fluid has accumulated to make it worth while to
plunge the dipper under the turbid surface; not ungracefully, with the
rocking motion peculiar to the negress, she reaches the top of the bank,
and the water pours in a milky jet into the large jar, the process being
repeated as often as necessary till it is full. Then she walks to the
nearest bush and comes back with a handful of fresh green twigs, which
she carefully inserts into the neck of the jar. This is no manifestation
of a decorative instinct, or of any feeling for the beauties of
nature—neither man nor woman in this country has advanced so far; in
fact, highly as we Europeans think of ourselves, this feeling for nature
is even with us of comparatively recent growth. The native is, in the
first instance, practical—in fact, he is nothing if not practical.
Without this bunch of leaves, the water-jar, filled to the brim, would
slop over at every step, drenching the bearer’s head and body; but, as
it is, not a drop is spilt, the twigs and leaves hindering all
undulatory motion in the narrow space. _Probatum est._
[Illustration: MAKONDE WOMEN FROM MAHUTA]
The uses of a coffee machine are various. My cook, Omari, having from
the beginning refused to employ mine for its legitimate purpose, it came
in very handy for the construction of a filter. Charcoal is always to be
had; and it is easy to pound it into small pieces and put a deep layer
into the tin funnel, which with its two fine strainers thus makes an
excellent filter, simple, portable, and easily repaired. It gives Moritz
and Kibwana far more to do than the lazy rascals like. Having formerly
studied the problem of sedimentary deposit in different kinds of water,
I know that salts hasten the precipitation of all solid matter. Alum is
the clarifier indicated for this expedition. A moderately large tin is
easily procured from any Indian trader, and the carriers have soon
deposited, in the shade of the _baraza_, a long row of jars and
calabashes hastily borrowed from the inhabitants. “_Dawa ya Ulaya!_” I
call out to Kibwana, meaning this time the alum-tin. _Dawa_ is anything
producing an effect which the native fails to understand, and Ulaya is
every country outside his own—usually Europe, and sometimes Germany in
particular; but even American petroleum, for him, comes from Ulaya. A
pinch of the salt is dropped into every jar, which, when stirred round,
shows an alarming degree of thickness and impurity. All the same, Moritz
considers this broth “_maji mazuri_” (“beautiful water”), a designation
which only fits it, in my opinion, after the lapse of several hours.
Then, indeed, it is clear as crystal. After carefully pouring it off,
the boys strain it twice, thrice, or even four times through the
charcoal filter. Omari boils it for ten minutes, under threats of the
severest punishment in case of failure. It is left to cool overnight,
and in the morning it is a drink for the gods—though only rendered so
first by the water-cooler and then by the addition of fruit-syrup from
Lübeck. My Berlin outfit, of course, included the usual large aluminium
flask carried by expeditions, but I never dream of using it. Instead, we
carry an Indian water-cooler of porous, unglazed earthenware, which I
bought at Lindi, by Captain Seyfried’s advice, for a rupee, and which is
closely netted round with cocoa-nut rope for protection on the journey,
and carried by Kofia tule with more dignity than grace on his woolly
head. It amuses me, by the bye, to find that Knudsen will not hear of
treating his drinking-water with alum. He is quite of the same mind as
his native friends and thinks there is something uncanny about the _dawa
ya Ulaya_, preferring the muddy brew as it comes from the well.
Well—_habeat sibi_! In our enthusiasm for seltzer—prepared on my
sparklet apparatus—with fruit-syrup in it, we are cordially agreed. It
is better than the finest quality of _pombe_ produced at the celebrated
breweries of Chingulungulu.
CHAPTER IX
AMONG THE YAOS
CHINGULUNGULU, August 20, 1906.
The greatest service Matola has hitherto rendered me is the arrangement
of a few evening meetings with the women of his village, whom he has at
last succeeded in inducing to venture into the lion’s den. Knudsen and I
have just finished our frugal evening meal, and Knudsen is as usual
chatting with his friend Daudi (David), the native preacher, while I am
seated at my table, working up my notes for the day. Daudi belongs to
the Universities’ Mission, was educated at Zanzibar, and prefers
speaking English to me. There is not much to be got of him from my point
of view, as his ideas have been greatly modified by Christianity.
To-night the east wind, which on other occasions has threatened, in
spite of all precautions, to put out our lamp, is not blowing, for a
wonder; and the “Tippelskirch” sheds its rays undisturbed on our novel
surroundings. My cigar, also, has an excellent flavour; and everything
breathes comfort and satisfaction, when, approaching almost inaudibly
over the loose sandy soil on which even our thick European boots make
little or no noise, Matola appears and takes his seat on his accustomed
box. He is followed by some thirty women and girls, most of them with
babies on their backs, the majority of whom are peacefully asleep,
though some keep gasping and groaning, within the supporting cloth. The
whole company squats down on the floor between us, closely huddled
together. I get Knudsen, who speaks Yao fluently though not
grammatically, to explain what I want, viz., songs and stories—and then
wait to see what will happen. For some time nothing happens—except that
a half-grown boy, who has slipped in with the rest, begins to relate a
long fable; but he speaks so quickly that it is impossible to follow
him. Of course he cannot dictate his story slowly enough for me to take
it down. This is a very common experience—the people sing and speak into
the phonograph with enviable readiness, but are helplessly perplexed
when asked to dictate the words slowly. Indeed this could hardly be
expected of them. We decide to reserve the boy for another opportunity
and once more there is silence. Then arises, first very shyly, but soon
gaining confidence and volume, a woman’s clear voice. Presently the
chorus joins in, and alternates with the solo in regular turns for a
considerable time:—
Chakalakāle, mwāna jua Kundúngu, mwắnja kwa tāti, “Anānyile litála kwa
tati Kunampūye.” Nikwā́ola ku litīmbe, kuwalimāgắ Chenampūye. Newáije
ku mūsi kwa atati wao. Nigómbaga uti nekugawíraga musi.
Nekutamăgá.[26]
The meaning of this is:—
“Chakalakale, a child of God, went away to his father. Show me the way
to my father’s—to Kunampuye. He went to the river-bed where Chenampuye
was hoeing. He came to the village to his father. Then there were guns
fired and a village was assigned him to live in. And he lived at home.”
So far all has gone smoothly ... the song has come to an end. Matola,
Daudi, Knudsen and I have with no little trouble established the
authentic text, and the translation has been satisfactorily
accomplished; but unfortunately I have to relinquish the idea of getting
a phonographic record of the not unpleasing air. After my last failures
at Lindi, due to the heat, which softened the recording cylinders, I
tried my luck later on at Masasi, but the results there were with hardly
any exceptions quite unsatisfactory. The softness of the cylinder is no
disadvantage in recording, on the contrary, it enables the needle to
make a deeper impression, but the impossibility of reproduction makes it
difficult to check the text when afterwards dictated.
There is not much to remark about the foregoing song. I was at first
doubtful of the rendering given of _mwana jua kundungu_, but Matola and
Daudi both insisted on explaining it as “a child of God.” What is
understood by that expression here it is impossible to say; perhaps it
denotes a rebel, as further north, in Usagara and Ukami, and on the
Rufiji, the leaders of the Majimaji have in fact assumed a title of
somewhat the same import. The prefix _ku_ in the name Kunampuye is the
same as _che_—both are about equivalent to “Mr.” or “Mrs.”
[Illustration: TWO MAKUA MOTHERS]
At last we have finished writing down and translating the text. The
mothers have watched us in complete silence—not so the babies, who all
seem to suffer from colds, and breathe noisily in consequence. The
assertions made in so many works on Africa, as to the happiness of the
native in early childhood, do not stand the test of reality. As soon as
the mother gets up after her confinement, which she does very soon, the
infant is put into the cloth which she ties on her back. There it stays
all day long, whether the mother is having her short woolly hair dressed
by a friend, enjoying a gossip at the well, hoeing, weeding, or reaping
in the burning sun. When she stands for hours together, pounding corn in
the mortar, the baby jogs up and down with the rhythmic motion of her
arms, and when she is kneeling before the millstone grinding the meal
into fine white flour, or squatting by the hearth in the evening, the
rosy morsel of humanity never leaves its close and warm, but not
altogether hygienic nest. The rosiness does not last long. No provision
in the way of napkins being made, the skin soon becomes chapped and deep
cracks are formed, especially at the joints, and the terrible African
flies lay their eggs on the eyelids of the unfortunate little ones,
neither father nor mother ever raising a hand to drive them away—they
never dream of making this effort for their own benefit! No wonder that
the little eyes, which in the case of our own children we are accustomed
to think of as the most wonderful and beautiful thing in organic nature,
should be bleared and dim. Fungoid ulcers (the result of “thrush”) are
seen protruding in bluish white masses from nose and mouth. The
universal colds are the consequence of the great difference of
temperature between day and night. The parents can protect themselves by
means of the fire and their mats; the child gets wet, is left lying
untouched and uncared for, becomes chilled through, and of course
catches cold. Hence the general coughing and sniffing in our
_baraza_.[27]
[Illustration: A FRIENDLY CHAT]
The women having noticed that the first number on the programme is
finished, the same solo voice as before begins once more, softly and not
unmelodiously. “_Seletu, seletu, songo katole, tung’ande songo katole._”
This song, too, alternates between solo and chorus, like the previous
one. I already know enough Yao to translate the two words, _songo
katole_; their meaning, “Bring the _songo_” (snake) makes me curious as
to that of the rest. And rightly so, for how anyone can invite a person
to bring up this, the most poisonous reptile in East Africa, whose bite
is instantly fatal, is at present a mystery. I restrain my curiosity,
however, till I have heard the next song, which might be considered as
merely a continuation of the first, as the air is the same, and the only
difference is the introduction of another animal—the lion. The words are
as follows:—
SOLO: Seletu seletu, simba katole.
CHORUS: Seletu seletu, simba katole.
SOLO: Seletu seletu, simba okoto.
CHORUS: Seletu seletu, simba okoto.
I have a good ear, but unfortunately have had no musical training
whatever, and have never regretted this so much as I do now, here in the
interior of Africa, especially now that my phonograph is _hors de
combat_. This would not have mattered so much, had I been able to enter
the simple melody at once in my note-book, but, as it is, I shall have
to dispense with a record altogether. In both these songs the line sung
by the solo performer is repeated by the whole chorus, and this
alternation goes on for an indefinite time, till the performers are
tired out.
In both cases, the words when translated are simple enough:
(1) _Seletu_, _seletu_, the _songo_ snake, bring it here and let us
play, bring it here, the _songo_ snake.
(2) _Seletu_, _seletu_, the lion, bring him here—_seletu_, _seletu_,
the lion is beautiful.
That is all. I think the admiration here expressed for two creatures
very dangerous to the natives is to be explained as a kind of _captatio
benevolentiæ_ rather than as the outcome of any feeling for nature or of
artistic delight in the bright colours of the serpent or the powerful
frame of the lion. Both children and grown-up people are more concerned
about the _songo_ than about any other creature; it is said to live
among the rocks, to have a comb like a cock and to produce sounds by
which it entices its prey.[28] It darts down like lightning on its
victim from a tree overhanging the path, strikes him on the neck, and he
falls down dead. The natives have described the whole scene to me over
and over again with the most expressive pantomime. It is quite
comprehensible that this snake should be feared beyond everything, and,
considering similar phenomena in other parts of the world, it seems
quite natural that they should try to propitiate this terrible enemy by
singing his praises as being eminently fitted to take part in the dance.
Precisely the same may be said of the lion.
Now things become more lively. “_Chindawi!_” cries one, to be rendered
approximately by “I’ll tell you something!”[29] and another answers
“_Ajise!_” (“Let it come.”) The first speaker now says, “_Aju, aji_,”
and passes her right hand in quick, bold curves through the air. I do
not know what to make of the whole proceeding, nor the meaning of the
answer, “_Kyuwilili_,” from the other side. The dumb shyness which at
first characterized the women has now yielded to a mild hilarity not
diminished by my perplexed looks. At last comes the solution, “_Aju,
aji_,” merely means “this and that,”[30] and the passes of the hand are
supposed to be made under a vertical sun when the shadow would pass as
swiftly and silently over the ground as the hand itself does through the
air. _Kyuwilili_ (the shadow), then, is the answer to this very
primitive African riddle.
“Chindawi!”—“Ajise!”—the game goes on afresh, and the question is, this
time, “_Gojo gojo kakuungwa?_” (“What rattles in its house?”) I find the
answer to this far less recondite than the first one—“_Mbelemende_” (the
_bazi_ pea), which of course is thought of as still in the pod growing
on a shrub resembling our privet. The ripe seeds, in fact, produce a
rattling noise in the fresh morning breeze.
But for the third time “Chindawi!”—“Ajise!” rings out, and this time the
problem set is “_Achiwanangu kulingana_.” I am quite helpless, but
Matola with his usual vivacity, springs into the circle, stoops down and
points with outstretched hands to his knees, while a murmur of applause
greets him. “My children are of equal size” is the enigma; its
unexpected solution is, “_Malungo_” (the knees). We Europeans, with our
coldly-calculating intellect, have long ago lost the enviable faculty of
early childhood, which enabled us to personify a part as if it were the
whole. A happy fate allows the African to keep it even in extreme old
age.
By this time nothing more surprises me. A fourth woman’s voice chimes in
with “_Ambuje ajigele utandi_” (“My master brings meal”). The whole
circle of faces is turned as one on the European, who once more can do
nothing but murmur an embarrassed “_Sijui_” (“I do not know”). The
answer, triumphantly shouted at me—“_Uuli!_” (“White hair!”)—is, in
fact, to our way of thinking so far-fetched that I should never have
guessed it. Perhaps this riddle may have been suggested by the fact that
an old white-headed native does in fact look as if his head had been
powdered with flour.[31]
Now comes the last number of a programme quite full enough even for a
blasé inquirer.
“_Chindawi!_”—“_Ajise!_” is heard for the last time. “_Pita kupite akuno
tusimane apa!_”[32] The excitement in which everyone gazes at me is if
possible greater than before; they are evidently enjoying the feeling of
their superiority over the white man, who understands nothing of what is
going on. But this time their excess of zeal betrayed them—their
gestures showed me clearly what their language concealed, for all went
through the movement of clasping a girdle with both hands. “_Lupundu_”
(a girdle) is accordingly the answer to this riddle, which in its very
cadence when translated,—“Goes round to the left, goes round to the
right, and meets in the middle”—recalls that of similar nursery riddles
at home, _e.g._, the well-known “Long legs, crooked thighs, little head,
and no eyes.”
Matola himself came forward with an “extra” by way of winding up the
evening. His contribution runs thus:—“_Chikalakasa goje kung’anda,
kung’anda yekwete umbo_,” which is, being interpreted, “Skulls do not
play” (or “dance”); “they only play who have hair (on their heads).”
The difficult work of the translator is always in this country
accompanied by that of the commentator, so that it does not take long to
arrive at the fact that this sentence might be regarded as a free
version of “Gather ye roses while ye may,” or “A living dog is better
than a dead lion.” I, too, turning to Matola and Daudi, say solemnly,
“_Chikalakasa goje kung’anda, kung’anda yekwete umbo_” and then call out
to Moritz, “_Bilauri nne za pombe_” (“A glass of beer for each of us”).
The drab liquor is already bubbling in our drinking vessels—two glasses
and two tin mugs. “_Skål_, Mr. Knudsen”; “_Prosit_, Professor”—the two
natives silently bow their heads. With heartfelt delight we let the cool
fluid run down our thirsty throats. “_Kung’anda yekwete umbo_” (“They
only play who have hair on their heads”).... Silently and almost
imperceptibly the dark figures of the women have slipped away, with a
“_Kwa heri, Bwana!_” Matola and Daudi are gone too, and I remain alone
with Knudsen.
Our manuals of ethnology give a terrible picture of the lot of woman
among primitive peoples. “Beast of burden” and “slave” are the epithets
continually applied to her. Happily the state of things is not so bad as
we might suppose from this; and, if we were to take the tribes of
Eastern Equatorial Africa as a sample of primitive peoples in general,
the picture would not, indeed, be reversed, but very considerably
modified. The fact is that the women are in no danger of killing
themselves with hard work—no one ever saw a native woman walking
quickly, and even the indispensable work of the home is done in such a
leisurely and easy-going way that many a German housewife might well
envy them the time they have to spare. Among the inland tribes, indeed,
the women have a somewhat harder time: the luxuries of the coast are not
to be had; children are more numerous and give more trouble;
and—greatest difference of all—there are no bazaars or shops like those
of the Indians, where one can buy everything as easily as in Europe. So
there is no help for it; wives and daughters must get to work by sunrise
at the mortar, the winnowing-basket, or the grinding-stones.
At six in the morning the European was tossing restlessly in his narrow
bed—tossing is perhaps scarcely the right expression, for in a narrow
trough like this such freedom of movement is only possible when broad
awake and to a person possessing some skill in gymnastics. The night had
brought scant refreshment. In the first place a small conflagration took
place just as I was going to bed. Kibwana, the stupid, clumsy fellow,
has broken off a good half of my last lamp-glass in cleaning it. It will
still burn, thanks to the brass screen which protects it from the wind,
but it gives out a tremendous heat. It must have been due to this
accident that at the moment when I had just slightly lifted the
mosquito-net to slip under it like lightning and cheat the unceasing
vigilance of the mosquitoes, I suddenly saw a bright light above and
behind me. I turned and succeeded in beating out the flames in about
three seconds, but this was long enough to burn a hole a foot square in
the front of the net. Kibwana will have to sew it up with a piece of
_sanda_, and in the meantime it can be closed with a couple of pins.
Tired out at last I sank on my bed, and dropped into an uneasy slumber.
It was perhaps two o’clock when I started up, confused and dazed with a
noise which made me wonder if the Indian Ocean had left its bed to flood
this plain as of old. The tent shook and the poles threatened to break;
all nature was in an uproar, and presently new sounds were heard through
the roaring of the storm—a many-voiced bellowing from the back of the
tent—shouts, cries and scolding from the direction of the prison, where
my soldiers were now awake and stumbling helplessly hither and thither
in the pitchy darkness round the _baraza_. A terrific roar arose close
beside my tent-wall. Had the plague of lions followed us here from
Masasi? Quick as thought I slipped out from under the curtain and felt
in the accustomed place for my match-box. It was not there, nor was it
to be found elsewhere in the tent. Giving up the search, I threw myself
into my khaki suit, shouting at the same time for the sentinel and thus
adding to the noise. But no sentinel appeared. I stepped out and, by the
light of the firebrands wielded by the soldiers, saw them engaged in a
struggle with a dense mass of great black beasts. These, however, proved
to be no lions, but Matola’s peaceful cattle. A calf had been taken away
from its mother two days before; she had kept up a most piteous lowing
ever since, and finally, during the uproar of the storm, broke out of
the kraal, the whole herd following her. The two bulls glared with
wildly-rolling eyes at the torches brandished in their faces, while the
younger animals bellowed in terror. At last we drove them back, and with
infinite trouble shut them once more into the kraal.
The white man in the tent has fallen asleep once more, and is dreaming.
The nocturnal skirmish with the cattle has suggested another sort of
fight with powder and shot against Songea’s hostile Wangoni. The shots
ring out on both sides at strangely regular intervals; suddenly they
cease. What does this mean? Is the enemy planning a flanking movement to
circumvent my small force? or is he creeping up noiselessly through the
high grass? I give the word of command, and spring forward, running my
nose against tin box No. 3, which serves as my war chest and therefore
has its abode inside the tent opposite my bed. My leap has unconsciously
delivered me from all imaginary dangers and brought me back to reality.
The platoon fire begins again—bang! bang! bang!—and in spite of the
confused state in which the events of the night have left my head, I am
forced to laugh aloud. The regular rifle-fire is the rhythmic pounding
of the pestles wielded by two Yao women in Matola’s compound, who are
preparing the daily supply of maize and millet meal for the chief’s
household.
I have often seen women and girls at this work, but to-day I feel as if
I ought to give special attention to these particular nymphs, having
already established a psychical _rapport_ with them. It does not take
long to dress, nor, when that is finished, to drink a huge cup of cocoa
and eat the usual omelette with bananas, and then, without loss of time
I make for the group of women, followed by my immediate bodyguard
carrying the camera and the cinematograph.
[Illustration: WOMAN POUNDING AT THE MORTAR. DRAWN BY SALIM MATOLA]
I find there are four women—two of them imperturbably pounding away with
the long, heavy pestle, which, however, no longer resembles cannon or
rifle fire, but makes more of a clapping sound. Matola explains that
there is now maize in the mortars, while in the early morning they had
been pounding _mtama_ and making the thundering noise which disturbed my
repose. This grain is husked dry, then winnowed, afterwards washed and
finally placed in a flat basket to dry in the sun for an hour and a
half. Not till this has been done can it be ground on the stone into
flour. Maize, on the other hand, is first husked by pounding in a wet
mortar, and then left to soak in water for three days. It is then washed
and pounded. The flour will keep if dried.
After a while the pounding ceases, the women draw long breaths and wipe
the perspiration from their faces and chests. It has been hard work,
and, performed as it is day by day, it brings about the disproportionate
development of the upper arm muscles which is so striking in the
otherwise slight figures of the native women. With a quick turn of the
hand, the third woman has now taken the pounded mass out of the mortar
and put it into a flat basket about two feet across. Then comes the
winnowing; stroke on stroke at intervals of ten and twenty seconds, the
hand with the basket describes a semicircle, open below—not with a
uniform motion, but in a series of jerks. Now one sees the husks
separating themselves from the grain, the purpose served by the mortar
becomes manifest, and I find that it has nothing to do with the
production of flour, but serves merely to get off the husk.
The winnowing is quickly done, and with a vigorous jerk the shining
grain flies into another basket. This is now seized by the fourth woman,
a plump young thing who has so far been squatting idly beside the
primitive mill of all mankind, the flat stone on which the first handful
of the grain is now laid. Now some life comes into her—the upper stone
passes crunching over the grains—the mass becomes whiter and finer with
each push, but the worker becomes visibly warm. After a time the first
instalment is ready, and glides slowly down, pushed in front of the
“runner” into the shallow bowl placed beneath the edge of the lower
stone. The woman draws breath, takes up a fresh handful and goes to work
again.
This preparation of flour is, as it was everywhere in ancient times, and
still is among the maize-eating Indians of America, the principal
occupation of the women. It is, on account of the primitive character of
the implements, certainly no easy task, but is not nearly so hard on
them as the field-work which, with us, falls to the lot of every
day-labourer’s wife, every country maid-servant, and the wives and
daughters of small farmers. I should like to see the African woman who
would do the work of one German harvest to the end without protesting
and running away.
[Illustration: NATIVE WOMEN PREPARING MEAL. (POUNDING, SIFTING,
GRINDING)]
The care of the household is not unduly onerous. The poor man’s wife in
our own country cannot indeed command a great variety of dishes, but her
housekeeping is magnificence itself compared with the eternal monotony
of native cooking—millet-porridge to-day, maize-porridge to-morrow, and
manioc-porridge the day after, and then _da capo_. It may be admitted
that the preparation of this article of diet is perhaps not so simple as
it seems. I might suggest a comparison with the Thuringen dumpling,
which takes the inspiration of genius to prepare faultlessly—but surely
the most stupid negress must some time or other arrive at the secret of
making _ugali_ properly. Knudsen, in his enthusiasm for everything
genuinely African, eats the stuff with intense relish—to me it always
tastes like a piece of linen just out of the suds. The operation is
simple enough in principle—you bring a large pot of water to the boil
and gradually drop in the necessary meal, stirring all the time. The
right consistency is reached when the whole contents of the pot have
thickened to a glassy, translucent mass. If a European dish is wanted
for comparison, we need only recall the polenta of Northern Italy, which
is prepared in a similar way, and tastes very much the same.
I am glad to say that my own cook’s performances go far beyond those of
the local housewives, though his ability—and still more, unfortunately,
his willingness—leave much to be desired. Omari’s very appearance is
unique—a pair of tiny, short legs, ending in a kind of ducks’ feet,
support a disproportionately long _torso_, with a head which seems as if
it would never end at all; the man, if we may speak hyperbolically, is
all occiput. He is a Bondei from the north of the colony, but of course
calls himself a Swahili; all the back-country Washenzi do, once they
have come in contact with the Coast civilization which is so dazzling in
their eyes. Omari is the only married man among my three servants; he
says that he has four children, and speaks of his wife with evident awe.
She did not, indeed, let him go till he had provided liberally for her
support, _i.e._, induced me to open an account of seven rupees a month
for her with the firm who do my business at Dar es Salam.
I have put my three blackamoors into uniform khaki suits, whereupon all
three have appointed themselves corporals of the Field Force, by
persuading the tailor to sew a chevron in black, white and red on their
left sleeve. They are inexpressibly proud of this distinction, but their
virtues, unfortunately, have not kept pace with their advancement. At
Masasi I had to begin by applying a few tremendous cuffs to stimulate
Omari’s energy. This corrective has proved inefficient in the case of
the other two, as they will move for nothing short of the kiboko. If
each of the three had to be characterised by a single trait, I should
say that Omari is superstition personified; Moritz, crystallized
cunning; and Kibwana, a prodigy of stupidity; while a mania (which has
not yet entirely disappeared) for coming to me at every spare moment to
demand an advance, is common to all three. All three, of course, make
their exit in the same hurried manner. If in forming my ethnographical
collections I had to deal entirely with people like my cook, I should
not secure a single specimen. The fellow displays an amulet on his left
arm—a thin cord, with, apparently, a verse from the Koran sewn into it.
I remarked to him, in an off-hand way, “Just sell me that thing!” He
protested loudly that he could not and would not do so, for he would
infallibly die the moment it left his arm. Since then I have been in the
habit of amusing myself by now and then making him an offer for his
talisman; on each successive occasion he raises the same outcry. And as
for his drawing! At Lindi, he once brought me the map of his native
country, charted by himself on a piece of greasy paper. No one could
make head or tail of it, except perhaps the devil whose presentment he
brought me the following day, drawn on the reverse of the same piece of
paper. Omari’s Prince of Darkness has no less than four heads, but only
two arms and one leg—at least such is the verbal description he gives
me; his drawing, like his map, is an inextricable chaos of crooked
lines. My carriers are artists of quite another stamp. What spirit, for
instance, is shown in a drawing by Juma, usually the most phlegmatic of
mortals, intended to represent a troop of monkeys attacking a
plantation—his own _shamba_ in point of fact. But we shall have to come
back later on to the draughtsmanship of the natives.
[Illustration: MONKEYS ATTACKING A PLANTATION. DRAWN BY JUMA]
One provoking trick played me by my cook was connected with my supply of
coffee. I had brought two large tins with me from Dar es Salam, each
holding from six to eight pounds of the best Usambara quality, one
roasted, the other unroasted. According to all human calculations, one
tin should have lasted, even allowing the maximum strength to my midday
cup, at least several months, so that I was quite taken aback when my
_chef_ came to me in the middle of the fourth week with the laconic
announcement, “_Kahawa imekwisha_” (“The coffee is finished”). A strict
investigation followed. Omari insisted that he had used two spoonfuls a
day for me. I told Moritz to open the second tin and measure out with
the same spoon the quantity which, on his own showing, he should in the
worst case have consumed. This was done without appreciably diminishing
the quantity in the huge canister. Upon this I told him to his face that
he had used part of the coffee himself, and sold part of it to his
friends the soldiers. “_Hapana_” was his only answer. The only way to
escape this systematic robbery is by daily measuring out the necessary
quantity with one’s own hands, but this takes up far too much of the
time so urgently required for work. This necessity for ceaseless
supervision was proved to me, moreover, by another incident. Kibwana and
Moritz usually take it in turns to be on the sick list, and sometimes,
in fact, frequently, both are incapacitated at the same time, usually by
fever. Moritz, a few days ago, declared himself about to die—but not
here at Chingulungulu: dying is so much easier at Lindi. Nils Knudsen,
with his soft Viking heart, compassionated the poor boy to such a degree
that I was at last morally compelled to make use, although it was not
regulation time, of my clinical thermometer: my model medicine chest, I
may remark, only contains one of these useful instruments. The
patient—at the point of death—registered normal. Moritz, this time,
recovered with astonishing rapidity.
On another occasion, however, he was really ill, and I allowed him to
make himself a large jug of my cocoa in the morning. Full of
forebodings, I went across to the kitchen, at his breakfast-time, and
not only found him revelling in comfort, but also the whole of my party
being regaled by the cook in the most generous way with the contents of
one out of my eight tins. Can one be expected to refrain from using the
kiboko?
The local amusements not being carried on at my expense are decidedly
more enjoyable than the above. The beer-drinkings here take place, not,
as at Masasi, in the morning, but in the afternoon. Moritz must have a
_flair_ for festivities of this sort, since, whenever he acts as guide
in my afternoon strolls in search of knowledge, we are sure to come upon
a mighty company of tippling men, women, and children. The love for
strong drink seems thus to be pretty strongly developed, though there is
this year no special occasion to serve as an excuse for drinking at
Matola’s. The most prominent of such occasions here in the south is the
_unyago_, the ceremony of initiation into manhood and womanhood, of
which I have heard again and again, from men as well as from youths,
though so far I have not set eyes on the least trace of such an
arrangement. At present I do not even see the possibility of personally
witnessing the proceedings, which, by all one hears, seem to be
extremely complicated. I am determined, however, that it shall somehow
come to pass.
The reason why there is no _unyago_ this year at Chingulungulu lies in
the arrangement by which each village keeps the festival in
turn—probably on account of the expense, which is no trifle. Besides the
enormous quantity of _pombe_ drunk at the many dances, huge supplies of
provisions are required for the visitors who come far and near to attend
the celebration; and finally, calico has to be bought at the Coast, both
for the new garments in which the initiated are to appear after the
ceremony, and for the fees to their instructors, male and female. I have
no greater wish than to get a thorough insight into this custom of all
others, since, so far as I am acquainted with the literature relating to
Africa, this part of the sociological field is still almost if not
entirely untilled.
Meanwhile, the men amuse themselves and me in other ways. Even before I
left Masasi, I saw the people running together with the cry, “_Sulila
amekuja!_” (“Sulila has come!”), and a great crowd collected round a man
who was evidently a stranger. This man is, to begin with, remarkable for
the fact that, though stone blind, he wanders all over the southern part
of East Africa in perfect safety. It is true that he had a companion,
but this man, so far from being his guide, walked behind him, carrying
the bard’s professional paraphernalia. Sulila, who belongs to the Yao
tribe, is, in fact, a professional singer. He offered of his own accord
to give a performance for my benefit and had completed his preparations
in a twinkling. The implements of his craft are simple enough. He has
his band formed afresh on the spot when wanted: six or eight men come
forward, squat down in a square, each lays down before him a log
stripped of the bark and about as thick as one’s arm, takes a stick in
each hand and awaits the signal to begin. The master in the meantime has
adorned himself with the utmost splendour, attaching to his knees and
ankles sets of rattles which consist of hard-shelled fruits as large as
moderate-sized apples, strung on leather thongs. Round his waist he
wears a kilt composed of whole skins and strips of skins of various wild
animals—wild cats, monkeys, leopards—and, finally, his head is decorated
and his face shaded by the mane of a zebra or some large kind of
antelope, looking like a barbaric crown.
[Illustration: THE BLIND BARD SULILA OUTSIDE THE BOMA AT MASASI]
Sulila has taken his place in the centre of his band, holding his
stringed instrument in his left hand, and its bow in his right. This
instrument is a monochord with a cylindrical resonator cut out of a
solid block of wood, the string, twisted out of some hair from the tail
of one of the great indigenous mammals, is fastened to a round piece of
wood. Instead of rosin, he passes his tongue over the string of his bow,
which he then lifts and applies to the string, bringing out a plaintive
note, immediately followed by a terrible bellow from Sulila himself and
an ear-splitting noise from the “xylophones” of the band. Strictly
speaking, I am inclined to regret having come out on a scientific
mission: there is an inexpressible delight in seeing this strange artist
at work, and every diversion caused by the working of the apparatus
means a loss of enjoyment. Sulila is really working hard—without
intermission he coaxes out of his primitive instrument the few notes of
which it is capable, and which are low, and quite pleasing. Equally
incessant is his singing, which, however, is less pleasing, at least for
Europeans. His native audience seem to accept it as music _par
excellence_, for they are simply beside themselves with enthusiasm.
Sulila’s voice is harsh, but powerful; it is possible that its strength
to some extent depends on his blindness, as, like a deaf man, he is
unable to estimate the extent of the sound-waves he produces. He takes
his words at such a frantic pace that, though my ear is now somewhat
accustomed to the Yao language, I can scarcely distinguish one here and
there.
But the most charming of all Sulila’s accomplishments is the third, for
he not only plays and sings, but dances also. His dance begins with a
rhythmic swaying of the knees, keeping time to the notes of his fiddle,
while, with the characteristic uncertainty of the blind his face turns
from side to side. After a time the swaying becomes deeper and quicker,
the dancer begins to turn, slowly at first, and then more rapidly, at
last he revolves at a tearing speed on his axis. His bow tears along
likewise, his voice sets the neighbouring bush vibrating, the band
hammer away like madmen on their logs—it is a veritable pandemonium, and
the public is in raptures.
As already stated, I could not help secretly regretting the
impossibility of giving myself up unreservedly to the impression of
these performances, but the duty of research must always be the
predominant consideration. The hours spent over the camera,
cinematograph, and phonograph, involve more hard work than amusement.
This cannot be helped, but, if some of the results turn out
satisfactorily, as has fortunately happened in my case, all difficulties
and discomfort are abundantly compensated.
It is not easy to get phonographic records of the voice, even from
natives who can see. You place the singer in front of the apparatus, and
explain how he has to hold his head, and that he must sing right into
the centre of the funnel. “Do you understand?” you ask him on the
conclusion of the lecture. “_Ndio_” (“Yes”), he answers, as a matter of
course. Cautious, as one has to be, once for all, in Africa, you make a
trial by letting him sing without winding up the apparatus. The man is
still shy and sings too low, and has to be encouraged with a “_Kwimba
sana!_” (“Sing louder!”). After a second trial—sometimes a third and
fourth—the right pitch is found. I set the apparatus, give the signal
agreed on, and singer and machine start off together. For a time all
goes well—the man stands like a column. Then something disturbs his
balance. He turns his head uneasily from side to side, and there is just
time to disconnect the apparatus and begin instructions again from the
beginning. This is what usually happens; in many cases undoubtedly it
was vanity which induced the singer coquettishly to turn his head to
right and left, saying as plainly as words could have done, “See what a
fine fellow I am!”
With Sulila the case is much worse. He is so in the habit of moving his
head about that he cannot stop it when standing before the phonograph,
and the first records made of his voice are terribly metallic. With the
swift impulsiveness which distinguishes me, and which, though I have
often found cause to regret it, has repeatedly done me good service in
this country, I now make a practice of seizing the blind minstrel by the
scruff of the neck the moment he lifts up his leonine voice, and holding
his woolly head fast as in a vice, regardless of all his struggles; till
he has roared out his rhapsody to the end. Most of the songs I have
hitherto heard from Yao performers are of a martial character. Here is
one which Sulila sang into the phonograph at Masasi on July 24:—
Tulīmbe, achakulungwa! Wausyaga ngondo, nichichi? Watigi: Kunsulila(1)
kanapagwe. Jaiche ja Masito; u ti toakukwimi. Wa gwasite(?) Nambo
Wandachi pajaiche, kogopa kuona: msitu watiniche; mbamba syatiniche;
mbusi syatiniche; nguku syatiniche; kumala wandu putepute; nokodi
papopu; kupeleka mbia syakalume. Gakuūnda(?) Mtima wasupwiche: Ngawile
pesipo Luja. Kunsulila ngomba sim yaule kwa Bwana mkubwa: Nam(u)no
anduwedye atayeye mapesa gao. Sambano yo nonembesile.[32a]
The meaning of this is:—
“Let us be brave, we elders. They asked: What is a war? They say: ‘Mr.
Sulila is not yet born.’ Then comes (the war) of the Mazitu; guns are
fired; then they ran away. But the Germans came; it was dangerous to
see; the bush was burnt, the ants were burnt, the goats were burnt, the
fowls were burnt—the people were finished up altogether; the tax came up
(they had) to bring a hundred jars (of rupees). They were not satisfied.
(Their) heart was frightened. Mr. Sulila telegraphed to the District
Commissioner: ‘He may skin me to make a bag for his money.’ Now I am
tired.”
The tribes in the south-eastern part of our colony are very backward as
regards music; they have nothing that can be called tune, and their
execution never gets beyond a rapid recitative. In both respects, all of
them, Yaos, Makua and Wanyasa alike, are far behind my Wanyamwezi, who
excel in both. Only in one point the advantage rests with the southern
tribes—the words of their songs have some connected meaning, and even
occasional touches of dramatic force. This is remarkably illustrated by
Sulila’s song.
The Mazitu have made one of their usual raids on the unsuspecting
inhabitants of the Central Rovuma district. Which of the many sanguinary
raids on record is meant cannot be gathered from the words of the song,
it may be one of those which took place in the eighties and nineties, or
the recent rising—probably the latter, since, so far as I am aware,
there was never any question of taxes in the previous disturbances. In
this case, moreover, it is not so much a war-tax that is referred to, as
the payment of the hut-tax introduced some years ago, which has during
the last few months been paid in at Lindi with surprising willingness by
people who had been more or less openly disaffected. This may be looked
on as a direct consequence of the prompt and vigorous action taken by
the authorities.
The interference of the Germans marks a turning point in the fighting of
the natives among themselves. The feeling that more serious evils are
coming upon them is expressed in terms of their thought by speaking of
the destruction of all property. First the bush is burnt, and all the
ants in it destroyed, then comes the turn of the goats, which here in
the south are not very numerous, though the fowls, which are the next to
perish, are. Finally, many people are killed—Sulila in his ecstasy says
_all_. Now come the conditions of peace imposed by the victorious
Germans: a heavy tax in rupees, which must be paid whether they like it
or not. In the eyes of those immediately affected the sum assumes
gigantic proportions, they become uneasy and contemplate the step which,
here in the south may be said to be always in the air—that of escaping
the consequences of the war by an emigration _en masse_. Then appears
the hero and deliverer—no other than Sulila himself. In the
consciousness of his high calling, he, the poor blind man, proudly calls
himself “Mr. Sulila”[33] He sees his country already traversed by one of
the most wonderful inventions of the white strangers—the telegraph wire.
He telegraphs at once to the _Bwana mkubwa_, that his countrymen are
ready to submit unconditionally,—they have no thought of resistance, but
they have no money. And they are so terrified that the Bwana might if he
chose skin them to make a bag for the rupees—they would not think of
resisting. This is the end of the song proper—the last sentence, “Now I
am tired,” is a personal utterance on the part of the performer himself,
fatigued by the unwonted mental effort of dictation.
Here at Chingulungulu there are several such minstrels. The most famous
of them is Che Likoswe, “Mr. Rat,” who, at every appearance is greeted
with a universal murmur of applause. Salanga has a still more powerful
voice, but is so stupid that he has not yet succeeded in dictating the
words of one song. If I could venture to reproduce my records I could at
once obtain an accurate text, with the help of the more intelligent
among the audience; but I dare not attempt this at the present
temperature, usually about 88°. I will, however, at least, give two
songs of Che Likoswe’s. One of them is short and instructive, and
remains well within the sphere of African thought, that is to say, it
only contains one idea, repeated _ad infinitum_ by solo and chorus
alternately.
Solo:—“Ulendo u Che Kandangu imasile. Imanga kukaranga” (“Mr. Kandangu’s
journey is ended. The maize is roasted”).
Chorus: “... Ulendo u Che Kandangu....”
Che Likoswe’s “get-up” and delivery are very much the same as Sulila’s,
except that, in conformity with his name, he sings, fiddles and dances
still more vivaciously than his blind colleague, who is also an older
man. He is, moreover, extremely versatile—it is all one to him whether
he mimes on the ground, or on tall stilts—a sight which struck me with
astonishment the first time I beheld it. The song itself, of course,
refers to a journey in which he himself took part. The most important
incident from the native point of view is, that all the maize taken with
them by the travellers was roasted—_i.e._, consumed, before the goal was
reached. Mr. Rat’s other song is much more interesting; it has an
unmistakable affinity with Sulila’s war-song, and gains in actuality for
me personally, because it is concerned with Mr. Linder, the excellent
agricultural inspector of the Lindi municipality, to whom I owe many
valuable suggestions, and who, on account of his thorough acquaintance
with this very district, had originally been selected as my companion.
Linder rendered splendid service in suppressing the rebellion: while any
action on the part of the Field Force was still entirely out of the
question, he had already, with a small detachment of police, repulsed
numerous attacks of the rebels, and ultimately sustained a serious
wound. But while decorations have been simply raining down on the Navy
and the _Schutztruppe_, Bwana Linda still walks among mortals without a
single order. He is, however, a philosopher as well as a hero.
The song runs as follows:—
Ulendo wa Linda (er); pa kwenda ku Masasi na gumiri chikuo: mkasálile
mbwana mkubwa ngondo jaiche nand autwiche lunga yangadye. Mkasálile
akida Matora: ngondo jaiche na gombel(r)e lilōmbe. Tukujir(l)a Masasi;
Mwera kupita mchikasa mpaka pe Lindi. Ne wapere rukhsa. Yendeye ku
mangwenu; mkapānde mapemba.
The translation is as follows:—
“The journey of Linder, when he went to Masasi, and I shouted with a
shouting.—‘Tell the Bwana Mkubwa, war has come, and I ran away without
looking back. Tell the akida Matora, (that) the war has come, and I have
beaten the great-drum.’ Then we went to Masasi, the Wamwera are beaten
and go as far as Lindi, and they get permission. ‘Go to your homes, and
plant Mapemba (sorghum).’”
This is delivered in very quick recitative, and relates in a few words
the history of the whole campaign, of course making the singer the
central point. Mr. Linder comes to Masasi in the course of one of his
official tours, his principal duty being to ascertain whether the local
headmen have cultivated the various crops prescribed by government.
There the loyal Likoswe of course hastens to him and warns him of
impending hostilities on the part of the Wamwera. Linder in his turn
sends word to the District Commissioner at Lindi, and at the same time
despatches Likoswe with an urgent message to Matola’s. Likoswe, on
arriving, beats the war-drum (_lilombe_), Matola’s warriors immediately
hasten to the spot, six hundred men with guns and many more with spears,
bows and arrows, and the chief marches on Masasi, to take the Wamwera in
the rear. It is related as a fact that Seliman Mamba and his
subordinates had each, at the beginning of the rising when their hopes
were highest and they already saw the Germans driven into the sea, fixed
on a house at Lindi with all its contents as his own share of the spoil.
Possibly, the line about the enemy’s going back to Lindi refers to these
unrealised plans. Matola, I believe, lost about forty men in fighting
the rebels, but certainly did not drive them back to Lindi. The last
sentence relates to the conclusion of peace:—the vanquished are
pardoned, and directed to go home quietly and plant their gardens once
more.
[Illustration: YAO DANCE AT CHINGULUNGULU]
My cinematograph, too, has been several times in requisition during my
stay at Chingulungulu, as I have found opportunity to take a whole
series of dances of the Wayao and Makua. The latter, it is well known,
are _the_ hunting-tribe _par excellence_ of the east—indeed professional
hunters of any tribe are generally described as Makua. They are,
moreover, typical for all other tribes in their method of hunting, and
in all appliances and customs connected therewith. One day, by Matola’s
orders, a troop appeared at Chingulungulu to perform, as they said, the
_makwaru_—a dance entirely based on the details of the hunter’s life. I
had quickly got my apparatus arranged in a suitable place, not an easy
matter here in the loose alluvial soil, as, if one presses too hard on
the legs of the tripod, they are apt to sink into the sand up to their
whole height. Grown wise by experience, I now take the precaution of
driving a wooden wedge obliquely from above under each leg before
beginning operations. It is more difficult to remedy the results of a
mistaken economy. In order to save the African Fund about twelve
shillings and a quarter of a carrier, I did not bring the heavy stand
necessary for the Ernemann cinematograph, thinking that I could use my
ordinary camera-stand. This, though excellent of its kind, is far too
light to stand the continual jerks of the cinematograph, and I have to
balance matters by hanging a heavy stone or one of my packing-cases
under it. If matters become very serious one of the carriers has to
sacrifice himself and do duty as a tripod-holder. Everything being now
ready for the _makwaru_, the same band which figured at Sulila’s and
Likoswe’s performances takes its place. It consists of six or seven men
and youths, squatting before their long white logs with their drumsticks
in hand. Suddenly, a fantastically decorated something flashes into the
circle, moving so rapidly that it is impossible to distinguish whether
it is a man or a woman. Being compelled to pause for breath it is
revealed as a middle-aged man in a kilt of long green leaves resembling
a ballet-dancer’s skirt. The man scarcely stirs from the spot, but his
skirt flies in the wind, and he works his feet in quick, regular time,
while at the same time his arms move in a manner difficult to describe,
as there is nothing in European dancing which in the least degree
corresponds to it; and both, arms and legs, keep exact time with the
band. Whether the rest of the body in its incessant motion backwards and
forwards also keeps time it is impossible to decide, as the vibrations
are too rapid to let the eye make out the details. This stage lasts so
long that I am tempted to regret the waste of my precious film.
[Illustration: “BUSH SCHOOL” IN THE PORI, NEAR CHINGULUNGULU]
At last the hunter changes his tactics. The dancer is, in fact, a
hunter, and not only that, but a very successful elephant-hunter; and
having just killed a large elephant, he is celebrating this deed of
prowess before the assembled inhabitants of his native village, just as
he does after his return from the actual hunt. Here, too, the people
have collected from far and near to see this celebrity, and to admire
his skill in the dance. His performance becomes more and more
vivacious—he no longer remains on one spot but trips forward, first in a
straight line, then in a zig-zag. At last he revolves in a circle,
moving round with short, cautious jumps, and all the time keeping up the
movements of his arms and hips without a moment’s intermission. After
one more rapid trip round the circle and a frantic vibration of the
whole body, the dancer stands still, breathing deeply.
This kind of dance is too peculiar, too divergent from all European
standards for us to judge of it critically according to the rules of
art. I had expected a pantomimic representation of an elephant-hunt, or
at least of the stalking and killing of the game, and I must confess
that I can find nothing in the performance which seems to have any such
reference, and must confine myself to admiring the incredible dexterity
shown by this acrobat in setting all his muscles a-quiver. I have no
sooner got a fresh film ready, than a second dancer has appeared on the
scene, whose action is still more curious and perplexing. At first one
sees nothing but a confused mass of green leaves rolling and writhing on
the ground in convulsive motions. After a while, this resolves itself
into a man much like the previous one, except that his costume is much
more voluminous. He quivers in a masterly manner and shows as much
staying power as his predecessor; but his chief strength lies in his
legs, whose suppleness and power of assuming the most grotesque
attitudes are nothing short of marvellous. When he has exhausted his
repertoire and made way for a third performer, we at last get the
expected pantomime. Stooping as if for a spring, the hunter creeps up,
noiselessly, making use of every bit of cover, to stalk the elephant,
whose scent is exceedingly keen. At last the goal is reached—swiftly,
but as noiselessly as the hunter, the quarry, represented by another
man, has slipped into the arena, and squatted down, and the hunter
circles round him in diminishing spirals. We expect the deadly shot, but
it does not come off, and the third dancer, quite regardless of the
elephant he is supposed to represent, begins to “triumph” in precisely
the same way as the two others, practising highly artistic short steps,
swaying his hips and flourishing his arms. “_Bassi_”—(finished,) I
exclaim, as the last of my three films whizzes off the reel.
[Illustration: A YAO DRESSED FOR THE _MASEWE_ DANCE]
Quite in contrast to these are the typical _unyago_ dances of the Wayao.
There seems to be a great variety of these; but so far I have only seen
two at Chingulungulu, a _masewe_, so called from the rattles worn, as
already mentioned, on the legs and feet, and a _luwanja_. Both are
essentially the same in character. The primitive xylophone of the Makua
hunting-dance is here replaced by a complete band of drums, of the most
various shapes and sizes. A certain musical faculty inherent in the race
is evidenced by the fact that the musicians take care to tune up before
the dance begins. Each beats his own drum, listening carefully to hear
whether it is in tune with the rest, and if not, hurries away to the
nearest hut and comes back with a brand from the hearth and a large
bundle of dry grass. The grass is heaped on the ground and set on fire,
and then every drum is held with the open end over it, for a longer or
shorter time—some for a few seconds only, some for half a minute or
more—the pitch being tested by striking from time to time. At last all
the skins are sufficiently tense and the drumming begins.
[Illustration: _MASEWE_ DANCE OF THE YAOS AT MTUA]
At the same moment a dense cloud of dust is seen approaching with
lightning speed, and discloses a seemingly endless procession of men,
youths and boys, all decked in bundles of _masewe_ at the ankle and
above the knee, and a kilt of leaves and strips of skin round the waist.
They take their places in the arena in front of the band, and
immediately fall into position and trot along in Indian file, till the
line closes up into a circle and moves round to the left, then round to
the right, and so on. It is astonishing how uniformly and accurately the
movements are executed by every individual performer, even the youngest
boys. There is nothing very exciting about this dance; in fact, I find
all native dances monotonous, perhaps owing to the prevailing character
of the continent, which is very uninteresting, except in a few favoured
spots. Perhaps a native critic, however, might object that there is no
great variety in our waltzes or polkas. Just as these reflections were
passing through my mind, the scene changed, somewhat to its advantage,
and the circle broke up into groups which vied with each other in the
most remarkable leg-movements. These, in fact, seem to be the strong
point of all these dancers. One group floated along on tip-toe, another
imitated the dignified gait of some kind of wading-bird, yet another
swayed merrily in and out between the rest, and a fourth stalked along
with legs held perfectly stiff. Long after my last film was finished the
company were still disporting themselves, unable to leave off, but at
last this “turn,” too, came to an end; the band produced only horrible
discords; I was tired out with standing; Knudsen complained of the first
symptoms of fever, and the function was over.
The performance of dances like the one just described, which is
connected with the circumcision rite, have naturally increased my
interest in this tribal festival, and my desire to see and study it as
closely as possible.
My curiosity was increased by the two following incidents. One afternoon
I was strolling through the bush in the neighbourhood of Chingulungulu;
we had already obtained some interesting photographs of graves, had
studied the exterior and interior of some outlying homesteads, and were
about to take some views of the _pori_ showing the character of the
vegetation. After straggling in Indian file through the high grass and
the underwood, which was here exceptionally dense, we came to a little
circular clearing, perhaps from fifteen to twenty yards in diameter, and
studded with a few scattered bushes. The unique feature of the place was
two concentric circles of stumps having another stump in the centre.
These stumps were about a foot high, cut off with a perfectly smooth
horizontal surface, and excellently well adapted for seats. I took a
photograph of this remarkable object without loss of time, and, on my
return to camp, made inquiries of Matola and others as to its meaning. I
found that the stumps were seats for the _wari_, as the boys under
initiation are called after a certain point in the ceremony, and the
seat in the middle was that reserved for the instructor who has charge
of the boys during the months which they have to spend in a hut built
for the purpose in the bush. My informants added that the hut had stood
close to the circle, but was no longer in existence, as the _unyago_ for
which it had been built had taken place some years ago.
Some days later, Knudsen and I were sitting under our _baraza_ in the
early part of the afternoon, pressing our hands to our temples. It was
no wonder that every day about this time we both suffered from
excruciating headaches, for the temperature had been steadily rising
during the last few weeks, and on this particular afternoon the
thermometer stood at 93·36°F. We had given vent to our disgust at the
Dark Continent in the strongest of language, and I was just about to
soothe our ruffled feelings with a cigar apiece, when we saw two black
figures approaching. These proved to be Akundonde, the wise old Yao
chief, and his councillor, Akumapanje. We had sent to ask Akundonde to
find us some men capable of giving accurate information, and now he came
himself, though far from well. He was suffering from the usual neglected
ulcer on the leg, and could only limp along painfully with the help of
his staff, so that his taking a four hours’ walk to oblige us shows a
degree of goodwill deserving the amplest recognition.
Akundonde being established in Knudsen’s long chair, while his companion
took a seat on a packing-case, I made an effort to divert the
conversation from the trifles which at first threatened to engross it to
the subjects which chiefly interest me, and succeeded, more by luck than
good guidance. As usually happens, we were soon discussing the most
recondite matters, such as the attitude of the natives towards eclipses,
the fall of meteorites, and the moon. Meteorites are considered by the
Yaos as of evil omen. When they are heard to explode, people say,
“Either a great chief will die this year, or a great multitude of the
people will perish.” An eclipse of the moon is thought, as among all
primitive people, to be a personal encounter between two foes. The enemy
of the moon is, of course, the sun; they seize each other fiercely and
wrestle together. As both are equally matched, the battle remains
undecided, which forces mankind to interfere. The Wayao run in haste to
fetch hoes and axes, and strike them against each other, looking up at
the scene of strife and calling out:—
“_Mlekangane, mlekangane, mwesi na lyuwa, mkamulene, Mlekangane,
mlekangane sambano._”
“Go asunder, go asunder, sun and moon, you have seized one another. Go
asunder, go asunder now.”
The same custom is observed in eclipses of the sun, as is only logical.
The full moon with her pale light exercises the same magical influence
on the native mind as on the feelings of every other mortal, except that
our black brother is not like us filled with emotional enthusiasm, but,
quite in conformity with his views on other matters, makes use of this
favourable opportunity for heightening the virtue of his medicines and
charms. When the moon is at the full, the native goes to the nearest
cross-roads, or to a place where two paths meet, carrying with him a
sufficient quantity of a certain gum called _ubani_. In perfect silence
he then kindles a fire by means of the primitive appliance of the drill
(to be described later on). The dust produced by boring catches fire,
but the glimmer is at first so faint that it is scarcely perceptible
even to the keen eyesight of the savage. Very carefully he blows on the
tiny spark—it grows, catches the bunch of dry grass and then the sticks,
and when the flame leaps up, he drops his powder into it. The flame now
burns dimly, a thick smoke rises, and the man takes the amulets he is
accustomed to wear round his neck, arms and waist, and holding them in
the smoke, says: “You moon, a little while ago you were not there, and
the sky was dark. Now you are there and shine down brightly. All beasts
and plants are glad and have new strength, so let my medicine also have
new strength.” Then he prays thus: “Let the medicine protect my body
against lions and serpents, against witchcraft and everything that may
hurt me, and let my body have new strength.” Once more he swings his
charms through the smoke, as it becomes thinner and more transparent;
the fire dies down, and as noiselessly as he came the man creeps back to
his hut.
[Illustration: FRESCO ON THE WALL OF A HUT AT AKUNDONDE’S, REPRESENTING
TWO EUROPEANS WITH THEIR ESCORT: THE WORK OF A YAO BOY]
Being now on the subject of magic, the three ethnographic specialists,
Knudsen, Akundonde and Akumapanje, keep to it, and speak of the tying of
knots. Akundonde relates how a man in this country, if he has designs on
any particular girl, takes a strip of bark, makes a knot in it, without
drawing it tight, and says to it, “You tree, your name is _sangalasa_
(joy)—you are to fetch me that girl, and as a sign that it shall come to
pass, I shut my words up in you.” He then holds the open knot in front
of his mouth, puts his tongue through it and draws it tight. He
afterwards wears the knotted piece of bark-string tied round his wrist.
This proceeding, though simple enough, is connected with a long and
important chapter in racial psychology. The tying of a knot in fact, in
many strata of mankind, has an occult meaning; the binding power of the
knot is supposed to be transferred to certain persons, and, so long as
the knot itself cannot be untied, those persons are indissolubly
attached to him or her who has tied it according to certain rules and
with the proper ceremonies.
Interesting as these matters were, and glad as I should have been to
know more of them, I was just now still more eager to hear about the
much-discussed _unyago_. I brought up the subject, but both natives
cleverly evaded it. After a while, I noticed the old chief’s eye roaming
wistfully about our study, saw that he was tired and thirsty, and
remembered that Daudi, the native clergyman, had sent us a large pot of
_pombe_ whose quality precluded our drinking it ourselves. “I suppose it
will be quite good enough for these two old sinners,” I remarked to
Knudsen, who must have been revolving similar cogitations; for he at
once seized the import of my words, fetched a huge tin mug from his
tent, filled it with the yellow, fermenting liquor, and handed it to
Akundonde. The latter took it, but did not drink, handing it to his
companion instead. “There’s a polite chief for you!” I thought to
myself—but, seeing how very cautiously Akumapanje touched the beer with
his lips, it became clear to me that I was witnessing an ancient
traditional custom, arising from the innate suspiciousness of the negro,
who scents—not indeed poison, but certainly witchcraft—everywhere, and
dreads it accordingly. The precaution is intended to divert the risk
from the superior to the subordinate.
Akumapanje, after tasting, handed the cup back to Akundonde, who
thereupon emptied it at a draught. A few seconds later it was again at
the lips of the prime minister, who faithfully copied his master. Drink
and counter-drink succeeded each other at the same rapid rate, and we
Europeans looked on with mixed feelings of envy and admiration. This did
not prevent me from remembering our ethnographical purpose, and I found
that what had previously seemed impossible was now child’s play. The two
old men, by turns completing each other’s statements, gave a fluent
description of the general features of the boys’ _unyago_: the
arrangement for holding the festival at different villages every year
(which was not new to me); the introductory ceremony, held in an open
square surrounded by the huts erected for the candidates; and the
operation itself, which takes place in a special hut in the depths of
the forest. I had heard something of all this from Knudsen, who, in the
course of his many years’ residence among the Wayao, has acquired a
wonderful knowledge of their life and customs, and whom I have been
pumping at every spare minute with such persistency that the good fellow
has no doubt often wished one of us elsewhere.
At last, however, our two visitors, becoming more loquacious as the
_pombe_ diminished, reached a part of the subject of which Knudsen knows
very little, but which attracts me most of all. This is the instruction
given to the boys during the months spent in the bush by their teachers
(_anamungwi_). These instructors, of whom every boy has one from the
time of his initiation into manhood, are indisputably one of the most
sympathetic features in the life of the people. They watch over their
pupils through the painful weeks of the _unyago_, teach them what is
fitting and unfitting, and remain responsible for their welfare even
after they have left their boyhood far behind. I was anxious, above all,
to ascertain the gist of the moral teaching given in the bush hut, and,
though I only partly succeeded in doing this, it is a great satisfaction
to have taken down verbatim a fragment of a speech delivered on such an
occasion.
Some extra well-filled cups having removed the last scruples of our two
jovial informants, Akundonde, with a little more encouragement from
Knudsen, began in a didactic tone:—
“Mwe mari, sambano mumbēle. Atati na achikuluwēno mnyōgopĕ́. Nyumba
mkasayinjila tinyisimana chimtumbánăgá. Wakongwe mkasayogopa;
mkagononawo, mesi akayasináwo. Imālagắ akamtikĭté; imālagắ akamila
muchisiḗ; masakam. Munyitikisie: marhaba. Mkuona mwesi sumyógopé,
ngakawa kuulala. Kusimana timchiŭá; Miasi jili kogoya. Chilwele
winyi.”[34]
The translation is as follows:—“You, my pupil, now you are initiated.
Your father and your mother, fear (respect) them. See that you do not
enter the house (unannounced), lest you should find them embracing. Do
not be afraid of women, but sleep with them, bathe with them, when you
have finished let her rub (knead) you; when you have finished she should
salute you (saying) ‘Masakam,’ and you must answer, ‘Marhaba.’ You must
be afraid (= take care) when you see the (new) moon, you might get hurt.
Beware of women during their courses, this is dangerous, (it causes)
many diseases.”
My notes were scarcely as complete and connected as the above when first
written down. The native is incapable even when sober of taking his
sentences to pieces, as it were, and dictating them bit by bit; but
taking down the words of these two jovial old sinners was a difficult
task, which, however, we accomplished successfully up to the point when
the inevitable catastrophe set in.
The two had invariably paused for refreshment at the end of every
sentence till they reached the point above indicated, when they suddenly
found the _pombe_ jar empty. They had drunk at least five gallons at a
sitting, but with the strange logic of the intoxicated, they considered
themselves entitled to a further supply, and, when none proved to be
forthcoming, they indignantly broke off their lecture and left in a
huff. This is the reward of being hospitable overmuch.
The address here reproduced, which I have translated with the help of
Knudsen, Daudi, Matola and some others, is said to be the same, both as
to matter and form, at all _unyago_ ceremonies. No doubt this is
correct, for I know nothing which could more exactly express the
feelings of the native than just these precepts. They are a strange
mixture of hygienic rules and moral instruction, and at the same time
contain a good deal of primitive tradition which still forms part of
daily life. I mean by this the fact that the youth, once recognised as a
member of the adult community, is forbidden to enter his mother’s house
unannounced. Here, in East Africa, we are still in the matriarchal
stage, where the husband is nothing, so to speak, but a connection by
marriage. He is his children’s father, but is not related to them, in
fact he belongs to a different clan. This clan, as so often happens
among primitive peoples, is exogamous—that is to say that there is no
impediment to a young man marrying a girl of any clan but his own. This
prohibition goes so far that the young Yao has, as far as possible, to
avoid his nearest female relations who, of course, are his mother and
sisters, and hence the injunction at least to give warning of his
approach when entering his mother’s house.
The stress here as elsewhere laid on the reverence to be shown to father
and mother must strike all right-thinking Europeans as a very pleasing
trait. Respect for parents and for grown-up people in general is, as I
have been told over and over again, the principal and fundamental
feature in native education, and Knudsen testifies that the young people
in general observe it in a marked degree in their intercourse with their
elders. We Europeans might well learn from the natives in this respect,
thinks Nils, who is no doubt, well qualified to form an opinion.
But, in spite of all pleasant impressions as to native educational
maxims, I have lost the end of the _unyago_ address—a misfortune for
which the good Daudi’s big _pombe_-jar is to blame. If the mountain will
not come to Muhammad, Muhammad will have to go to the mountain. In other
words, Akundonde having declared that he must go home to put fresh
_dawa_ on his leg and cannot possibly come again, we shall have to look
up the old gentleman at his own residence.
[Illustration: HERD OF ELEPHANTS. FROM A DRAWING BY BARNABAS, AN
EDUCATED MWERA AT LINDI]
CHAPTER X
FURTHER RESULTS
CHINGULUNGULU, August 31, 1906.
I am still at Chingulungulu, cursing the infernal heat, horrible dust
and dirty natives with more fervour than ever, but unable to get away
from them. The reason for this is the fact that while at first my stay
here seemed utterly barren of scientific results, this state of things
gradually reversed itself, so that the difficulty now lay in dealing
with the mass of new impressions and observations. It is impossible to
relate in full detail the exact way in which I obtained an insight into
native customs and ideas—this would fill several volumes, and my time is
limited. I shall therefore content myself with a few personal touches
and a small selection from the various departments of the material and
mental life of the tribes inhabiting this vast plain.
The most important incident affecting my expedition was the engagement
of Nils Knudsen as a permanent member of its staff, subject, of course,
to the consent of the Agricultural Committee. I fancy the arrangement is
satisfactory to both parties. As I have already remarked, Knudsen is in
the service of the Lindi Municipality, as master of the Industrial
School. At the request of the District Commissioner, he had been granted
leave of absence to make a tour through the plain west of the Makonde
Plateau and exercise a sort of supervision over the village headmen. For
reasons of which I am not called on to judge, the plan of appointing
such European inspectors has been given up again, and, as the Lindi
municipality naturally saw no occasion to let their industrial teacher
travel about the country for his own amusement, he was recalled. I must
honestly confess that I had long found Knudsen quite indispensable, and
therefore took the opportunity of applying to the District Commissioner
for permission to engage him, when the latter, a few days ago, visited
us on one of his official tours. He has seemed ever since to enjoy an
increased sense of his own importance and, in fact, the task of
initiating a German scholar into the deepest secrets of alien life is no
doubt a far pleasanter one than that of teaching lazy native boys to
plane, saw, forge and solder.
The second incident is a severe attack of fever, with which I have been
laid up during the last few days. I was just about to photograph the old
Sudanese sergeant who had come up with Ewerbeck, and who was chiefly
remarkable for a cough which kept everyone awake at night. When I saw
him going to muster his men for roll-call in the middle of the
afternoon, I went to take down my 9 x 12 cm. camera which hung from a
nail on one of the pillars of the _baraza_; but let it fall in lifting
it down, and found, on picking it up, that the sliding front had got
bent and the instantaneous shutter injured by the fall. The first
accident was remedied by energetic pressure, for the second nothing
could be done. I do not to this day understand why the loss of this
instrument should have thrown me into such a state of excitement; but
there are moments in life when we do, or omit to do, things for which we
afterwards vainly try to account. I suppose I never even remembered at
the time that I still possessed a 13 × 18 cm. apparatus of excellent
quality. That I did not recall the fact later on, is easier to
understand, as by sunset I found that my temperature was rapidly rising.
I tried a remedy previously found effectual for bringing on
perspiration—huge quantities of tea with citric acid in it, but in vain.
After a terrible night with an average temperature of over 104°, the
fever had so far abated that I could exert myself to make the working
drawings for additional slides to my 13 × 18 cm. camera, which I wished
to send to the Indian _fundi_ at Lindi. Up to this moment I had thought
my photographic equipment perfect, but the possibility of such an
accident as befell my smaller camera and of remedying it by the use of
simple wooden frames had not occurred either to me or the firm who
supplied me. By exerting all my energies, I was just able to finish the
drawings and send them off by a runner to Lindi, when my temperature
again rose above 100° and I was forced to go back to bed. The attack
then ran its course and came to an end, as fever always does. To-day I
should almost feel inclined to smoke, if we had any tobacco worthy of
the name. However, I have now had quite enough of Chingulungulu, and as
the Rovuma with its green banks and clear, cool water, its sand-banks
and islands is only a day’s march distant, we intend to go thither
shortly for a rest and change after all the discomforts, great and
small, of our stay here.
Before leaving, I feel that I ought to set down at least a few of the
observations made at this place.
Among many other diseases, such as malarial, black-water and remittent
fever, sleeping-sickness, guinea-worm, beriberi, and whatever other
ills, great or small, mankind may suffer from in these otherwise
favoured regions, leprosy is unfortunately endemic in our colony on the
Indian Ocean. On the coast of the southern district, the Government is
trying to prevent the further spread of this terrible disease, by
establishing an isolation hospital on an island in the Lukuledi Estuary,
where the patients, at present about forty in number, are treated by the
medical staff at Lindi. Here in the interior, lepers are for the present
entirely dependent on the care of their fellow-tribesmen. Among the Yaos
this care is a mixture of human sympathy and the crudest barbarity. The
patient is taken to a hut built specially for him in a remote part of
the bush, where his friends or relations bring him food, till the end
seems to be approaching. If the wise men of the tribe come to the
conclusion that this diagnosis is correct, a last and very abundant meal
is carried out to the hut, which is then fastened up from the outside,
so strongly that, even had the patient the power and the will to make an
effort, he could not free himself. He is thus, should he still have any
vitality left by the time the last of the food and drink is consumed,
condemned to perish of starvation.
[Illustration: VILLAGE OF THE NGONI CHIEF MAKACHU]
[Illustration: GRAVE OF THE YAO CHIEF MALUCHIRO, AT MWITI]
Another picture connected with death presents itself. We have already
seen the mysterious, legend-haunted site of Hatia’s grave on Unguruwe
mountain; those of other mortals are unpretending enough and quite
prosaic in character. In the country round Chingulungulu I have found
graves, both old and recent, at various places in the bush, none of them
outwardly distinguishable from graves in our own country, except that
the mounds over those of children are round or oval, instead of long
like those of adults. So far I have seen nothing of the custom reported
to me by several informants, of building a hut over the grave, and
decorating it with calico. Only one grave at Masasi had such a hut, but
I was told that it was an Arab grave, and there was no cloth.[35] The
grave of Nakaam’s predecessor, Maluchiro, at Meviti, has unfortunately
quite lost the traditional character. Here the traveller finds a large
oval hut, and, stooping under the wide, overhanging eaves to enter, he
sees, in the solemn twilight within, massive clay pillars at the head
and foot of the grave, and a somewhat lower wall on either side of it.
Such monuments are shown with pride by the natives to the passing
European, but they are a proof how far Islamitic culture has penetrated
the old African life.
European influence also has a share in the disappearance of old customs,
though, in one point, at least, it is less far-reaching than I had
supposed. I imagined that a box of matches would be found in every
native hut, but I have seen nothing of the sort, and, moreover, have
observed no other way of procuring fire. Yet no hut is ever without it.
Here we have the startling solution of a question which has long
occupied the attention of ethnographers. Not so many decades ago,
inquirers of the standing of Tylor and Lubbock seriously believed in the
existence of fireless tribes—even our brown fellow-subjects in the
Marianne Islands being classed with such unfortunates. The contrary of
this hypothesis has now been irrefutably demonstrated, and it is known
that there is no tribe in the world ignorant of the use of fire, or even
of the mode of producing it artificially. The problem has therefore
assumed another aspect. Did men first use fire, and then learn to
produce it? that is to say, did they begin by making use of its natural
sources, such as volcanoes and lava currents, burning naphtha-beds,
trees kindled by lightning, or heaps of vegetable matter ignited by
spontaneous combustion?—or did they first learn to bring out the divine
spark by boring, friction, or percussion, and then proceed to harness
the kindly element to household tasks? Both sequences of events are _a
priori_ possible, though, of course, the first is much the more probable
of the two. To-day we may say that it is the only one recognised. This
knowledge we owe entirely to ethnography.
At a time when hundreds of students are continually busy investigating
and describing the remotest and most forlorn of primitive tribes at
present accessible—when the existing ethnographic museums are filled to
overflowing with new collections, and new museums are opened every year,
it is strange to think of the earlier and less favoured period which had
to be content with mere arm-chair theories. Two branches of a tree rub
together in a storm. As the wind grows stronger, the friction becomes
more rapid, till the surfaces are heated; at last a tiny spark appears,
it becomes a larger spark, and then a devouring flame which consumes the
whole tree. Primitive man, standing under the tree, has been watching
the process with amazement. “Oh!” says he, “is that how it’s done?” and
thereupon takes a couple of sticks and does likewise.
[Illustration: KINDLING FIRE BY FRICTION]
In this description we have a typical specimen of the old-fashioned
theory devoid of any concrete basis of fact. It is the hypothesis
propounded by Kuhn, the philologist, who, fifty years ago, was at least
as famous for his “Origin of Fire”[36] as for his work in comparative
linguistics. We of a generation which knows no reverence have grown
accustomed to laugh at the venerable scholar; but such is the way of the
world.
It is always well to remember, in the case of a widely-distributed art,
like the production of fire, that it may have originated in more ways
than one. When we see to-day that by far the greater number of primitive
tribes make use of a boring implement, while a smaller section uses
friction, and a third an instrument like a saw, and the rest have
already advanced to the principles of the flint and steel, the concave
mirror and the pneumatic fire-producer—it follows of itself that such
must be the case. At the same time this variety of method shows us that
the production of fire is everywhere a secondary matter, an accidental
discovery, made while pursuing some entirely different end. This is even
found to be the case with the Malay fire-pump of South-Eastern Asia.
This is a tube, closed below, into which a tightly-fitting piston, whose
hollow lower end encloses a small piece of tinder, is forcibly driven,
when the compression of the air heats it sufficiently to ignite the
tinder. The blow-pipe, which has the same distribution, gives us a hint
as to the invention of this appliance. In drilling the hole to make this
weapon, it would soon be observed that the air within the tube readily
becomes hot enough to ignite the dust or shavings; and it would not be
difficult to do the same thing again intentionally. In the very oldest
culture of mankind, we can find indications of how all other forms of
fire-producing implements came to be invented. The earliest primitive
man had to scrape, bore, rub and saw, in order to shape his elementary
weapons and implements in accordance with the purpose for which they
were to be used. All these processes produced dust, which under
favourable circumstances became ignited through the heat engendered by
rapid motion.
This is the view taken by present-day ethnographers of the way in which
the use of fire originated. No doubt the invention was made
independently in many places and at various times, but only, in all
probability, after men were already familiar with fire as a natural
phenomenon. This necessarily follows from the fact, observed by careful
travellers among all primitive people, that fire is looked after and
cherished as a kind of domestic animal, all possible precautions being
taken to prevent its going out. It is even probable that the invention
of the house was suggested by the necessity of protecting the fire from
rain and snow. In the tribes which have come under my own observation,
nothing is so touching as their care for the “eternal fire.” If I had
not made a point of getting young and old people to show me, in every
place visited, the mode of making fire by boring, I might live ten years
in the country without seeing the slightest indication of their being
acquainted with such a thing. They carry the smouldering brand with them
for enormous distances, and only when, in spite of all care, it has gone
out, and no other fire can be borrowed, the man takes up his two sticks
and kindles a new fire by short but severe exertion. It is not every man
who can do this. I have seen skilled practitioners who had a bright
flame leaping up within half a minute from the first twirl of the stick,
while others toiled away for a long time and effected nothing. One
essential point is the notch at one side of the bore-hole, so that the
first spark can reach the little cone of dust as quickly as possible. It
is also necessary to twirl the stick quietly and with a uniform, not a
hurried motion, and to blow gently and steadily. In my Leipzig
experiments in fire-boring I tried all possible methods, and my students
and I wearied ourselves out in vain, for want of knowing and attending
to these three points.
I see, somewhat to my surprise, that the distinction between the skilled
and unskilled use of weapons is also fully recognised. What sort of
shooting the men here can do with their muzzle-loaders I am unable to
judge, as the importation of powder has been prohibited since the
rising,[37] and therefore these weapons are not now in use. This is one
reason why the old-fashioned arms are more in evidence at present; and,
besides, everyone knows that the stranger from Ulaya is interested in
such things. As far as hunting is concerned, however, (and this is the
principal purpose for which weapons are required,) the use of firearms
has occasioned little or no change in tactics. The difficulty of getting
within shot of the game with these antediluvian flint-lock guns is
almost as great as with bows and arrows, and the innumerable precautions
taken before and during hunting expeditions are intended to overcome
these difficulties. The local hunters, among whom Nils Knudsen easily
takes the first place, have, in the course of the month spent at
Chingulungulu, described to me with the fullest details, all native
methods of hunting, and everything connected therewith. When everything
else failed, when I was weary with the continuous work of photographing,
making phonographic and cinematographic records, sketching,
cross-examining and taking notes, and when it became evident that my
unlucky informants were only being kept awake by consideration for their
distinguished visitor, I had only to touch on the subject of hunting,
and everyone was quite fresh again, myself included; for, as a matter of
fact, no more interesting ethnographical picture can be conceived than
that suggested by these conditions.
[Illustration: MY COMPANION, NILS KNUDSEN]
In one of those daily conferences in which the men of the village pass
much of their time during the greater part of the year, the assembly has
to-day decided on a great hunt, to be held shortly. With an eagerness
not usually seen in these muscular but fairly plump figures, everyone
immediately hurried to his hut to inspect his weapons. It is a
well-known fact that the native always keeps his gun in first-rate
condition, but this is not the point just now. What has to be done is to
cast a spell on the quarry and to secure the assistance of higher powers
for the matter in hand. For this purpose, medicine, much and strong
medicine, is needed. The most powerful charms are parts of the bodies of
still-born children; for, as they have been unable to do any harm in the
world, every part of them is, in the native view, calculated to have a
beneficent influence. Similar ideas seem to underlie the efforts made to
obtain the human placenta for such purposes. On the other hand, bones of
men long dead, especially of such as were famous hunters in their
lifetime, are eagerly sought in the belief that the qualities of the
deceased will be transferred to the user. All these things, together
with the roots of certain plants, are made up into amulets with which
the hunter adorns both himself and his gun. Not until he has assured
himself that he is forearmed against any possible casualty can he start
with an easy mind.
There is, of course, no danger involved in hunting the numerous
antelopes of the country. The hunters assemble early in the morning at
the rendezvous agreed on, but before they start they are all rubbed down
with decoctions of certain roots. This is necessary to overpower by
means of a smell less alarming to the game, the strong bodily effluvium
already alluded to, together with the peculiar odour of wood smoke,
etc., from the huts, which hangs about them. Even the ordinary antelopes
require great care in this respect, the eland much more, and the
elephant, of course, most of all. Not till this is done does the hunt
begin. Having once found the track, the men follow it up without
stopping, ascending ant-heaps, climbing trees, and keeping a look-out
from hills. At last, having got within thirty or forty yards of the
quarry, whether a solitary animal or a herd, they fire a volley of shot
and slugs which either brings it down at once, or wounds it so severely
that, on following up the blood-spoor, they find it dead in the bush.
All the party now crowd round to dip their amulets in its blood, and so
make them more effectual for the future. The successful marksman gets
the tip of the tail as a much coveted ornament. He and his companions
now take a small piece of the animal’s nose as medicine, to strengthen
and sharpen their scent, of the apex of the heart, to give them
endurance and perseverance in stalking, of the eyes, to make their sight
keener, and of the brain to increase their intelligence. These parts are
eaten, and also a small piece of flesh from the place struck by the
bullet—this to ensure a similar result next time—and a piece of the
liver. I have not been able to ascertain the reason for this last; but
this organ being by many peoples regarded as the seat of life, perhaps
this association of ideas is at the bottom of the practice. All
particles of flesh or hide which adhere to the hands after partaking of
this remarkable hunting-breakfast must by an invariable rule be smeared
on the stock of the gun. Then they all hasten away. The animal is dead,
it is true, but its spirit has not been killed, and will want to revenge
itself. They return with various herbs and roots, the juice of which
they make haste to rub over their bodies, and so protect themselves.
But what are the observances connected with a mere antelope hunt
compared with the mass of superstitious practices which precede,
accompany and follow the chase of the elephant? I cannot here describe
in detail the preparation of the medicines and charms and their more
than fantastic ingredients. An elephant-hunt not only compels the master
of the house himself to adopt a particular regimen both by day and
night, but also exercises a similar constraint on his wife for at least
a week beforehand. As a rule, the native dislikes nothing more than any
interruption of his night’s rest, but at this time man and wife are
often kept on their feet half the night in order to prepare the
necessary charms. Portions of the human placenta, brain, etc., are again
among the principal ingredients, with the addition of human _semen_, and
in particular, decoctions of the bark of various trees with which the
hunter has to anoint himself and his gun. I must refer the reader to the
official report of my expedition, where these and many other details may
be found.
We cannot undertake to follow the hunters on their expedition, and have
to be content with pointing out that there is one infallible means of
stopping an elephant when all efforts to come up with him have failed.
It is very simple—you take some earth from the four footprints of the
animal pursued, mix it with a certain medicine made of roots, and tie
the mixture fast somewhere. After this the elephant will be unable to
move, let him try never so hard.
When at last the hunt has been successful and the elephant is killed,
the first thing done is to cut off the tip of his trunk, which is
immediately buried. It is believed that this is the most dangerous part
of an elephant and lives on long after the animal has been killed. It is
buried so that it may not see what is done next. The hunters dance round
the fallen colossus, firing off their guns over and over again in token
of rejoicing; then they seek for medicinal roots, with which they rub
their bodies as a protection against the elephant’s revengeful spirit.
This done, they are at leisure to cut out the tusks, cut up the carcase,
consume enormous quantities of the fresh meat, and dry the rest for
carrying away. This is done in the same manner in which fish are dried
on the Rovuma, that is, over a fire, on a stage about two feet high.
Others prefer to cut it into strips and let it dry in the sun. There is
probably not much left to be treated in this way; the native, like a
vulture, scents any bit of meat which might break the monotony of his
porridge diet, even though it should be miles away; and so, in an
incredibly short time, hundreds of guests see that none of the joint is
wasted.
[Illustration: FISH-DRYING ON THE ROVUMA]
CHAPTER XI
TO THE ROVUMA
NEWALA, beginning of September, 1906.
For the last few days I have been living in a different world, and
nearer heaven, for I am here at a height of more than 3,000 feet above
the level of the Indian Ocean, and look down on the vast greyish-green
plain in the west from an altitude of over 1,600 feet. This view over
the plain is wonderful, extending, on the south-west across the broad
channel of the Rovuma, which just now, it is true, holds very little
water, and on the north-west to the distant Masasi range; while it also
embraces the numerous insular peaks appearing at various distances in
the south, west, and north-west. I can only enjoy this view, however, by
walking back westward for about half-a-mile from my present position,
for Newala is not on the precipitous edge of the plateau, but lies about
a thousand yards away from it. And the climate here! What a contrast to
the _Inferno_ of Chingulungulu and the Purgatory of Akundonde’s! Here it
is cool as on the crest of the Thüringer Wald, and we Europeans had to
get out our warmest clothes immediately on arriving. Double blankets at
night and a thick waistcoat in the morning and evening are not enough,
and we have both had to take to overcoats.
But again I am anticipating! Between our departure from Chingulungulu
and our arrival at Newala only eleven days intervened. But how many, or
to be more accurate, what varied experiences were crowded into this
interval! Never before had my carriers been so noisy with sheer high
spirits as on the morning which put an end to their long inactivity at
Matola’s. Wanyamwezi porters cannot endure sitting still, they want to
be always on the move, always seeing something new; and in the end, if
kept too long inactive in one place away from home, they realise the
proverb about the sailor with a wife at every port. I had the greatest
trouble to steer my twenty-four men (I had already, with no regret
whatever, discharged the Lindi Rugaruga at Masasi), through the dangers
of this Capua; they became violent, committed assaults on women and
girls, and gave other cause for complaint as well. I did all I could to
keep them out of mischief, as, for instance, employing them to make long
tables for the _baraza_ out of halved bamboos; but all to no purpose. On
the morning of our departure, however, they skipped along like young
calves, in spite of their loads of sixty or seventy pounds, as we
marched along to the Rovuma. How cheerily we all marched! We had soon
left the shadeless bush of Chingulungulu far behind. A sharp turn of the
road from west to south, and a short steep declivity brought us to the
Nasomba, which had a small thread of water at the bottom of its deep
gorge. On we went, over extensive stubble-fields of maize and millet,
between beds of beans and splendid plantations of tobacco. High
ant-heaps showed the fertility of the soil; little watch-huts fixed on
high poles told how the crops were endangered by wild pigs, monkeys, and
other foes belonging to the animal world. Knudsen was able to indulge
his love of the chase on this trip, and from time to time, one of his
venerable shooting-irons lifted up its voice over hill and valley.
Meanwhile I had passed the Lichehe Lake, a sheet of water almost choked
with reeds, which according to the map ought to be close to the Rovuma.
The vegetation, too, indicated a greater abundance of water than
hitherto; we passed enormous baobabs, forced our way through low
palm-thickets and heard the leaves of stately fan-palms rustling far
above our heads. Just as I was about to push through another clump of
bushes, the strong hand of my new corporal, Hemedi Maranga, dragged me
back. “_Mto hapa, Bwana_”—(“There is the river, sir”). One step more,
and I should have fallen down the steep bank, some sixteen or eighteen
feet in height, at the foot of which I now see the gleam of those broad
reaches which Nils Knudsen has so often described to me, and which have
not failed to impress men so free from enthusiasm as Ewerbeck. Having so
often heard the word _hapana_, which is really beginning to get on my
nerves, the corporal’s _hapa_ was a pleasant surprise, and it is no
wonder that I felt inclined to bless him. What shall I say of the five
or six pleasant days passed on the banks and islands of this river,
consecrated by the memory of Livingstone?[38] The ethnographer finds
little to do there at the present day. Forty years ago, when Livingstone
ascended it, its banks were covered with settlements of the Wamatambwe,
its current carried a thousand canoes of that energetic fishing tribe,
and a busy, cheerful life prevailed everywhere. But here, too, the
Wangoni came down, like frost on a spring night, and of the once
numerous and flourishing Matambwe only scanty remnants are to be found,
irregularly scattered along the immense Rovuma valley, or absorbed into
the Makua, Yao and Makonde. The traveller is lucky—as, by the way, I
usually am—if he sees a few individuals of this lost tribe.
[Illustration: TWO MATAMBWE MOTHERS FROM THE ROVUMA]
We made our first camp close to the river. My tent, as usual, was
pitched furthest to windward, and next to the water, Knudsen’s being
next to it; while the carriers had to seek shelter more to leeward,
under an overhanging bank. Steep banks like this are very common here.
During the rains the river carries down an immense volume of water to
the sea, and piles up masses of alluvial drift to a greater height every
year, but in the dry season, as now, its bed, nearly a mile wide, is
almost dry, consisting of a vast expanse of sand and gravel banks.
Between these the river takes a somewhat uncertain course, sometimes in
a single channel about as wide as the Elbe at Dresden, but usually
divided into two or three easily-forded arms. Yet, in spite of its
powerlessness, the river is aggressive, and constantly washes away its
banks at the bends, so that we frequently come upon trees lying in the
stream which have been undermined and fallen. Its bed is, therefore,
continually changing, as is the case with the Zambezi and Shire, and, in
fact, most rivers of tropical Africa.
It is late afternoon: a dozen natives are standing in a circle on a
level spot in mid-channel and looking round them attentively, almost
timidly, staring straight at the water, as though anxious to penetrate
to the bottom. What are they after? Has the white man lost some valuable
property for which he is setting them to look? The answer is much
simpler than that. Look within the circle, and you will see two hats
floating on the surface of the current. When they raise themselves a
little from the shining level, you will see two white faces—those of the
Wazungu, Knudsen and Weule, who, delighted to escape for once from the
rubber bath with its mere half-bucket of water, are cooling their limbs
in the vivifying current. And the natives? The Rovuma has the
reputation—not altogether undeserved—of containing more crocodiles than
any other river in East Africa, and therefore it is as well to station a
chain of outposts round us, as a precautionary measure. It is highly
amusing to watch the uneasy countenances of these heroes, though the
water for a long way round does not come up to their knees.
Evening is coming on; a stiff westerly breeze has sprung up, sweeping up
the broad river-channel with unopposed violence, so that even the scanty
current of the Rovuma makes a poor attempt at waves. Glad of the unusual
sight, the eye ranges far and wide down the river. Everything is still
as death—no trace remains of the old joyous Matambwe life as it was in
the sixties. There, far away, on the last visible loop of the river,
appears a black dot, rapidly increasing in size. Our natives, with their
keen sight, have spied it long ago, and are staring in the same
direction as ourselves. “_Mtumbwi_”—(a canoe)! they exclaim in chorus,
when the dot coming round a bend becomes a black line. In a quarter of
an hour the canoe has reached us, a dug-out of the simplest form, with a
mournful freight, an old woman crouching in the stern more dead than
alive. I feel sorry for the poor creature, and at a sign from me an
elderly man and a younger one spring lightly to the bank. A few
questions follow. “She is very ill, the _bibi_,” is the answer, “we
think she will die to-day.” I can see for myself that no human help will
avail. The two men return at their paddles, and in ten minutes more we
see them landing higher up on the other side, carrying between them a
shapeless bundle across the sand-bank into the bush. A human destiny has
fulfilled itself.
Nils Knudsen had in his usual enthusiastic way been telling me of the
marvels to be found at Naunge camp, higher up the Rovuma, where he
insisted that we must go. This time he was not so far wrong; in fact,
the wild chaos of rocks beside and in the river, the little cascades
between the mossy stones, and the dark green of the vegetation on the
banks, made up an attractive picture enough. But the state of the ground
itself! The trodden grass and broken bushes, as well as the unmistakable
smell, showed plainly enough that it was a popular camping-place and had
been used not long before. “No, thank you!” said I. “_Safari_—forward!”
Here, where we were directly on Livingstone’s track, the open bush
begins a couple of hundred yards away from the bank. With three _askari_
to cover my left flank, I therefore marched up stream, through the
vegetation lining the bank, at the cost of indescribable toil, but
rejoicing in the view of the river with its ever-changing scenery. At
last I found what I was looking for. In mid-channel, at a distance from
us of perhaps six or seven hundred yards, rose an island, steep and
sharply-cut as the bow of a man-of-war, its red cliffs shining afar over
the silvery grey of the sand-banks, but covered at the top with a
compact mass of fresh green vegetation. With a shrill whistle to call my
followers across from the _pori_, and one leap down the bank, I waded
through the deep sand direct for the island.
The idyllic life which I enjoyed for some days on this island in the
Rovuma has left an indelible impression on my memory. Nils Knudsen was
always hunting, and never failed to return with a supply of meat for
roasting, which kept the men in high good humour. Our tents were pitched
in a narrow sandy ravine at the foot of the cliff, which may have been
twenty-seven or twenty-eight feet high; the men were encamped at some
distance to leeward, and I myself was alone in a green bower at the top
of the island, where no one was allowed to approach me without
announcing himself in the words prescribed by Swahili etiquette, “_Hodi
Bwana!_” Only my personal attendants might bring me, unannounced, the
repasts prepared by Omari, who has now learned to cook some things so as
not to be absolutely uneatable. Altogether it was a delightful
interlude.
[Illustration: TYPICAL HUT IN THE ROVUMA VALLEY]
Equally delightful was our last camp on the Rovuma. It was at the mouth
of the Bangala, its largest northern tributary, so imposing on the map,
but just now only a dry channel. The water was still flowing
underground; but we should have had to dig down several yards to reach
it. We did not find it necessary to do so, having abundance of clear
water in the Rovuma itself, where my men led quite an amphibious life.
How neat and clean they all looked as soon as daily washing became
possible. “_Mzuri we!_” (“How fine you are!”) I remarked appreciatively
in passing to Chafu koga, the Dirty Pig, for that is the approximate
rendering of his name. The self-complacent smile on his bronze-coloured
face was by itself worth the journey to Africa.
There is only one drawback to life on the Rovuma: the gale which springs
up about sunset and, gradually rising till it becomes a veritable
hurricane, sinks again about midnight. No reed fence is any protection
against it, neither is it any use to seek shelter behind the tent; and
no contrivance so far devised will keep the lamp from being blown out,
so that there is nothing for it but to go to bed at eight.
Our nights, moreover, were disturbed by unwelcome visitors. Elephants,
it is true, which, though abounding in this part of the country, are
very shy, always made a wide circuit round our camp; but lions seemed to
be fond of taking moonlight walks up and down between the sleeping
carriers. At the Bangala, the sentry, who had stood a little way off
with his gun at the ready, related to me with a malicious grin how he
saw a lion walk all along the row of snoring men, and stop at Omari, the
cook, seemingly considering whether to eat him or not. After standing
like this for some time, he gave a deep, ill-tempered growl, as if he
did not consider Omari sufficiently appetising, and slowly trotted back
into the bush.
Luisenfelde Mine—I do not know what Luise gave it its name—will long
remain in my memory as a greeting from home, in the heart of the African
bush; it sounds so enterprising and yet so pleasantly familiar. It is
true that the mining operations did not last long, though the former
owner, Herr Vohsen, in the pride of his heart, bestowed on the lustrous
red garnets produced there the name of “Cape rubies.” Garnets are so
cheap and found in so many places that in a very short time the market
was glutted. Herr Marquardt, the enterprising manager, went home, and
Nils Knudsen, his assistant and factotum, remained behind forgotten in
the bush. Literally in the bush, for the well-built house with its
double roof of corrugated zinc protected by an outer covering of thatch,
was shut up, and the Norwegian had to find shelter as best he could in
one of the two outhouses. We halted here, on our march northward from
the Rovuma, for three or four hours, so as to eat our Sunday dinner
under the verandah of the manager’s house. Here we had before us a
double reminder of the past: in the middle of the compound a great heap
of the unsaleable “Cape rubies” which were to have realised such
fortunes, and now lie about as playthings for native children, and in
the foreground the grave of Marquardt’s only child, a promising little
girl of three, who came here with her parents full of health and life.
We prosaic Europeans have no faith in omens; but it appears that the
child’s sudden death was no surprise to the natives. Knudsen tells me
that one day a native workman from the garnet-pits came to him and said,
“Some one will die here, sir.” “‘Nonsense!’ I said, and sent him away.
Next day he came again and said the same thing. I sent him about his
business, but he kept coming. Every night we heard an owl crying on the
roof of Marquardt’s house. This went on for a whole fortnight, and then
Marquardt’s little girl was taken ill and died in a few hours. The bird
never came after that. They call it _likwikwi_.”
[Illustration: DESERTED BUILDINGS, LUISENFELDE MINE]
One story suggests another. Matola told us several of the same sort, as
we sat round the lamp of an evening. Here are one or two samples:—
“Between this (Chingulungulu) and Nyasa,” said Matola, “is a high
mountain, called Mlila; the road passes close to it. Beside the road are
two axes and a shovel,[39] and no one can carry them away. If anyone
picks them up and takes them on his shoulder, he has not gone far before
he feels as if they were no longer there, and when he turns he sees them
going back to their place. But the owner of those axes and that shovel
is Nakale.”
[Illustration: UNYAGO BOYS PLAYING ON FLUTES OUTSIDE THE NDAGALA AT
AKUNDONDE’S]
[Illustration: LIKWIKWI, THE BIRD OF ILL OMEN, AS DRAWN BY A MAKUA. (See
p. 372)]
The other story is as follows: “At Mtarika’s (the old Yao chief now
dead), people saw a great wonder. The grains of _Usanye_ (a red kind of
millet) cried in the basket. It came to pass in this way: The people had
cut off the heads of _usanye_ in the garden and put them into a basket.
And as they were pressed together in the basket the grains began to weep
and to scream. The people did not know where the crying came from, and
turned out the basket, to look in it and under it, but they could find
nothing, and heard nothing more. Then they put the grain back into the
basket and the crying began again, and the people were frightened and
ran away to fetch others. These searched, too, but could find nothing,
and they all went away much astonished. But when they got home, they
found the mortar dancing, and all the large earthen bowls (_mbale_) were
dancing too, and Jongololo, the millipede, was building himself houses.
Next day they all assembled to ask each other what could be the meaning
of all this. And three days after, Mtarika died. That was the meaning of
it.”
[Illustration: LISAKASA (RING OF HUTS FOR THE UNYAGO) IN THE FOREST NEAR
AKUNDONDE’S]
It was only in part for the sake of the past that we visited
Luisenfelde; we should scarcely have done so but for the fact that the
road from the mouth of the Bangala to Akundonde’s runs directly past it.
A march of an hour and a half or two hours up the deeply-excavated
ravine of the Namaputa, and a short, steep ascent to the crest of the
next ridge, brought us to Akundonde’s. We saw before us the typical
native settlement of these parts, a moderate-sized, carefully-swept open
space with the _baraza_ in the middle—a roof supported on pillars, and
open all round. This is surrounded by some half-dozen huts, round or
square, all with heavy thatched roofs, the eaves reaching nearly to the
ground, other groups of huts being scattered at long intervals all along
the crest of the hill. Akundonde, though he said he had been expecting
our visit, did not seem very obliging or communicative. We could
scarcely attribute this to the after effects of his recent libations—his
throat must be far too well seasoned for that; but thought it more
probable that his bad leg made him feel indisposed for society. I had
just one bottle of “_jumbe_ cognac” left, that delectable beverage,
which smells like attar of roses, but has a taste which I cannot attempt
to describe, and this I bestowed on the old chief, but took no further
notice of him, which I could well afford to do without endangering the
success of my enterprise. The junior headman of the village,—a smart
Yao, quite a dandy according to local standards, who even wore a watch
on a very large chain and consequently had to look at the time every two
minutes—proved a much more competent guide to the life and customs of
this remote district than morose old Akundonde. The young man showed us
plenty of indigenous works of art—we had only to go from house to house
and look under the eaves to find the walls covered with frescoes. He
also conducted us to a small burying-ground—a few Yao graves sheltered
by low thatched roofs (now somewhat dilapidated) which, with the cloth
fastened on the top, I now saw for the first time.
[Illustration: YAO GRAVES AT AKUNDONDE’S]
Having previously heard that the _unyago_ was taking place this year at
Akundonde’s, we made every effort to see and hear as much as possible.
The promise of a princely remuneration soon brought about the desired
result, but the _jumbe_ told me that the carriers and soldiers could not
be allowed to come with me, though Moritz and Kibwana would be admitted.
My two boys are by this time heartily sick of campaigning, and their
sense of duty requires stimulating in the usual way; but this done, they
trudge along, though reluctantly, behind us with the camera.
The headman leads us out of the village through byways, evidently
desiring to escape notice, and then our party of five plunges into the
silent bush, which here, with its large trees almost reminds me of our
German forests; the foliage, too, is fresher and more abundant than we
ever saw it on the other side of Chingulungulu. In the natural
excitement of the new discoveries awaiting us, I pay no heed to place or
time—I cannot tell whether we have been walking for half-an-hour or an
hour, when, breaking through a thicket, we see a small hut before us and
find that we have reached our goal.
Our exertions have been amply rewarded. Before I have yet had time to
note the size, construction and workmanship of the hut, we are
surrounded by a troop of half-grown boys. With loud cries and energetic
gestures the _jumbe_ orders them back, and I now perceive the approach
of an elderly man who must have come out of the hut, for he suddenly
appears as if he had risen out of the ground. This is the _wa
mijira_,[40] the man who presides over all the ceremonies of the boys’
_unyago_. He greets us solemnly and signals with a barely perceptible
motion of his eyelids to the boys. These are already drawn up in a long
row: strange, slight figures in the wide grass kilts which make them
look like ballet-dancers. Each one holds to his mouth a flute-like
instrument from which they proceed to elicit a musical salute. Once more
I have to regret my lack of musical training, for this performance is
unique of its kind. After hearing the not unpleasing melody to its
close, I approach near enough to make a closer inspection of the band.
The instruments are nothing more than pieces of bamboo, each differing
from the rest in length and diameter, but all closed-at the lower end by
the natural joint of the reed, and cut off smoothly at the upper. In
this way, each of the little musicians can only play one note, but each
produces his own with perfect correctness and fits it so accurately into
the concerted “song without words” as to form an entirely harmonious
whole. Moritz has meanwhile been attending to his duties as Minister of
Finance, and some of the boys have even been persuaded to retire behind
the hut and show me the result of the surgical operation which they
underwent about a month ago, but which in some cases is still causing
suppuration. Now, however, I wish to see the inside of the hut.
[Illustration: NDAGALA (CIRCUMCISION-LODGE) IN THE FOREST NEAR
AKUNDONDE’S]
The European in Africa soon grows accustomed to do without luxuries for
his own part, and would never dream of looking for them in the dwellings
of the natives; but the primitive roughness of this place in which
fifteen boys are expected to live for several months, baffles
description. The _ndagala_, as the circumcision-lodge is officially
called, is a good-sized building, being about thirty-two feet by
thirteen, but neither the walls, constructed of crooked, knotty logs,
with gaps between them affording free admission to the wind, nor the
very airy and badly-kept thatch of the roof, are much protection against
the cold at night. There is a doorway in the centre of each longitudinal
wall, but no doors. On entering one sees in the first instance nothing
but millet-straw mixed with heaps of ashes. This straw covers the floor,
lies in heaps against the walls, and is spread out untidily over sixteen
originally, doubtless, quite decent beds. One of these couches is
appropriated to the master, the others are those on which his disciples
have not only slept, but undergone the painful operation without
anæsthesia or antiseptic treatment of any kind, but with set teeth and
in silence. Every sign of suffering on such occasions is sternly
forbidden by the Yaos, these East African Spartans. If, in spite of all
his resolution, some poor little fellow, really only a child, is unable
to suppress a cry of pain, he finds himself roared down by the
_anamungwi_, his master and his companions.
The fifteen beds are already much dilapidated; some are quite broken,
and others show but scant traces of the neat arrangement of straw which
distinguished them at first. The great heap of ashes beside every bed
shows that the little patients try to protect themselves against the
cold at night by keeping up a good fire. They all look thoroughly
neglected, and are thickly encrusted with dirt, dust and ashes from head
to foot, so that the bath which concludes the ceremonies in the
_ndagala_, and therefore the novitiate of the candidates, is not only a
long foregone pleasure, but a direct necessity.
In the centre of the hut we see the branch of a tree set up in the
ground. It is painted in various colours and hung with strips of skin,
tails of animals and skins of birds. This is called the _lupanda_, and
from it the whole ceremony takes its name, the term _unyago_ being
applied to initiation ceremonies in general, that of _lupanda_ to the
boys’ “mysteries” only. Nothing more is to be got out of the old man, so
that I shall have to find some other informant, especially with regard
to the girls’ _unyago_, which, by all I hear must be at least as
interesting as the _lupanda_. Part of my wish was unexpectedly gratified
a day or two later. The _jumbe_, roused to enthusiasm by the fee
received for his services, came to us in great haste just after dinner.
We have pitched our camp on a spot with a beautiful view but imperfectly
sheltered from the evening gale, at the edge of the bush on the highest
point of the hill. Knudsen at first pleaded, as on previous occasions,
for the occupation of the _baraza_; but our old enemy the whirlwind,
which of course surprised us just as the pea-soup was being dished up,
soon brought him to a better mind. As we were dozing under the _banda_,
a shelter of branches and grass, such as every _mnyampara_ and his men
can set up in a few minutes, pressing our hands from sheer habit to our
aching temples and thinking of nothing—unquestionably the best
occupation in these latitudes—the _jumbe_ came running up, shouting from
afar that a _chiputu_ was going on at Akuchikomu’s. The _bwana mkubwa_
and the _bwana mdogo_ might see a great deal if they would go, but the
women were shy and timid, and the carriers and soldiers could not be
allowed to come with us. In a few minutes we were on the road, Moritz
and Kibwana being heavily loaded, as this time I brought not only my
large camera, but the cinematograph, too long inactive, from which I
hoped great things. The walk was a longer one than on the previous day,
the road at first leading north-eastward along the crest of the ridge,
and then turning to the west and descending into the green valley of a
babbling stream. Before reaching the valley we found the road barred by
a huge circle of huts—structures of the most primitive kind consisting
merely of a few poles driven into the ground, upright or slanting, and
joined at the top by a horizontal cross-piece, the whole thatched with
the long African grass. But these sheds were arranged with almost
mathematical precision in a continuous circle of over fifty yards in
diameter. This is the real place where the festival—not, however, the
ceremony we have come to see, but the _lupanda_—is held. Here the long
series of observances begins with dancing, feasting and singing, and
here, when the boys return after their three or four months’ absence,
recovered from the operation and initiated into the mysteries of sexual
life and the moral code of the tribe, the closing celebration takes
place. So out with tripod, camera, and plates. Though but a beginner in
photography when I started, I have long ago by dint of continual
practice become a _fundi_ who can take his twenty or thirty negatives in
a few minutes. One glance at the two little mounds of ashes occupying
fixed positions in the arena, and then we were off again.
By two in the afternoon we had reached a miserable little Makua village;
indeed, it scarcely deserves the name of a village, though the
inhabitants of its two or three wretched huts had taken upon themselves
to entertain the whole neighbourhood. In fact, a large crowd was
assembled, consisting chiefly of women and girls, the men being
decidedly in a minority. This alone would be sufficient to stamp the
festival as one belonging peculiarly to the women.
The structure where this ceremony was to take place was typically
African, not over large, but quite sufficiently so for the object in
view. The natives thoroughly understand the art of putting up buildings
admirably suited to the purpose they are to serve, and also quite
pleasing in style and shape, out of the cheapest materials and with the
simplest appliances, in a very short time. This hut was circular, with
an encircling wall of poles and millet-straw, between six and seven feet
high. It was about thirty feet in diameter, with two doorways facing
each other, and a central post supporting the roof. The women were just
entering in solemn procession, while the tuning up of several drums was
heard from the inside. The _jumbe’s_ hint as to the shyness of the women
was abundantly justified; those who caught sight of us at once ran away.
The participants only grew calm when we had succeeded in getting up
unseen close to the outer wall of the building and there finding shelter
in a group of men disposed to be sensible. It was, however, even now
impossible to sketch any of the women. I am in the habit, wherever I
can, of jotting down in a few rapid strokes every picturesque “bit” I
come across, and here I found them in unusual number. Since I left the
coast, labrets, nose-pins, and ear-studs have become quite hackneyed,
but hitherto I had come across no specimens of such size or racial types
so markedly savage and intact. When one of these women laughs, the
effect is simply indescribable. So long as her face keeps its normal
serious expression, the snow-white disc remains in a horizontal
position, that is to say, if the wearer is still young and good-looking.
If, however, she breaks into the short, giggling laugh peculiar to the
young negress, the _pelele_ flies up with an abrupt jerk and stands
straight up over the ivory-white and still perfect teeth, while the
young woman’s pretty brown eyes flash with merriment, and the weight of
the heavy wooden plug sets up a quick vibration in the upper lip, which
is dragged out by almost a hand-breadth from its normal position. Then
the baby on the woman’s back (nearly all of them are carrying babies),
begins to cry piteously under the searching gaze of the strange white
man; and, in short, the whole spectacle is one which must be seen to be
appreciated—no pen can describe it.
Our place was well chosen, and enabled us to survey the whole interior
of the hut without let or hindrance. I noticed three youths sitting on
stools of honour in a reserved part of the hall, and inquired of the
_jumbe_, who stood beside me, obligingly ready to be of use, who those
three little shrimps were? It appeared that they were the husbands of
the girls whose _chiputu_ was being celebrated that day.
[Illustration: LAUGHING BEAUTIES]
And what is _chiputu_? It is the celebration of a girl’s arrival at
womanhood; but that is a long story, which we have no time to
investigate just now, for the drums have struck up, in that peculiar
cadence, heard at every _ngoma_, which no one who has visited East
Africa can ever forget. At the same moment the closely-packed throng of
black bodies has already arranged itself for a dance. With a step
something like the gait of a water-wagtail, they move, rhythmically
gliding and rocking, round the central posts, at which three old hags
stand grinning.
“Who are those?” I ask.
Those are the _anamungwi_, the instructresses of the three girls; they
are to receive the reward of their work to-day. “See now, sir, what is
happening.” For the moment nothing happens, the dance goes on and on,
first in the way already described, then changing to one which is not so
much African as generally Oriental: it is the so-called _danse du
ventre_. At last this too comes to an end, the figure breaks up in wild
confusion, one snatching in this direction, another in that, and
everyone gathers once more round the _anamungwi_. These are no longer
smiling, but comport themselves with great dignity as they have every
right to do. One after another, the women come forward to hand them
their gifts, pieces of new cloth, strings of beads, bead necklaces and
armlets, and various items of a similar character. “That is all very
fine,” their looks seem to say, “but is this an equivalent for the
unspeakable trouble which the training of our _amwali_, our pupils, has
given us for years past? We expect something more than that!” However,
the festive throng are not in the least disturbed by this mute
criticism; people all chatter at once, just as they do in other parts of
the world, and everyone is in the highest spirits.
[Illustration: GIRLS’ UNYAGO AT THE MAKONDE HAMLET OF NIUCHI]
Now comes a new stage. “_Hawara marre_” mutters the _jumbe_. This even
Nils Knudsen cannot translate, for it is Kimakua, which he does not
know, but the _jumbe_, like all intelligent men in this country, is a
polyglottist. He says the Yao for it is “_Chisuwi mkamule_” (“The
leopard breaks out”). At this moment something unexpected happens. The
three young fellows rise quick as lightning, and, with loud crashing and
rustling, they have burst through the fragile hut-wall and are seen
retiring towards the outskirts of the village. I have not yet clearly
made out whether these youthful husbands themselves represent the
leopard or whether they are to be thought of as pursued by an imaginary
leopard. In either case, the leisurely pace at which they stroll away is
scarcely convincing and still less imposing; less so, certainly, than
the song of _Hawara marre_, rendered by the women with equal spirit and
energy, which rings out into the sun-baked _pori_ long after the three
leopards have vanished in the distance.
Now comes another picture; the hall is empty, but the open space beside
it, which has been carefully swept, swarms with brightly-coloured
fantastic figures. It is only now that we can see how they have adorned
themselves for the occasion. The massive brass bangles, nearly an inch
thick, which they wear on their wrists and ankles, shine like burnished
gold, and the calico of their skirts and upper garments is of the
brightest colours. These cloths, in fact, have just been bought from the
Indian traders at Lindi or Mrweka, at great expense, by the gallant
husbands, who have recently made an expedition to the coast for the
purpose. The white _pelele_ seems to shine whiter than usual, and the
woolly heads and brown faces are quite lustrous with freshly-applied
castor oil, the universal cosmetic of these regions. Once more the
_anamungwi_ take up a majestic pose, and once more all the women crowd
round them. This time the presents consist of cobs of maize, heads of
millet, and other useful household supplies, which are showered
wholesale on the recipients.
Once more the scene changes. The drummers have been tuning up their
instruments more carefully than usual, and at this moment the fire
blazes up for the last time and then expires. The first drum
begins—_boom, boom, boóm, boom, boom, boóm, boom, boom, boóm_: two short
notes followed by a long one. How the man’s hands fly! There are more
ways of drumming than one, certainly,—but the art as practised here
seems to require a special gift. It is by no means a matter of
indifference whether the drumhead is struck with the whole hand, or with
the finger-tips only, or whether the sound is produced by the knuckles
or finger-joints of the closed fist. It is pretty generally assumed that
we Europeans have an entirely different mental organization from that of
the black race, but even we are not unaffected by the rhythm of this
particular kind of drumming. On the contrary, the European involuntarily
begins to move his legs and bend his knees in time to the music, and
would almost feel impelled to join the ranks of the dancers, were it not
for the necessity of maintaining the decorum of the ruling race, and of
keeping eye and ear on the alert for everything that is going forward.
The dance which the women are now performing is called _ikoma_.[41] Our
eyes are insufficiently trained to perceive the slight differences
between these various choric dances, and so we grew tired with mere
looking on long before the natives, who are exerting themselves to the
utmost, begin to weary. In this case the sun contributes to the result,
and Moritz is already feeling ill, as he says, from the smell of the
crowd; though he certainly has no right to look down on his compatriots
in this respect. It is true that he has improved since the day at Lindi,
when I drove him before my kiboko into the Indian Ocean, because he
diffused around him such a frightful effluvium of “high” shark, that it
seemed as if he himself had been buried for months. I am just about to
pack up my apparatus, when the uniform, somewhat tedious rhythm in which
the crowd of black bodies is moving suddenly changes. Hitherto,
everything has been characterized by the utmost decency, even according
to our standards, but now what do I see? With swift gesture the
bright-coloured draperies fly up, leaving legs and hips entirely free,
the feet move faster, and with a more vivacious and rapid motion the
dancers now circle round one another in pairs. I am fixed to the spot by
a sight I have often heard of, but which has never come in my way
before:—the large keloids which, in the most varied patterns cover these
parts of the body. The scars are raised to this size by cutting again
and again during the process of healing. This, too, belongs to the ideal
of beauty in this country.
Unfortunately, I was not able to await the end of the _ikoma_. The
performers, in spite of the small silver coin which I had distributed to
each of them, were evidently constrained in the presence of a
European,—a being known to most of them only by hearsay—and the
spontaneous merriment which had prevailed inside the hut was not to be
recovered. Besides, I was forced, out of consideration for Moritz, who
was now quite grey in the face, to return as quickly as possible.
Akundonde’s junior headman is excellent as a practical guide, but has
little theoretic knowledge,—he is probably too young to know much of the
traditional lore of his own tribe and the Makua. Old Akundonde himself
keeps silence,—perhaps because he needs a stronger inducement than any
yet received. This, however, I am unable to offer, especially as we
ourselves have to subsist on our tinned goods, the usual lean fowls and
a few old guinea-fowl shot by Knudsen. There is no trace of the liberal
gifts of _pombe_ which had delighted our thirsty souls at Masasi and
Chingulungulu.
It was, therefore, with light hearts that we left Akundonde’s on the
fourth day for Newala. The stages of our three days’ march were
Chingulungulu, where we had left a considerable part of our baggage, and
Mchauru, a very scattered village in a district and on a river of the
same name, in the foothills of the Makonde plateau. Mchauru is
interesting enough in several respects. First, topographically: the
river, which has excavated for itself a channel sixty, in some places
even ninety feet deep, in the loose alluvial soil, runs south-westward
towards the Rovuma. On reaching the bottom of this gorge, after a
difficult climb, we found no running water, but had to dig at least a
fathom into the clean sand before coming on the subterranean supply. The
deep, narrow water-holes, frequently met with show that the natives are
well aware of this circumstance. The vegetation in this whole district,
however, is very rich, and it is not easy to see at present whence it
comes, since we are on the landward side of the hills whose seaward
slope precipitates the rains. It is possible that the soil here holds
more moisture than in other parts of the plain.
Mchauru has not only charming scenery but abounds in ethnographic
interest. It possesses, in the first place, a _fundi_ who makes the
finest ebony nose-pins in the country, and inlays them with zinc in the
most tasteful manner, and secondly, a celebrated magician by the name of
Medula. In fact, it was on account of these two men that I halted here
at all. The nose-pin-maker was not to be found—we were told that he was
away on a journey—but Medula was at home.
From our camp, pitched under a huge tree beside the road, we—that is
Knudsen and I, with my more immediate followers carrying the
apparatus—walked through banana groves (which I now saw for the first
time), and extensive fields of maize, beans, and peas, ready for
gathering, in a south-westerly direction for nearly an hour. At
intervals the path runs along the bed of a stream, where the deep sand
makes walking difficult. At last, on ascending a small hill, we found
ourselves before an open shed in which an old native was seated, not
squatting in the usual way, but with his legs stretched out before him,
like a European. After salutations, my errand was explained to him,—I
wanted him to tell me all about his medicines and sell me some of them,
also to weave something for us. According to native report, there are
only two men left in the whole country who still possess this art,
already obsolete through the cheapness of imported calico. Medula is one
of these weavers,—the other, a tottering old man, I saw, several weeks
ago, at Mkululu. I was greatly disappointed in him; he had not the
faintest notion of weaving, and there was nothing in the shape of a loom
to be seen in his hut; the only thing he could do was to spin a
moderately good cotton thread on the distaff.
[Illustration: PARTICIPANTS ASSEMBLING AT THE UNYAGO HUT]
[Illustration: PRESENTATION OF CALICO BY THE MOTHERS]
[Illustration: DANCE OF THE OLD WOMEN]
[Illustration: ARRIVAL OF THE NOVICES]
GIRLS’ UNYAGO AT THE MATAMBWE VILLAGE OF MANGUPA. I
[Illustration: OLD WOMEN GROUPED ROUND THE GIRLS TO BE INITIATED]
[Illustration: DANCE OF THE OLD WOMEN ROUND THE INITIATES]
[Illustration: DANCE OF THE INITIATES BEFORE THE OLD WOMEN]
[Illustration: DEPARTURE OF THE INITIATES]
GIRLS’ UNYAGO AT THE MATAMBWE VILLAGE OF MANGUPA. II
[Illustration: OLD MEDULA LIGHTING HIS PIPE]
I expected more satisfactory results from Medula; but the medicines were
the first point to be attended to. We haggled with him like Armenians,
but he would concede nothing, finally showing us one or two of the usual
calabashes with their questionable contents, but demanding so exorbitant
a price that it was my turn to say, as I had great satisfaction in
doing, “_Hapana rafiki_” (“It won’t do, my friend”). Medula is a
philosopher in his way—“Well, if it won’t, it won’t,” appeared to be his
reflection, as he turned the conversation to the subject of his name,
then tried to pronounce mine, and gradually passed over to the second
part of our programme. All this time I was on the watch with my camera,
like the reporter of some detestable illustrated weekly. Medula was
seated in an unfavourable position: bright light outside—deep shadow
within his cool hut. I requested him to change his seat—he declined. My
entreaties and flatteries had no other result than to make him grin,
deliberately get out his pipe, light it with a burning coal, and puff
away without moving. Trusting to my Voigtländer’s lens, I at last let
him alone, as things had come to a standstill, and I wanted to see the
loom and its use. Medula said that he must first make the thread. I
submitted; the old man put a leisurely hand into a basket, deliberately
took out a handful of cotton-seeds, husked them _secundum artem_ and
began beating the flaky white mass with a little stick. In a
surprisingly short time a fairly large quantity of cotton was reduced to
the proper consistency; Medula seized it in his left hand and began to
pull out the thread with his right. So far the process looked familiar;
the people who came over every winter during my boyhood from Eichsfeld
to our Hanoverian village, to spin the farmers’ wool for them, always
began in the same way. The parallel, however, ceased with the next step,
and the procedure became entirely prehistoric. The new thread was
knotted on to the end of that on the distaff, the latter drawn through a
cleft which takes the place of the eye on our spinning-wheel, the
spindle whirled in the right hand, the left being extended as far as
possible—and then both arms moved downward; the spindle was quickly
rolled round on the upper part of the thigh, and the thread was ready
for winding. Medula contrived to weary us out with this performance, but
never produced his loom, in whose existence I have entirely ceased to
believe. He promised at our parting—which was marked by a decided
coolness—to bring the implement with him to Newala; but not even the
most stupid of my men gave any credit to his assurance.
CHAPTER XII
UNYAGO EVERYWHERE
NEWALA, middle of September, 1906.
The charming festival recently witnessed at Achikomu’s seems to have
broken the spell which debarred me, just when the season was at its
height, from gaining an insight into this most important and interesting
subject. In the short period since my arrival at Newala, I have been
present at no less than two typical celebrations, both of them girls’
_unyagos_. This I owe to the kindness of the Akida Sefu.
Sefu bin Mwanyi is an Arab—apparently of unmixed blood—from Sudi. He is
a tall, light-complexioned man, with finely-cut features. He knows a
number of languages, excelling even Knudsen in this respect, and I
cannot say enough of the obliging way in which he has endeavoured to
further my plans ever since my arrival.
After a fatiguing climb up the edge of the cliff bordering the plateau,
which just at Newala is particularly steep, and a short rest, we made
hasty arrangements for encamping in the _baraza_—open as usual to the
dreaded evening wind—within the _boma_ or palisade of stakes. The cold
that night was almost Arctic, and we wrapped ourselves in all the
blankets we could find. In the early dawn, the zealous _akida_ came in a
great hurry, to conduct us to the Makua village of Niuchi, where the
concluding ceremony of the girls’ _unyago_ was fixed for that day, and
where I was sure to see and hear much that was new. An hour later, our
party, this time including my mule, had already wound its way through a
long stretch of primæval Makonde bush. It proved impossible to ride,
however—the path, bordered by thick, thorny scrub, being never two feet
wide in the most frequented parts. We suddenly walked out of the
thickest bush on to a small open space surrounded by houses, and
perceived with some astonishment a large crowd of strange-looking female
figures, who were staring at us, struck dumb with terror. I saw at once
that, here, too, it would be well to keep as much as possible in the
background, and disappeared with my men and all the apparatus behind the
nearest hut. From this coign of vantage, I was able to watch undisturbed
a whole series of performances which few if any travellers, probably,
have seen in exactly the form they here assumed.
[Illustration: OUR CAMP AT NEWALA]
It is eight in the morning; the Makonde bush, which almost closes over
our heads, is clad in the freshest green, one large tree in the middle
of the _bwalo_[42] and a few others of equal proportions rise above the
general level of the _pori_, and the low Makonde huts stand out sharply
in the clear morning air. The few women whom on our arrival we found
sweeping the _bwalo_ with bunches of green twigs, have vanished like
lightning in the crowd surrounding five other figures dressed in gaudy
cloths. These are squatting in the shadow of a hut, covering their eyes
and temples with their hands, and staring fixedly at the ground through
their fingers. Then a shrill sound is heard, and five or six women are
seen hurrying with grotesque jumps across the open space. As they raise
the traditional cry of rejoicing,[43] the _pelele_, here of truly
fabulous dimensions, stands up straight in the air, while the tongue,
stretched out under it, vibrates rapidly to and fro in the manner
indispensable to the correct production of the sound. The first six are
soon followed by a dozen other women, among whom one voice
sings:—“_Anamanduta, anamanduta, mwan-angu mwanagwe_” (“They go away,
they go away, my dear child,”)—the rest repeating the line in chorus.
The song is accompanied by accurately-rhythmical hand-clapping, as the
dancers move in short tripping steps backward and forward. “Surely a
barbaric lament over a parting,” I reflect, on hearing Sefu’s rapid
translation, but already a new song is heard:—
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR IN WINTER COSTUME AT NEWALA]
“_Namahihio achikuta kumaweru_” (“The owl cries in the gardens”). This,
too, is repeated for some time, then once more, all crowd round the five
bundles of cloth. Five elderly women now step forward out of the throng
and decorate the heads of their pupils—for such are the gaudily-attired
beings—with bunches of millet. The latter now rise, and take up their
position in Indian file, each with her hands on the shoulders of the one
before her. The drums strike up—old and young together swaying with
skilled vibration in the _danse du ventre_.
“_Chihakatu cha Kuliwile nandu kuhuma nchere._” (“The _chihakatu_ (small
flat basket) of Liwile is carried out of the house early.”) This is the
song now chanted as before by solo and chorus. By the _chihakatu_ is
probably meant the decoration of millet-heads—the natives are fond of
symbolical expressions.
This song in its turn comes to an end; the ranks of the dancers break up
and the women hasten in all directions, coming back to lay further
supplies of millet, manioc, cloth, etc., at the feet of the five
instructresses. These, meanwhile, have been preparing for the next step.
An egg is broken, a little of the yolk is rubbed on the forehead of each
girl and the rest mixed with castor oil and used to anoint the girls on
chest and back. This is the sign that they have reached maturity, and
that the _unyago_ is over. The first part of the festival is concluded
by the presentation of more new cloth to the girls.
Sefu now points out to me a stick planted in the ground, and tells me
that medicines belonging to the _unyago_ have been buried under it. He
also says that some months ago, a large pot of water was buried at
another spot in the _bwalo_; this was also “medicine.”
While I am listening to this explanation, the women have once more taken
their places. With a _ntungululu_ which, even at the distance at which
we are standing, is almost enough to break the drums of our ears, all
the arms fly up with a jerk, then down again, and the performers begin
to clap their hands with a perfection of rhythm and uniformity of action
seemingly peculiar to the dwellers on the shores of the Indian Ocean, in
order to accompany the following song:—
“_Kanole wahuma kwetu likundasi kuyadika kuyedya ingombe._”
The meaning is something like this: “Just look at that girl; she has
borrowed a bead girdle, and is now trying to wear it gracefully and
becomingly.”
Women are very much alike all the world over, I mutter to myself, as
Sefu explains this—full, on the one hand, of vanity, on the other, of
spite. The song refers to a poor girl appearing in borrowed finery, who
is satirized by her companions. In the next song it is my turn to
furnish the moral.
“_Ignole yangala yangala meme mtuleke tuwakuhiyoloka._”
The sense appears to be about the following:—
“You are here assembled (for the _unyago_), rejoice and be merry. We who
have come here, we do not want to play with you, only to look on.”
If Sefu is right, as there is every reason to suppose, these words are
to be understood as spoken by myself, they are either dictated by my own
delicacy of feeling: “I have no wish to intrude”—or they are intended as
a _captatio benevolentiæ_: “Please stay at a distance, white man, or we
shall be afraid!”
In spite of my discreet attitude, the performers do not seem to feel
quite easy, for they now sing till they grow tired:—
“_Nidoba ho, nidoba ho._” (“It is difficult, it is difficult, truly.”)
This is followed by a long pause.
The second division of the programme goes on to repeat part of the
first. Still more completely muffled in their brightly-coloured cloths,
so that neither face nor arms are to be seen, the five girls come
forward as before, and march round to the right, the rest of the company
following them in the same order as previously. Now the drums, which in
the meantime have been tuned afresh over a tremendous fire, strike up
again, and the chorus starts: “_Chihakatu cha Kuliwile_,” etc., with
dance as before. This lasts fully half-an-hour, and then the long file
breaks up; the oldest of the instructresses comes forward into the open
space in front of the crowd, puts on a critical expression, and waits
for what is about to happen. This is not long in showing itself. Like a
gorgeous butterfly, one of the coloured calico bundles separates itself
from the mass, and trips gracefully before the old woman, while the
chorus bursts into song:—
“_Nande è è, nande è è._”
The astonished white man, looking on, can only see clearly the head and
feet of the bundle, which are comparatively at rest—everything between
these extremities being an undistinguishable blur. On boldly
approaching, I make out that the girl is vibrating her waist and hips,
throwing herself to and fro with such velocity that the eye cannot
follow the lines of her figure. The performer retires after a time, and
the others follow, each in her turn, receiving praise or censure from
the high authorities convoked for the occasion. But not even Sefu can
tell me what the words of the song mean.
The third part follows. As full of expectant curiosity as myself, the
five young girls certified as having arrived at maturity are now gazing
at the arena. They have freed themselves from their wrappings, and seem
to feel quite at home, with their mothers and aunts all standing round
them. Then, with a quick, tripping step, another bundle of cloth comes
out of the bush, followed by a second, and, after a short interval by a
third and fourth. The four masks—for such, when they turn round, they
are seen to be—stand up two and two, each pair facing the other, and
begin the same series of movements which I had already watched at
Chingulungulu, comprising the most varied manœuvres with arms and legs,
contortions of the body above the waist, quivering vibrations of the
region below the waist. In short, everything is African, quite authentic
and primitive. I had seen all these evolutions before, but was all the
more struck with the whole get-up of these strange figures. Makonde
masks are now to be found in the most important ethnographic museums,
but no one, it appears, has ever seen them in use—or, if so, they have
not been described. The masks are of wood, two of them representing men,
and two women. This is evident a hundred paces off, from the prominence
given to the _pelele_, whose white stands out with great effect from the
rigid black surface. The costume of the male and female figures is in
other respects alike, following the principle of letting no part of the
human form be seen—everything is swathed in cloth, from the
closely-wrapped neck to the tips of the fingers and toes. This excessive
amount of covering indicates the aim of the whole—the masks are intended
to terrify. It is young men who are thus disguised; they do not wish to
be recognized, and are supposed to give the girls a good fright before
their entrance on adult life. The masks themselves in the first instance
serve this purpose in a general way, but their effect is still further
heightened by making them represent well-known bugbears: portraits of
famous and much dreaded warriors or robbers, heads of monstrous beasts,
or, lastly, _shetani_—the devil.[44] This personage appears with long
horns and a large beard, and is really terrible to behold.
[Illustration: MAKONDE MASKS]
While the four masks are still moving about the arena—sometimes all
together facing each other, sometimes separating and dancing round in a
circle with all sorts of gambols—a new figure appears on the stage. A
tapping sound is heard as it jerks its way forward—uncanny, gigantic; a
huge length of cloth flutters in the morning breeze; long, spectral
arms, draped with cloth so as to look like wings, beat the air like the
sails of a windmill; a rigid face grins at us like a death’s head; and
the whole is supported on poles, a yard or more in length, like
fleshless legs. The little girls are now really frightened, and even my
bodyguard seem to feel somewhat creepy. The European investigator cannot
allow himself to give way to such sensations: he has to gaze, to
observe, and to snapshot.
The use of stilts is not very common in any part of the world. Except in
Europe they are, so far as I know, only used in the culture-area of
Eastern Asia, and (curiously enough) in the Marquesas Islands (Eastern
Pacific), and in some parts of the West Coast of Africa. Under these
circumstances, I cannot at present suggest any explanation of their
presence on the isolated Makonde plateau. Have they been introduced?
and, if so, from whence? Or are they a survival of very ancient usages
once prevalent from Cape Lopez, in the west to this spot in the east,
preserved at the two extremities of the area, while the intervening
tribes advanced beyond the old dancing-appliances? My mind involuntarily
occupies itself with such questions, though, properly speaking, this is
not the time for them, as there are still many things to see.
[Illustration: MAKONDE STILT-DANCER. FROM A DRAWING BY OMARI, A MBONDEI]
That the stilt-dancer’s intention is to terrify, is evident from his
movements, quite apart from his disguise. In a few gigantic strides he
has reached the other side of the fairly spacious arena, and drives the
natives squatting there back in headlong flight; for it looks as if the
monster were about to catch them, or tread them under foot. But it has
already turned away, and is stalking up to the five novices at the other
end: they, and others near them, turn away shrieking. Now he comes
within range of my camera—a click of the shutter, and I have him safe. I
could almost have imagined that I saw the man’s face of consternation
behind his mask—he stopped with such a start, hesitated a moment, and
then strode swiftly away.
This dancing on stilts can scarcely be a pleasure. The man is now
leaning, tired out, against the roof of one of the huts, and looks on
while the four masks come forward again to take part in the dance. But
the proceedings seem inclined to hang fire—the sun has by this time
climbed to the zenith, and the stifling heat weighs us all down. A great
many of the women taking part in the ceremony have already dispersed,
and those still present are visibly longing for the piles of _ugali_ at
home. I take down the apparatus and give the word to start, and once
more we are forcing our way through the thorny thickets of the Makonde
bush towards Newala.
[Illustration: THE _NJOROWE_ DANCE AT NEWALA]
The indefatigable Sefu only allowed me one day in which to digest the
impressions of Niuchi, before announcing another important expedition.
Sefu lives only some thirty or forty yards away from us, in a house
built Coast-fashion. He is not, like Nakaam and Matola, a native of the
country, but has been transferred here from the coast as an official of
the German Administration, while the other two might be compared with
large landowners placed in a similar position on account of their local
standing and influence among the people. He has rather more notion of
comfort than is usual among his congeners, for he has had very neat
bamboo seats—some even with backs to them, an unheard of luxury in this
region—put up in his _baraza_, where he holds _shauris_ and also
receives, with great dignity, the leaders of passing caravans. Sefu
spends all his spare minutes with us; he arrives first thing in the
morning, and shivers through the evening with us in that temple of the
winds which goes by the name of the rest-house, and which we shall be
compelled to close in with a wall in order to get some protection
against the evening gales.
Sefu, then, had a grand plan to propose. This time, he said, he could
show us a ceremony of the Wamatambwe at the village of Mangupa. It was
again a girls’ _chiputu_, that is, the conclusion of the first course of
instruction which these children of between eight and eleven had been
going through for some months in a special hut. But the Matambwe
procedure is in some points different from that of the Yaos and the
Makua; and, also, it was not far. If we started next morning at 7.30, we
should be in time to see the beginning after a walk of an hour and a
half.
I was able to form a slight idea of the famous Makonde bush on the
expedition to Niuchi—but it was very far from being an adequate one.
Much has been written about this form of vegetation, but I believe the
theme is inexhaustible. Not that this bush is remarkable for æsthetic
charms, for beautiful scenery, or abundance and variety of vegetation.
It is a perfectly uniform, compact mass of thin stems, branches, leaves
and tendrils. This is the unpleasant part of it; this indescribably
thick tangle lets no one pass unless he has first cut his painful and
toilsome way with axe and bill-hook. Our native troops have gone through
unspeakable sufferings in this way, in the last ten years alone,
especially in the war against Machemba. Things have been made easier for
us—the victorious struggle against the formerly unreliable and often
rebellious tribes of the south has led to the wise measure of connecting
every place of the slightest importance with all other settlements by
means of roads deserving the name of _barabara_, _i.e._, beaten road, in
the most literal sense of the term. This road is so broad that a column
could at need march along it four abreast; though in some places indeed
it is very much overgrown.
We took the main road leading to Nkunya, but very soon turned off to the
right, getting deeper and deeper into the bush. Riding soon became
impossible; in fact, every member of the expedition was engaged in a
very cautious struggle with the _upupu_. Nils Knudsen warned me against
this agreeable plant soon after our arrival at Newala, so I have escaped
an experience which many a new-comer will not forget in a hurry. The
_upupu_[45] is a kind of bean bearing dark green pods, which, if
touched, cause an unbearable irritation in the skin. Rubbing or
scratching only brings the victim nearer to madness. Washing is quite
useless—the only effectual remedy is wood ashes, which, if mixed with
water and plastered on the skin, draw out the minute poison-crystals in
a short time. As in many other cases, the cure is easily applied if one
only knows it.
Punctually at nine, we are standing before a hut similar to the one
already described, only that the _likuku_, as it is here called, is
double—two low, round structures, standing side by side. The ceremony is
just about to begin, Sefu says. I am hard-hearted and barbarous enough
to send the headman of the place—who has one foot ulcerated in the most
horrible way and consequently poisons the atmosphere for some distance
around him, but in spite of this feels that he ought to do the honours
of his village—half-a-mile away to windward, before setting up my camera
by the side of a bush, where I await the progress of events.
For some time we hear nothing but the familiar _lu-lu-lu_-ing of the
women in all keys, soprano and alto, _piano_ and _fortissimo_, as if the
company, standing in a dense crowd behind the double house, wished to
practise a little before making their appearance. Meanwhile, they are
growing more and more shiny—they are anointing themselves with castor
oil till they drip with it. They are also wearing _peleles_ of a size I
have never yet seen. Suddenly, the scene changes—seven women come
forward out of the crowd carrying a long pole, and walk quickly towards
the open space on the left of the _likuku_. As they approach we see that
the pole is really a huge flag-staff—a whole length of brand-new
coloured cotton print hangs down it from one end to the other. “_Nini
hii?_” (“What is this?”) I ask Sefu. It is the fee for the
instructresses, among whom it will soon be divided, but before being cut
up, it is to be shown in all its beauty to the people.
From the moment of their first coming forward, the seven women have been
chanting: “_Watata wadihauye akalumbane kundeka unguwanguwe._” Sefu says
that this means:—“My father has treated me badly—he gave me a bad
husband, who ran away from me, and now I am left alone.” I cannot make
out what this song has to do with the _chiputu_, but have no time for
speculation on the subject, for the whole company is beginning to enact
a kind of “Walpurgisnacht!” At least, should an African Goethe attempt
to depict a festival on the heights of Kilimanjaro analogous to the
famous scene in _Faust_, he would probably do it on the lines of what we
see before us. Pigs, broomsticks, and other traditional paraphernalia of
the venerable profession are here entirely wanting, but the illusion is
more than sufficiently maintained by the white disc in the upper lip,
the huge stud in the nose; the combs stuck in the woolly hair, the heavy
bangles on arms and ankles, and, finally, the unhappy baby on the back
of every young witch, and, strangely enough, on those of a good many
elderly ones as well. Clapping their hands, and uttering their shrill,
vibrating cry, the whole troop run, jump, and dance wildly in and out
till the spectator’s senses are completely bewildered.
Suddenly, the noise ceases, and the figures of the five novices, closely
huddled together, stooping low, swathed in new, gaudy cloths which cover
them all over, appear from the “wings” in the same way as their
predecessors. The silence lasts till they have taken their places in the
arena, but then a din breaks loose to which what I have described as the
“Walpurgisnacht” was merely a gentle murmur, for in addition to the
voices we have now the roll and thunder of the half-dozen drums forming
the inevitable band. Meanwhile, the chaos has hastily arranged itself
into a large circle, in the centre of which the five bundles, now quite
a familiar sight to me, stand in the same stooping posture as at Niuchi.
The drums have by this time moderated their pace and volume, and the
women glide and shuffle round the ring to the accustomed rhythm.
Finally, the performers change places as on the previous occasion, the
instructress comes forward, the rest of the women being now merely
accessories, and the novices proceed to show their proficiency in the
dance before alluded to. This trial being over, it seems as if the girls
were receiving congratulations, and then the whole mass moves towards
the double hut, the five girls walking backwards. All vanish into the
dusk of the interior, but while the grown-up women remain there, the
girls re-appear after a few minutes’ interval, and, walking in Indian
file, a short distance apart, they cross the arena,—not backwards this
time, but in the ordinary way—and silently vanish into the thick bush.
The exit of the five girls seems to mark the official close of the
ceremony, as the women do not appear again. The lords of creation,
however, now come into action, and man after man, as if drawn by a
magnet, moves towards one of the two doors and enters, while no one is
seen to come out again. This interests me, and approaching the entrance
of the hut, to discover the cause of this singular phenomenon, I find
that preparations are being made for a beer-drinking on a large
scale:—the ground inside the hut is occupied by rows on rows of huge
pombe-jars, waiting to fulfil the object of their being. We have not
been invited to the feast—an omission due, we may be certain, not to any
want of hospitality, but probably to timidity, and a feeling that the
admission of a stranger to a share in their tribal mysteries is
something unfitting. We should have liked to be asked, all the same.
[Illustration: MAKONDE WOMEN GOING TO DRAW WATER. FROM A DRAWING BY PESA
MBILI]
CHAPTER XIII
THE HARVEST OF KNOWLEDGE
NEWALA, towards the end of September, 1906.
Having witnessed—thanks to Sefu, and to a favourable conjuncture of
circumstances—the festive ceremonies of the _unyago_, I have been trying
to study the theory and the details of the whole process of initiation
for both sexes. I find this extremely difficult. It is true that I have
gradually obtained a complete view of the boys’ _unyago_, though it cost
me endless trouble to ascertain all the rules; but the other part of the
problem seems to be absolutely bewitched, so many accumulated obstacles
oppose themselves to its solution. Under other circumstances, this might
drive the most patient inquirer to despair; but on the Makonde plateau,
happily, there is no time for despair, for with this question are
associated a hundred others, not less interesting and important, and
therefore demanding an answer with equal insistency.
But I see that I must arrange the account of my inquiries and their
principal results in a systematic way in order to present them in a form
which can be satisfactorily grasped by the reader.
Taken all round, the whole environment of Newala is such as to offer a
sort of resistance to every kind of intense intellectual work. Not that
we suffer from the heat here, at a height of about 2,460 feet above
sea-level, to the same degree as we did in the plain, which had
gradually become something like a baker’s oven. It is true that the
temperature of about 80° F. indicated by the maximum thermometer in our
_baraza_ during the early hours of the afternoon, causes the same severe
headache as the 86° F. and over of the plain; but, on the one hand, one
gets used to having one’s work suspended by the heat, and, on the other,
the natives generally sleep through the hottest part of the day, so that
I lose nothing by inactivity at that time. Much more trying is the loss
of time resulting from the cumulative effect of a series of other
circumstances, which may seem almost comical to those not immediately
concerned, and even occasionally prove amusing to ourselves, but which
are serious hindrances none the less.
In the first place, we have the daily changes of temperature. In the
grey dawn, wrapped up warmly in two blankets, I hear heavy drops falling
on the tent-roof, think half-consciously, that it is raining, and doze
off again, soon to be awakened by sounds of creaking and groaning which
make me sit up with a start. On opening my eyes I see the ropes so
tightly stretched that the tough ashen poles are bent over almost into a
half-circle. With an imprecation on the careless sentinel, I jump from
beneath my mosquito-net, call him up along with the two previously on
duty, and make them lengthen the ropes as a punishment. By the time this
is accomplished, not without severe exertion, it is quite light, and I
do not find it worth while to go to sleep again. Now comes the
pleasantest event of the day—the morning bath; at six a.m. the
temperature is between 57° and 58°, perfectly Arctic for Africa. The
long row of gourds treated the day before with alum contain water which
feels ice-cold; and the bath and the rub down afterwards, are truly
delicious. Kibwana, in his capacity of valet, has long ago become
accustomed to my white skin; but there are plenty of eyes staring
through the gaps in the _boma_ palisade or the headman’s fence, in
astonished enjoyment of this daily spectacle. When I get out, I find
there is not a vestige of rain—it was only the heavy morning dew,
dripping from the thick-foliaged mango-trees under which our tents are
pitched. The sun is as yet invisible; Newala is shrouded in a thick
mist—not even the lofty trees in the burying-ground outside the gateway
being recognizable in this rolling sea of white. Instinctively, Knudsen
and I put on the winter clothes already described, and I add a muffler
in the shape of a folded handkerchief, while he buttons his overcoat up
to his chin.
[Illustration: TWO NEWALA SAVANTS]
This has brought us to about half-past six; and, quite ready for work, I
leave the tent at the moment when the soldiers are reporting for the two
hours’ daily drill, which I introduced at Masasi, to keep them from
becoming confirmed loafers. Hemedi Maranga comes up to me to make his
report. This smart fellow has already improved the appearance of the
company; he is a born soldier, while his predecessor, Saleh, was more of
a hunter. Saleh has been sent by the District Commissioner to the
Central Lukuledi Valley to get rid of the lions which are still
decimating the unhappy inhabitants, numerous lives having been lost even
since we passed through in July. All success to him in his perilous
task!
While I am amusing myself with my breakfast—cocoa made very thick, and
the usual large omelette with bananas—the corporal and his division have
marched out into the _pori_, to practise bush-fighting or go through
their drill. “_Legt an! Feuer! Geladen!_” The word of command, strange
enough in the mouth of a native, rings out from a distance as clearly
and sharply as if spoken by the smartest of German non-commissioned
officers. But I have no time to listen to this reminder of far-off home
scenes, for already my wise elders are arriving with the slow, dignified
pace of the old native. It was agreed yesterday that they should be here
by seven. This may sound surprising, considering that the natives have
neither clocks nor watches, and would be unable to read them if they
had; but it was arrived at in the following way. When we stopped work at
sunset yesterday, all, white and black alike, too tired to sit up any
longer, I said to the fifteen old men, getting Sefu to interpret my
words into Kimakua and Kima-konde: “You are to come again to-morrow,
_saa_” (at the hour of), and completed my sentence by stretching out my
arm to the east at an angle of 15° with the horizon. The men watched me
attentively. In order to make sure, I had them asked whether they
understood, and each forthwith raised one arm and held it at exactly the
same angle. Fifteen degrees is the height reached by the sun an hour
after rising, and therefore equivalent to seven o’clock; if I want them
at a later hour, I enlarge the angle accordingly. This is no invention
of mine, but the universal custom of the country; and the people can
indicate accurately the relative position of the sun at periods
separated by the smallest intervals of time.
A couple of hours have sped quickly enough, filled up with questions and
answers relating to various points of custom and tradition, and the old
gentlemen are still squatting round me in a semicircle, on a huge mat.
On the first day of our work in common, one of them was so far from
putting any restraint on himself as to send a jet of tobacco-juice,
sailor-fashion, through his teeth just in front of my feet. “_Mshenzi!_”
(“You savage!”) I growled, half involuntarily, and since then I have had
no occasion to complain of the smallest breach of good manners. It is
true that they bring with them a strong effluvium of perspiration and
rancid oil, so that I feel worse and worse as the hours pass; and they
are accompanied by a cloud of flies, which go on doing their level best
to transfer to the white stranger the ophthalmic affections from which
the natives suffer; but otherwise their behaviour is deserving of all
respect. The observation which I have made in all places hitherto
visited, that these savages have a strong natural sense of tact, holds
good here also. If we compare their behaviour with that of certain
circles and strata of our home population, we are forced to the
conclusion that we Europeans, though we imagine ourselves to have taken
a long lease of all the culture and tact on earth, are, after all, not
very much more favourable specimens of humanity.
But the shed has all this time been growing hotter, and the northern
style of clothing is no longer called for. Off with the heavy boots,
then, and the thick woollen stockings, as well as the warm flannel
shirt, waistcoat, and neckcloth, to be replaced by thin tropical
garments affording free passage of the air. At noon the khaki coat is
flung into a corner, and a thin silk jacket assumed instead of it. This
completes the negative process, which has to be reversed again as the
sun declines. The dreaded evening gale of Newala sets in with a sharp,
icy squall, and Knudsen and I, by a simultaneous and violent sneeze,
prove that our chronic catarrh, though latent by day, is as vigorous as
ever. There is no help for it; we must put on again, piece by piece, our
whole winter stock, and, moreover, by a habit which has now become an
instinct, wrap ourselves up in overcoats when the gale, now arrived at
its height, whirls clouds of dirt and dust through our dwelling. In the
course of the four weeks we have spent here, we have had to close in
this abode more and more. The mats originally put up to protect the open
side have long since been replaced by a solid wall of thatch, which has
swallowed up one panel after another, so that now by the end of the
month only one large window remains to admit light. In the evening the
carriers tie a large tarpaulin in front of this opening, but even this
complete shutting off of the wind does not make the place comfortable.
When, about ten, I have finished developing my plates and come, bathed
in perspiration, out of the tent which serves me for a dark-room into
the _baraza_, I find my Norwegian friend a shapeless bundle, wrapped in
all the available blankets, but his teeth chattering all the same. Each
of us then makes haste to creep into his warm tent. The tents, by the
bye, have only become really warm since we have had a screen of
millet-straw, strengthened by strong stakes, built in front of them to
windward. Before this was done, they were in danger of being blown over
every night. These are the daily cares of clothing and lodging: their
amount is not excessive, but in any case they take up a certain fraction
of my precious time, on which still further inroads are made by the
necessary provision for food and health.
Next to the bush, the greatest peculiarity of the Makonde Plateau is the
fact that its surface is quite waterless; the soil, down to a
considerable depth, consisting of a loose stratification of sandy loam
and loamy sand. In the west these strata belong to the upper chalk
formation, and are called Makonde beds, in the east they are tertiary,
and are called Mikindani beds. Both are extraordinarily pervious to
water, so that all atmospheric moisture, if not evaporated or retained
by the abundant vegetation, rapidly sinks through them till stopped by
the impervious strata—the inclined plane of the Newala sandstone or the
primæval granite core (of the same nature as the insular mountains
yonder in the Masasi plain), which we must suppose to exist in the
depths of the Makonde Plateau. The water, flowing down along these
strata, does not, of course, come to the surface till it reaches the
declivity of the plateau, which, in contrast with the upper level, is a
region abounding even to excess in springs and brooks.
One might therefore expect to find the plateau itself uninhabited, and
all the people settled at its edges. That is the course which would have
been followed by Europeans like ourselves skilled in the _rationale_ of
colonization. As a matter of fact, not a human being lives below, but on
the heights there are over 80,000 Makonde, nearly 5,000 Wangoni,
thousands of Wayao and Wamakua, and a—to me—unknown number of
Wamatambwe. In recent times, however, the tendency to come further and
further down into the well-watered lowlands, has been gaining ground.
This has been caused by the cessation of the Mafiti raids and the firm
rule of the German Administration. This tendency, however, only affects
the more progressive elements, the Yaos and Makuas, not the Makonde. The
latter follow the practice which has been usual with them from time
immemorial. So soon as the most necessary work has been done in house
and garden, father and son, or mother and daughter take on their
shoulders a pole, some yard and a half or two yards long, to each end of
which is fastened a large gourd, or perhaps two. They hurry along at a
rapid walk to the edge of the plateau, from which their hamlet is
inconveniently distant, scramble down a steep declivity by a difficult
path, remain for a while in the marshy bottom and return with their load
up the almost vertical ascent of several hundred yards. At last, having
accomplished the toilsome climb, they draw a deep breath, and walk, or
rather trot, back to their village. The Makonde are said to devote the
greater part of their lives to tillage—which I find true as far as I
have gone, though I have not reached their main centre of
distribution—but beyond all doubt the second largest share of their time
is absorbed by these long excursions—so foolish a waste of time
according to our ideas—in search of water. If half the family has to
spend two hours, or even more, daily in bringing in, at the cost of
severe labour, just enough water to cook their pittance of _ugali_ and
allow every one a muddy draught all round, it is surely an economic
absurdity.
[Illustration: DANCE ON STILTS AT THE GIRLS’ UNYAGO, NIUCHI]
Newala, too, suffers from the distance of its water-supply—at least the
Newala of to-day does; there was once another Newala in a lovely valley
at the foot of the plateau. I visited it and found scarcely a trace of
houses, only a Christian cemetery, with the graves of several
missionaries and their converts, remaining as a monument of its former
glories. But the surroundings are wonderfully beautiful. A thick grove
of splendid mango-trees closes in the weather-worn crosses and
headstones; behind them, combining the useful and the agreeable, is a
whole plantation of lemon-trees covered with ripe fruit; not the small
African kind, but a much larger and also juicier imported variety, which
drops into the hands of the passing traveller, without calling for any
exertion on his part. Old Newala is now under the jurisdiction of the
native pastor, Daudi, at Chingulungulu, who, as I am on very friendly
terms with him, allows me, as a matter of course, the use of this
lemon-grove during my stay at Newala.
[Illustration: FEET MUTILATED BY THE RAVAGES OF THE “JIGGER”
(_Sarcopsylla penetrans_)]
The water-supply of New Newala is in the bottom of the valley, some
1,600 feet lower down. The way is not only long and fatiguing, but the
water, when we get it, is thoroughly bad. We are suffering not only from
this, but from the fact that the arrangements at Newala are nothing
short of luxurious. We have a separate kitchen—a hut built against the
_boma_ palisade on the right of the _baraza_, the interior of which is
not visible from our usual position. Our two cooks were not long in
finding this out, and they consequently do—or rather neglect to do—what
they please. In any case they do not seem to be very particular about
the boiling of our drinking-water—at least I can attribute to no other
cause certain attacks of a dysenteric nature, from which both Knudsen
and I have suffered for some time. If a man like Omari has to be left
unwatched for a moment, he is capable of anything. Besides this
complaint, we are inconvenienced by the state of our nails, which have
become as hard as glass, and crack on the slightest provocation, and I
have the additional infliction of pimples all over me. As if all this
were not enough, we have also, for the last week been waging war against
the jigger, who has found his Eldorado in the hot sand of the Makonde
plateau. Our men are seen all day long—whenever their chronic colds and
the dysentery likewise raging among them permit—occupied in removing
this scourge of Africa from their feet and trying to prevent the
disastrous consequences of its presence. It is quite common to see
natives of this place with one or two toes missing; many have lost all
their toes, or even the whole front part of the foot, so that a
well-formed leg ends in a shapeless stump. These ravages are caused by
the female of _Sarcopsylla penetrans_, which bores its way under the
skin and there develops an egg-sac the size of a pea. In all books on
the subject, it is stated that one’s attention is called to the presence
of this parasite by an intolerable itching. This agrees very well with
my experience, so far as the softer parts of the sole, the spaces
between and under the toes, and the side of the foot are concerned, but
if the creature penetrates through the harder parts of the heel or ball
of the foot, it may escape even the most careful search till it has
reached maturity. Then there is no time to be lost, if the horrible
ulceration, of which we see cases by the dozen every day, is to be
prevented. It is much easier, by the way, to discover the insect on the
white skin of a European than on that of a native, on which the dark
speck scarcely shows. The four or five jiggers which, in spite of the
fact that I constantly wore high laced boots, chose my feet to settle
in, were taken out for me by the all-accomplished Knudsen, after which I
thought it advisable to wash out the cavities with corrosive sublimate.
The natives have a different sort of disinfectant—they fill the hole
with scraped roots. In a tiny Makua village on the slope of the plateau
south of Newala, we saw an old woman who had filled all the spaces under
her toe-nails with powdered roots by way of prophylactic treatment. What
will be the result, if any, who can say?
The rest of the many trifling ills which trouble our existence are
really more comic than serious. In the absence of anything else to
smoke, Knudsen and I at last opened a box of cigars procured from the
Indian store-keeper at Lindi, and tried them, with the most distressing
results. Whether they contain opium or some other narcotic, neither of
us can say, but after the tenth puff we were both “off,” three-quarters
stupefied and unspeakably wretched. Slowly we recovered—and what
happened next? Half-an-hour later we were once more smoking these
poisonous concoctions—so insatiable is the craving for tobacco in the
tropics.
Even my present attacks of fever scarcely deserve to be taken seriously.
I have had no less than three here at Newala, all of which have run
their course in an incredibly short time. In the early afternoon, I am
busy with my old natives, asking questions and making notes. The strong
midday coffee has stimulated my spirits to an extraordinary degree, the
brain is active and vigorous, and work progresses rapidly, while a
pleasant warmth pervades the whole body. Suddenly this gives place to a
violent chill, forcing me to put on my overcoat, though it is only
half-past three and the afternoon sun is at its hottest. Now the brain
no longer works with such acuteness and logical precision; more
especially does it fail me in trying to establish the syntax of the
difficult Makua language on which I have ventured, as if I had not
enough to do without it. Under the circumstances it seems advisable to
take my temperature, and I do so, to save trouble, without leaving my
seat, and while going on with my work. On examination, I find it to be
101·48°. My tutors are abruptly dismissed and my bed set up in the
_baraza_; a few minutes later I am in it and treating myself internally
with hot water and lemon-juice.
Three hours later, the thermometer marks nearly 104°, and I make them
carry me back into the tent, bed and all, as I am now perspiring
heavily, and exposure to the cold wind just beginning to blow might mean
a fatal chill. I lie still for a little while, and then find, to my
great relief, that the temperature is not rising, but rather falling.
This is about 7.30 p.m. At 8 p.m. I find, to my unbounded astonishment,
that it has fallen below 98·6°, and I feel perfectly well. I read for an
hour or two, and could very well enjoy a smoke, if I had the
wherewithal—Indian cigars being out of the question.
Having no medical training, I am at a loss to account for this state of
things. It is impossible that these transitory attacks of high fever
should be malarial; it seems more probable that they are due to a kind
of sunstroke. On consulting my note-book, I become more and more
inclined to think this is the case, for these attacks regularly follow
extreme fatigue and long exposure to strong sunshine. They at least have
the advantage of being only short interruptions to my work, as on the
following morning I am always quite fresh and fit. My treasure of a cook
is suffering from an enormous hydrocele which makes it difficult for him
to get up, and Moritz is obliged to keep in the dark on account of his
inflamed eyes. Knudsen’s cook, a raw boy from somewhere in the bush,
knows still less of cooking than Omari; consequently Nils Knudsen
himself has been promoted to the vacant post. Finding that we had come
to the end of our supplies, he began by sending to Chingulungulu for the
four sucking-pigs which we had bought from Matola and temporarily left
in his charge; and when they came up, neatly packed in a large crate, he
callously slaughtered the biggest of them. The first joint we were
thoughtless enough to entrust for roasting to Knudsen’s _mshenzi_ cook,
and it was consequently uneatable; but we made the rest of the animal
into a jelly which we ate with great relish after weeks of underfeeding,
consuming incredible helpings of it at both midday and evening meals.
The only drawback is a certain want of variety in the tinned vegetables.
Dr. Jäger, to whom the Geographical Commission entrusted the
provisioning of the expeditions—mine as well as his own—because he had
more time on his hands than the rest of us, seems to have laid in a huge
stock of Teltow turnips,[46] an article of food which is all very well
for occasional use, but which quickly palls when set before one every
day; and we seem to have no other tins left. There is no help for it—we
must put up with the turnips; but I am certain that, once I am home
again, I shall not touch them for ten years to come.
Amid all these minor evils, which, after all, go to make up the genuine
flavour of Africa, there is at least one cheering touch: Knudsen has,
with the dexterity of a skilled mechanic, repaired my 9 × 12 cm. camera,
at least so far that I can use it with a little care. How, in the
absence of finger-nails, he was able to accomplish such a ticklish piece
of work, having no tool but a clumsy screw-driver for taking to pieces
and putting together again the complicated mechanism of the
instantaneous shutter, is still a mystery to me; but he did it
successfully. The loss of his finger-nails shows him in a light
contrasting curiously enough with the intelligence evinced by the above
operation; though, after all, it is scarcely surprising after his ten
years’ residence in the bush. One day, at Lindi, he had occasion to wash
a dog, which must have been in need of very thorough cleansing, for the
bottle handed to our friend for the purpose had an extremely strong
smell. Having performed his task in the most conscientious manner, he
perceived with some surprise that the dog did not appear much the better
for it, and was further surprised by finding his own nails ulcerating
away in the course of the next few days. “How was I to know that
carbolic acid has to be diluted?” he mutters indignantly, from time to
time, with a troubled gaze at his mutilated finger-tips.
Since we came to Newala we have been making excursions in all directions
through the surrounding country, in accordance with old habit, and also
because the _akida_ Sefu did not get together the tribal elders from
whom I wanted information so speedily as he had promised. There is,
however, no harm done, as, even if seen only from the outside, the
country and people are interesting enough.
The Makonde plateau is like a large rectangular table rounded off at the
corners. Measured from the Indian Ocean to Newala, it is about
seventy-five miles long, and between the Rovuma and the Lukuledi it
averages fifty miles in breadth, so that its superficial area is about
two-thirds of that of the kingdom of Saxony. The surface, however, is
not level, but uniformly inclined from its south-western edge to the
ocean. From the upper edge, on which Newala lies, the eye ranges for
many miles east and north-east, without encountering any obstacle, over
the Makonde bush. It is a green sea, from which here and there thick
clouds of smoke rise, to show that it, too, is inhabited by men who
carry on their tillage like so many other primitive peoples, by cutting
down and burning the bush, and manuring with the ashes. Even in the
radiant light of a tropical day such a fire is a grand sight.
Much less effective is the impression produced just now by the great
western plain as seen from the edge of the plateau. As often as time
permits, I stroll along this edge, sometimes in one direction, sometimes
in another, in the hope of finding the air clear enough to let me enjoy
the view; but I have always been disappointed. Wherever one looks,
clouds of smoke rise from the burning bush, and the air is full of smoke
and vapour. It is a pity, for under more favourable circumstances the
panorama of the whole country up to the distant Majeje hills must be
truly magnificent. It is of little use taking photographs now, and an
outline sketch gives a very poor idea of the scenery. In one of these
excursions I went out of my way to make a personal attempt on the
Makonde bush. The present edge of the plateau is the result of a
far-reaching process of destruction through erosion and denudation. The
Makonde strata are everywhere cut into by ravines, which, though short,
are hundreds of yards in depth. In consequence of the loose
stratification of these beds, not only are the walls of these ravines
nearly vertical, but their upper end is closed by an equally steep
escarpment, so that the western edge of the Makonde plateau is hemmed in
by a series of deep, basin-like valleys. In order to get from one side
of such a ravine to the other, I cut my way through the bush with a
dozen of my men. It was a very open part, with more grass than scrub,
but even so the short stretch of less than two hundred yards was very
hard work; at the end of it the men’s calicoes were in rags and they
themselves bleeding from hundreds of scratches, while even our strong
khaki suits had not escaped scatheless.
[Illustration: NATIVE PATH THROUGH THE MAKONDE BUSH, NEAR MAHUTA]
I see increasing reason to believe that the view formed some time back
as to the origin of the Makonde bush is the correct one. I have no doubt
that it is not a natural product, but the result of human occupation.
Those parts of the high country where man—as a very slight amount of
practice enables the eye to perceive at once—has not yet penetrated with
axe and hoe, are still occupied by a splendid timber forest quite able
to sustain a comparison with our mixed forests in Germany. But wherever
man has once built his hut or tilled his field, this horrible bush
springs up. Every phase of this process may be seen in the course of a
couple of hours’ walk along the main road. From the bush to right or
left, one hears the sound of the axe—not from one spot only, but from
several directions at once. A few steps further on, we can see what is
taking place. The brush has been cut down and piled up in heaps to the
height of a yard or more, between which the trunks of the large trees
stand up like the last pillars of a magnificent ruined building. These,
too, present a melancholy spectacle: the destructive Makonde have ringed
them—cut a broad strip of bark all round to ensure their dying off—and
also piled up pyramids of brush round them. Father and son, mother and
son-in-law, are chopping away perseveringly in the background—too busy,
almost, to look round at the white stranger, who usually excites so much
interest. If you pass by the same place a week later, the piles of
brushwood have disappeared and a thick layer of ashes has taken the
place of the green forest. The large trees stretch their smouldering
trunks and branches in dumb accusation to heaven—if they have not
already fallen and been more or less reduced to ashes, perhaps only
showing as a white stripe on the dark ground.
This work of destruction is carried out by the Makonde alike on the
virgin forest and on the bush which has sprung up on sites already
cultivated and deserted. In the second case they are saved the trouble
of burning the large trees, these being entirely absent in the secondary
bush.
After burning this piece of forest ground and loosening it with the hoe,
the native sows his corn and plants his vegetables. All over the
country, he goes in for bed-culture, which requires, and, in fact,
receives, the most careful attention. Weeds are nowhere tolerated in the
south of German East Africa. The crops may fail on the plains, where
droughts are frequent, but never on the plateau with its abundant rains
and heavy dews. Its fortunate inhabitants even have the satisfaction of
seeing the proud Wayao and Wamakua working for them as labourers, driven
by hunger to serve where they were accustomed to rule.
But the light, sandy soil is soon exhausted, and would yield no harvest
the second year if cultivated twice running. This fact has been familiar
to the native for ages; consequently he provides in time, and, while his
crop is growing, prepares the next plot with axe and firebrand. Next
year he plants this with his various crops and lets the first piece lie
fallow. For a short time it remains waste and desolate; then nature
steps in to repair the destruction wrought by man; a thousand new
growths spring out of the exhausted soil, and even the old stumps put
forth fresh shoots. Next year the new growth is up to one’s knees, and
in a few years more it is that terrible, impenetrable bush, which
maintains its position till the black occupier of the land has made the
round of all the available sites and come back to his starting point.
The Makonde are, body and soul, so to speak, one with this bush.
According to my Yao informants, indeed, their name means nothing else
but “bush people.” Their own tradition says that they have been settled
up here for a very long time, but to my surprise they laid great stress
on an original immigration. Their old homes were in the south-east, near
Mikindani and the mouth of the Rovuma, whence their peaceful forefathers
were driven by the continual raids of the Sakalavas from Madagascar and
the warlike Shirazis[47] of the coast, to take refuge on the almost
inaccessible plateau. I have studied African ethnology for twenty years,
but the fact that changes of population in this apparently quiet and
peaceable corner of the earth could have been occasioned by outside
enterprises taking place on the high seas, was completely new to me. It
is, no doubt, however, correct.
The charming tribal legend of the Makonde—besides informing us of other
interesting matters—explains why they have to live in the thickest of
the bush and a long way from the edge of the plateau, instead of making
their permanent homes beside the purling brooks and springs of the low
country.
“The place where the tribe originated is Mahuta, on the southern side of
the plateau towards the Rovuma, where of old time there was nothing but
thick bush. Out of this bush came a man who never washed himself or
shaved his head, and who ate and drank but little. He went out and made
a human figure from the wood of a tree growing in the open country,
which he took home to his abode in the bush and there set it upright. In
the night this image came to life and was a woman. The man and woman
went down together to the Rovuma to wash themselves. Here the woman gave
birth to a still-born child. They left that place and passed over the
high land into the valley of the Mbemkuru, where the woman had another
child, which was also born dead. Then they returned to the high bush
country of Mahuta, where the third child was born, which lived and grew
up. In course of time, the couple had many more children, and called
themselves Wamatanda. These were the ancestral stock of the Makonde,
also called Wamakonde,[48] _i.e._, aborigines. Their forefather, the man
from the bush, gave his children the command to bury their dead upright,
in memory of the mother of their race who was cut out of wood and awoke
to life when standing upright. He also warned them against settling in
the valleys and near large streams, for sickness and death dwelt there.
They were to make it a rule to have their huts at least an hour’s walk
from the nearest watering-place; then their children would thrive and
escape illness.”
The explanation of the name Makonde given by my informants is somewhat
different from that contained in the above legend, which I extract from
a little book (small, but packed with information), by Pater Adams,
entitled _Lindi und sein Hinterland_. Otherwise, my results agree
exactly with the statements of the legend. Washing? _Hapana_—there is no
such thing. Why should they do so? As it is, the supply of water
scarcely suffices for cooking and drinking; other people do not wash, so
why should the Makonde distinguish himself by such needless
eccentricity? As for shaving the head, the short, woolly crop scarcely
needs it,[49] so the second ancestral precept is likewise easy enough to
follow. Beyond this, however, there is nothing ridiculous in the
ancestor’s advice. I have obtained from various local artists a fairly
large number of figures carved in wood, ranging from fifteen to
twenty-three inches in height, and representing women belonging to the
great group of the Mavia, Makonde, and Matambwe tribes. The carving is
remarkably well done and renders the female type with great accuracy,
especially the keloid ornamentation, to be described later on. As to the
object and meaning of their works the sculptors either could or (more
probably) would tell me nothing, and I was forced to content myself with
the scanty information vouchsafed by one man, who said that the figures
were merely intended to represent the _nembo_—the artificial
deformations of _pelele_, ear-discs, and keloids. The legend recorded by
Pater Adams places these figures in a new light. They must surely be
more than mere dolls; and we may even venture to assume that they
are—though the majority of present-day Makonde are probably unaware of
the fact—representations of the tribal ancestress.
The references in the legend to the descent from Mahuta to the Rovuma,
and to a journey across the highlands into the Mbekuru valley,
undoubtedly indicate the previous history of the tribe, the travels of
the ancestral pair typifying the migrations of their descendants. The
descent to the neighbouring Rovuma valley, with its extraordinary
fertility and great abundance of game, is intelligible at a glance—but
the crossing of the Lukuledi depression, the ascent to the Rondo Plateau
and the descent to the Mbemkuru, also lie within the bounds of
probability, for all these districts have exactly the same character as
the extreme south. Now, however, comes a point of especial interest for
our bacteriological age. The primitive Makonde did not enjoy their lives
in the marshy river-valleys. Disease raged among them, and many died. It
was only after they had returned to their original home near Mahuta,
that the health conditions of these people improved. We are very apt to
think of the African as a stupid person whose ignorance of nature is
only equalled by his fear of it, and who looks on all mishaps as caused
by evil spirits and malignant natural powers. It is much more correct to
assume in this case that the people very early learnt to distinguish
districts infested with malaria from those where it is absent.
[Illustration: USUAL METHOD OF CLOSING HUT-DOOR]
This knowledge is crystallized in the ancestral warning against settling
in the valleys and near the great waters, the dwelling-places of disease
and death. At the same time, for security against the hostile Mavia
south of the Rovuma, it was enacted that every settlement must be not
less than a certain distance from the southern edge of the plateau. Such
in fact is their mode of life at the present day. It is not such a bad
one, and certainly they are both safer and more comfortable than the
Makua, the recent intruders from the south, who have made good their
footing on the western edge of the plateau, extending over a fairly wide
belt of country. Neither Makua nor Makonde show in their dwellings
anything of the size and comeliness of the Yao houses in the plain,
especially at Masasi, Chingulungulu and Zuza’s. Jumbe Chauro, a Makonde
hamlet not far from Newala, on the road to Mahuta, is the most important
settlement of the tribe I have yet seen, and has fairly spacious huts.
But how slovenly is their construction compared with the palatial
residences of the elephant-hunters living in the plain. The roofs are
still more untidy than in the general run of huts during the dry season,
the walls show here and there the scanty beginnings or the lamentable
remains of the mud plastering, and the interior is a veritable
dog-kennel; dirt, dust and disorder everywhere. A few huts only show any
attempt at division into rooms, and this consists merely of very
roughly-made bamboo partitions. In one point alone have I noticed any
indication of progress—in the method of fastening the door. Houses all
over the south are secured in a simple but ingenious manner. The door
consists of a set of stout pieces of wood or bamboo, tied with
bark-string to two cross-pieces, and moving in two grooves round one of
the door-posts, so as to open inwards. If the owner wishes to leave
home, he takes two logs as thick as a man’s upper arm and about a yard
long. One of these is placed obliquely against the middle of the door
from the inside, so as to form an angle of from 60° to 75° with the
ground. He then places the second piece horizontally across the first,
pressing it downward with all his might. It is kept in place by two
strong posts planted in the ground a few inches inside the door. This
fastening is absolutely safe, but of course cannot be applied to both
doors at once, otherwise how could the owner leave or enter his house? I
have not yet succeeded in finding out how the back door is fastened.
[Illustration: MAKONDE LOCK AND KEY AT JUMBE CHAURO]
This is the general way of closing a house. The Makonde at Jumbe Chauro,
however, have a much more complicated, solid and original one. Here,
too, the door is as already described, except that there is only one
post on the inside, standing by itself about six inches from one side of
the doorway. Opposite this post is a hole in the wall just large enough
to admit a man’s arm. The door is closed inside by a large wooden bolt
passing through a hole in this post and pressing with its free end
against the door. The other end has three holes into which fit three
pegs running in vertical grooves inside the post. The door is opened
with a wooden key about a foot long, somewhat curved and sloped off at
the butt; the other end has three pegs corresponding to the holes, in
the bolt, so that, when it is thrust through the hole in the wall and
inserted into the rectangular opening in the post, the pegs can be
lifted and the bolt drawn out.[50]
[Illustration: MODE OF INSERTING THE KEY]
With no small pride first one householder and then a second showed me on
the spot the action of this greatest invention of the Makonde Highlands.
To both with an admiring exclamation of “_Vizuri sana!_” (“Very fine!”).
I expressed the wish to take back these marvels with me to Ulaya, to
show the Wazungu what clever fellows the Makonde are. Scarcely five
minutes after my return to camp at Newala, the two men came up sweating
under the weight of two heavy logs which they laid down at my feet,
handing over at the same time the keys of the fallen fortress. Arguing,
logically enough, that if the key was wanted, the lock would be wanted
with it, they had taken their axes and chopped down the posts—as it
never occurred to them to dig them out of the ground and so bring them
intact. Thus I have two badly damaged specimens, and the owners, instead
of praise, come in for a blowing-up.
The Makua huts in the environs of Newala are especially miserable; their
more than slovenly construction reminds one of the temporary erections
of the Makua at Hatia’s, though the people here have not been concerned
in a war. It must therefore be due to congenital idleness, or else to
the absence of a powerful chief. Even the _baraza_ at Mlipa’s, a short
hour’s walk south-east of Newala, shares in this general neglect. While
public buildings in this country are usually looked after more or less
carefully, this is in evident danger of being blown over by the first
strong easterly gale. The only attractive object in this whole district
is the grave of the late chief Mlipa. I visited it in the morning, while
the sun was still trying with partial success to break through the
rolling mists, and the circular grove of tall euphorbias, which, with a
broken pot, is all that marks the old king’s resting-place, impressed
one with a touch of pathos. Even my very materially-minded carriers
seemed to feel something of the sort, for instead of their usual ribald
songs, they chanted solemnly, as we marched on through the dense green
of the Makonde bush:—
[Music:
(_An octave lower on the piano._) Air A.
Da-si-ge mu-rum-ba ba-na m-kub-wa u-si-ga-we nam-ba cha-
ku-la ni ma-li si-ri-ka-li nam-ba wa-ku-ho-fu ni na-
1. _Leader_ 2. Air B.
ni da-si-ge ni mn-pe-le-ka-ge mu-pe-le-ka ju-va na ba-na m-ku-bwa
_Leader_ Air A.
sim-ba mli-ma go-do - ka ma-na-ku-ba Da-si-ge mu-rum-ba ba-na
m-ku-bwa u . si . ga - we nam - ba cha - ku - la ni ma - li si -
Air B
ri - ka - li nam-ba wa - ku-ho-fu ni na - ni mu-pe-le-ka-ge
mu-pe-le-ka ju-va na ba-na-m-ku-bwa sim-ba mli-ma go-do - ka
Air A
da-si-ge mo-rum-ba ba-na - m-ku-bwa u-si-ga - we nam-ba cha -
Air B
ku-la ni ma-li si - ri-ka-li nam-ba wa - ku-ho-fu ni na - ni
mu-pe-le-ka ge
mu-pe-le-ka ju - va na ba-na m-ku-bwa sim-ba mli-ma go-do-ka
Air A
da - si - ge mu-rum - ba ba-na m-ku-bwa n-si-ga-we nam-ba cha-
ku-la ni ma-li si - ri-ka-li nam-ba wa - ku-ho-fu na ca - ni.]
“We shall arrive with the great master; we stand in a row and have no
fear about getting our food and our money from the Serkali (the
Government). We are not afraid; we are going along with the great
master, the lion; we are going down to the coast and back.”
With regard to the characteristic features of the various tribes here on
the western edge of the plateau, I can arrive at no other conclusion
than the one already come to in the plain, viz., that it is impossible
for anyone but a trained anthropologist to assign any given individual
at once to his proper tribe. In fact, I think that even an
anthropological specialist, after the most careful examination, might
find it a difficult task to decide. The whole congeries of peoples
collected in the region bounded on the west by the great Central African
rift, Tanganyika and Nyasa, and on the east by the Indian Ocean, are
closely related to each other—some of their languages are only
distinguished from one another as dialects of the same speech, and no
doubt all the tribes present the same shape of skull and structure of
skeleton. Thus, surely, there can be no very striking differences in
outward appearance.
[Illustration: THE ANCESTRESS OF THE MAKONDE]
Even did such exist, I should have no time to concern myself with them,
for day after day, I have to see or hear, as the case may be—in any case
to grasp and record—an extraordinary number of ethnographic phenomena. I
am almost disposed to think it fortunate that some departments of
inquiry, at least, are barred by external circumstances. Chief among
these is the subject of iron-working. We are apt to think of Africa as a
country where iron ore is everywhere, so to speak, to be picked up by
the roadside, and where it would be quite surprising if the inhabitants
had not learnt to smelt the material ready to their hand. In fact, the
knowledge of this art ranges all over the continent, from the Kabyles in
the north to the Kafirs in the south. Here between the Rovuma and the
Lukuledi the conditions are not so favourable. According to the
statements of the Makonde, neither ironstone nor any other form of iron
ore is known to them. They have not therefore advanced to the art of
smelting the metal, but have hitherto bought all their iron implements
from neighbouring tribes. Even in the plain the inhabitants are not much
better off. Only one man now living is said to understand the art of
smelting iron. This old _fundi_ lives close to Huwe, that isolated,
steep-sided block of granite which rises out of the green solitude
between Masasi and Chingulungulu, and whose jagged and splintered top
meets the traveller’s eye everywhere. While still at Masasi I wished to
see this man at work, but was told that, frightened by the rising, he
had retired across the Rovuma, though he would soon return. All
subsequent inquiries as to whether the _fundi_ had come back met with
the genuine African answer, “_Bado_” (“Not yet”).
[Illustration: BRAZIER]
Some consolation was afforded me by a brassfounder, whom I came across
in the bush near Akundonde’s. This man is the favourite of women, and
therefore no doubt of the gods; he welds the glittering brass rods
purchased at the coast into those massive, heavy rings which, on the
wrists and ankles of the local fair ones, continually give me fresh food
for admiration. Like every decent master-craftsman he had all his tools
with him, consisting of a pair of bellows, three crucibles and a
hammer—nothing more, apparently. He was quite willing to show his skill,
and in a twinkling had fixed his bellows on the ground. They are simply
two goat-skins, taken off whole, the four legs being closed by knots,
while the upper opening, intended to admit the air, is kept stretched by
two pieces of wood. At the lower end of the skin a smaller opening is
left into which a wooden tube is stuck. The _fundi_ has quickly borrowed
a heap of wood-embers from the nearest hut; he then fixes the free ends
of the two tubes into an earthen pipe, and clamps them to the ground by
means of a bent piece of wood. Now he fills one of his small clay
crucibles, the dross on which shows that they have been long in use,
with the yellow material, places it in the midst of the embers, which,
at present are only faintly glimmering, and begins his work. In quick
alternation the smith’s two hands move up and down with the open ends of
the bellows; as he raises his hand he holds the slit wide open, so as to
let the air enter the skin bag unhindered. In pressing it down he closes
the bag, and the air puffs through the bamboo tube and clay pipe into
the fire, which quickly burns up. The smith, however, does not keep on
with this work, but beckons to another man, who relieves him at the
bellows, while he takes some more tools out of a large skin pouch
carried on his back. I look on in wonder as, with a smooth round stick
about the thickness of a finger, he bores a few vertical holes into the
clean sand of the soil. This should not be difficult, yet the man seems
to be taking great pains over it. Then he fastens down to the ground,
with a couple of wooden clamps, a neat little trough made by splitting a
joint of bamboo in half, so that the ends are closed by the two knots.
At last the yellow metal has attained the right consistency, and the
_fundi_ lifts the crucible from the fire by means of two sticks split at
the end to serve as tongs. A short swift turn to the left—a tilting of
the crucible—and the molten brass, hissing and giving forth clouds of
smoke, flows first into the bamboo mould and then into the holes in the
ground.
The technique of this backwoods craftsman may not be very far advanced,
but it cannot be denied that he knows how to obtain an adequate result
by the simplest means. The ladies of highest rank in this country—that
is to say, those who can afford it, wear two kinds of these massive
brass rings, one cylindrical, the other semicircular in section. The
latter are cast in the most ingenious way in the bamboo mould, the
former in the circular hole in the sand. It is quite a simple matter for
the _fundi_ to fit these bars to the limbs of his fair customers; with a
few light strokes of his hammer he bends the pliable brass round arm or
ankle without further inconvenience to the wearer.
[Illustration: SHAPING THE POT]
[Illustration: SMOOTHING WITH MAIZE-COB]
[Illustration: CUTTING THE EDGE]
[Illustration: FINISHING THE BOTTOM]
[Illustration: LAST SMOOTHING BEFORE BURNING]
[Illustration: FIRING THE BRUSH-PILE]
[Illustration: LIGHTING THE FARTHER SIDE OF THE PILE]
[Illustration: TURNING THE RED-HOT VESSEL]
NYASA WOMAN MAKING POTS AT MASASI
[Illustration: MAKUA WOMAN MAKING A POT. SHOWS THE BEGINNINGS OF THE
POTTER’S WHEEL]
Pottery is an art which must always and everywhere excite the interest
of the student, just because it is so intimately connected with the
development of human culture, and because its relics are one of the
principal factors in the reconstruction of our own condition in
prehistoric times. I shall always remember with pleasure the two or
three afternoons at Masasi when Salim Matola’s mother, a slightly-built,
graceful, pleasant-looking woman, explained to me with touching
patience, by means of concrete illustrations, the ceramic art of her
people. The only implements for this primitive process were a lump of
clay in her left hand, and in the right a calabash containing the
following valuables: the fragment of a maize-cob stripped of all its
grains, a smooth, oval pebble, about the size of a pigeon’s egg, a few
chips of gourd-shell, a bamboo splinter about the length of one’s hand,
a small shell, and a bunch of some herb resembling spinach. Nothing
more. The woman scraped with the shell a round, shallow hole in the
soft, fine sand of the soil, and, when an active young girl had filled
the calabash with water for her, she began to knead the clay. As if by
magic it gradually assumed the shape of a rough but already well-shaped
vessel, which only wanted a little touching up with the instruments
before mentioned. I looked out with the closest attention for any
indication of the use of the potter’s wheel, in however rudimentary a
form, but no—_hapana_ (there is none). The embryo pot stood firmly in
its little depression, and the woman walked round it in a stooping
posture, whether she was removing small stones or similar foreign bodies
with the maize-cob, smoothing the inner or outer surface with the
splinter of bamboo, or later, after letting it dry for a day, pricking
in the ornamentation with a pointed bit of gourd-shell, or working out
the bottom, or cutting the edge with a sharp bamboo knife, or giving the
last touches to the finished vessel. This occupation of the women is
infinitely toilsome, but it is without doubt an accurate reproduction of
the process in use among our ancestors of the Neolithic and Bronze ages.
There is no doubt that the invention of pottery, an item in human
progress whose importance cannot be over-estimated, is due to women.
Rough, coarse and unfeeling, the men of the horde range over the
countryside. When the united cunning of the hunters has succeeded in
killing the game; not one of them thinks of carrying home the spoil. A
bright fire, kindled by a vigorous wielding of the drill, is crackling
beside them; the animal has been cleaned and cut up _secundum artem_,
and, after a slight singeing, will soon disappear under their sharp
teeth; no one all this time giving a single thought to wife or child.
To what shifts, on the other hand, the primitive wife, and still more
the primitive mother, was put! Not even prehistoric stomachs could
endure an unvarying diet of raw food. Something or other suggested the
beneficial effect of hot water on the majority of approved but
indigestible dishes. Perhaps a neighbour had tried holding the hard
roots or tubers over the fire in a calabash filled with water—or maybe
an ostrich-egg-shell, or a hastily improvised vessel of bark. They
became much softer and more palatable than they had previously been;
but, unfortunately, the vessel could not stand the fire and got charred
on the outside. That can be remedied, thought our ancestress, and
plastered a layer of wet clay round a similar vessel. This is an
improvement; the cooking utensil remains uninjured, but the heat of the
fire has shrunk it, so that it is loose in its shell. The next step is
to detach it, so, with a firm grip and a jerk, shell and kernel are
separated, and pottery is invented. Perhaps, however, the discovery
which led to an intelligent use of the burnt-clay shell, was made in a
slightly different way. Ostrich-eggs and calabashes are not to be found
in every part of the world, but everywhere mankind has arrived at the
art of making baskets out of pliant materials, such as bark, bast,
strips of palm-leaf, supple twigs, etc. Our inventor has no water-tight
vessel provided by nature. “Never mind, let us line the basket with
clay.” This answers the purpose, but alas! the basket gets burnt over
the blazing fire, the woman watches the process of cooking with
increasing uneasiness, fearing a leak, but no leak appears. The food,
done to a turn, is eaten with peculiar relish; and the cooking-vessel is
examined, half in curiosity, half in satisfaction at the result. The
plastic clay is now hard as stone, and at the same time looks
exceedingly well, for the neat plaiting of the burnt basket is traced
all over it in a pretty pattern. Thus, simultaneously with pottery, its
ornamentation was invented.
Primitive woman has another claim to respect. It was the man, roving
abroad, who invented the art of producing fire at will, but the woman,
unable to imitate him in this, has been a Vestal from the earliest
times. Nothing gives so much trouble as the keeping alight of the
smouldering brand, and, above all, when all the men are absent from the
camp. Heavy rain-clouds gather, already the first large drops are
falling, the first gusts of the storm rage over the plain. The little
flame, a greater anxiety to the woman than her own children, flickers
unsteadily in the blast. What is to be done? A sudden thought occurs to
her, and in an instant she has constructed a primitive hut out of strips
of bark, to protect the flame against rain and wind.
This, or something very like it, was the way in which the principle of
the house was discovered; and even the most hardened misogynist cannot
fairly refuse a woman the credit of it. The protection of the
hearth-fire from the weather is the germ from which the human dwelling
was evolved. Men had little, if any share, in this forward step, and
that only at a late stage. Even at the present day, the plastering of
the housewall with clay and the manufacture of pottery are exclusively
the women’s business. These are two very significant survivals. Our
European kitchen-garden, too, is originally a woman’s invention, and the
hoe, the primitive instrument of agriculture, is, characteristically
enough, still used in this department. But the noblest achievement which
we owe to the other sex is unquestionably the art of cookery. Roasting
alone—the oldest process—is one for which men took the hint (a very
obvious one) from nature. It must have been suggested by the scorched
carcase of some animal overtaken by the destructive forest-fires. But
boiling—the process of improving organic substances by the help of water
heated to boiling-point—is a much later discovery. It is so recent that
it has not even yet penetrated to all parts of the world. The
Polynesians understand how to steam food, that is, to cook it, neatly
wrapped in leaves, in a hole in the earth between hot stones, the air
being excluded, and (sometimes) a few drops of water sprinkled on the
stones; but they do not understand boiling.
To come back from this digression, we find that the slender Nyasa woman
has, after once more carefully examining the finished pot, put it aside
in the shade to dry. On the following day she sends me word by her son,
Salim Matola, who is always on hand, that she is going to do the
burning, and, on coming out of my house, I find her already hard at
work. She has spread on the ground a layer of very dry sticks, about as
thick as one’s thumb, has laid the pot (now of a yellowish-grey colour)
on them, and is piling brushwood round it. My faithful Pesa mbili, the
_mnyampara_, who has been standing by, most obligingly, with a lighted
stick, now hands it to her. Both of them, blowing steadily, light the
pile on the lee side, and, when the flame begins to catch, on the
weather side also. Soon the whole is in a blaze, but the dry fuel is
quickly consumed and the fire dies down, so that we see the red-hot
vessel rising from the ashes. The woman turns it continually with a long
stick, sometimes one way and sometimes another, so that it may be evenly
heated all over. In twenty minutes she rolls it out of the ash-heap,
takes up the bundle of spinach, which has been lying for two days in a
jar of water, and sprinkles the red-hot clay with it. The places where
the drops fall are marked by black spots on the uniform reddish-brown
surface. With a sigh of relief, and with visible satisfaction, the woman
rises to an erect position; she is standing just in a line between me
and the fire, from which a cloud of smoke is just rising: I press the
ball of my camera, the shutter clicks—the apotheosis is achieved! Like a
priestess, representative of her inventive sex, the graceful woman
stands: at her feet the hearth-fire she has given us beside her the
invention she has devised for us, in the background the home she has
built for us.
At Newala, also, I have had the manufacture of pottery carried on in my
presence. Technically the process is better than that already described,
for here we find the beginnings of the potter’s wheel, which does not
seem to exist in the plains; at least I have seen nothing of the sort.
The artist, a frightfully stupid Makua woman, did not make a depression
in the ground to receive the pot she was about to shape, but used
instead a large potsherd. Otherwise, she went to work in much the same
way as Salim’s mother, except that she saved herself the trouble of
walking round and round her work by squatting at her ease and letting
the pot and potsherd rotate round her; this is surely the first step
towards a machine. But it does not follow that the pot was improved by
the process. It is true that it was beautifully rounded and presented a
very creditable appearance when finished, but the numerous large and
small vessels which I have seen, and, in part, collected, in the “less
advanced” districts, are no less so. We moderns imagine that instruments
of precision are necessary to produce excellent results. Go to the
prehistoric collections of our museums and look at the pots, urns and
bowls of our ancestors in the dim ages of the past, and you will at once
perceive your error.
[Illustration: MAKING LONGITUDINAL CUT IN BARK]
[Illustration: DRAWING THE BARK OFF THE LOG]
[Illustration: REMOVING THE OUTER BARK]
[Illustration: BEATING THE BARK]
[Illustration: WORKING THE BARK-CLOTH AFTER BEATING, TO MAKE IT SOFT]
MANUFACTURE OF BARK-CLOTH AT NEWALA
To-day, nearly the whole population of German East Africa is clothed in
imported calico. This was not always the case; even now in some parts of
the north dressed skins are still the prevailing wear, and in the
north-western districts—east and north of Lake Tanganyika—lies a zone
where bark-cloth has not yet been superseded. Probably not many
generations have passed since such bark fabrics and kilts of skins were
the only clothing even in the south. Even to-day, large quantities of
this bright-red or drab material are still to be found; but if we wish
to see it, we must look in the granaries and on the drying stages inside
the native huts, where it serves less ambitious uses as wrappings for
those seeds and fruits which require to be packed with special care. The
salt produced at Masasi, too, is packed for transport to a distance in
large sheets of bark-cloth. Wherever I found it in any degree possible,
I studied the process of making this cloth. The native requisitioned for
the purpose arrived, carrying a log between two and three yards long and
as thick as his thigh, and nothing else except a curiously-shaped mallet
and the usual long, sharp and pointed knife which all men and boys wear
in a belt at their backs without a sheath—_horribile dictu!_[51]
Silently he squats down before me, and with two rapid cuts has drawn a
couple of circles round the log some two yards apart, and slits the bark
lengthwise between them with the point of his knife. With evident care,
he then scrapes off the outer rind all round the log, so that in a
quarter of an hour the inner red layer of the bark shows up
brightly-coloured between the two untouched ends. With some trouble and
much caution, he now loosens the bark at one end, and opens the
cylinder. He then stands up, takes hold of the free edge with both
hands, and turning it inside out, slowly but steadily pulls it off in
one piece. Now comes the troublesome work of scraping all superfluous
particles of outer bark from the outside of the long, narrow piece of
material, while the inner side is carefully scrutinised for defective
spots. At last it is ready for beating. Having signalled to a friend,
who immediately places a bowl of water beside him, the artificer damps
his sheet of bark all over, seizes his mallet, lays one end of the stuff
on the smoothest spot of the log, and hammers away slowly but
continuously. “Very simple!” I think to myself. “Why, I could do that,
too!”—but I am forced to change my opinions a little later on; for the
beating is quite an art, if the fabric is not to be beaten to pieces. To
prevent the breaking of the fibres, the stuff is several times folded
across, so as to interpose several thicknesses between the mallet and
the block. At last the required state is reached, and the _fundi_ seizes
the sheet, still folded, by both ends, and wrings it out, or calls an
assistant to take one end while he holds the other. The cloth produced
in this way is not nearly so fine and uniform in texture as the famous
Uganda bark-cloth, but it is quite soft, and, above all, cheap.
Now, too, I examine the mallet. My craftsman has been using the simpler
but better form of this implement, a conical block of some hard wood,
its base—the striking surface—being scored across and across with more
or less deeply-cut grooves, and the handle stuck into a hole in the
middle. The other and earlier form of mallet is shaped in the same way,
but the head is fastened by an ingenious network of bark strips into the
split bamboo serving as a handle. The observation so often made, that
ancient customs persist longest in connection with religious ceremonies
and in the life of children, here finds confirmation. As we shall soon
see, bark-cloth is still worn during the _unyago_,[52] having been
prepared with special solemn ceremonies; and many a mother, if she has
no other garment handy, will still put her little one into a kilt of
bark-cloth, which, after all, looks better, besides being more in
keeping with its African surroundings, than the ridiculous bit of print
from Ulaya.
[Illustration: MAKUA WOMEN]
CHAPTER XIV
FURTHER RESEARCHES
Last week, we had a few days of such cool, bright, windless weather,
that it seemed as if a St. Luke’s summer had set in. Now, however, the
icy gales from the east are once more blowing round the _boma_ of
Newala, and we had rain on Michaelmas Day, which was somewhat early.
This must have been a signal universally understood by young and old;
for I am no longer besieged by the hitherto inevitable boys, and my old
men, too, have ceased their visits. Fortunately, I have been able to
pump the old gentlemen so effectually in the course of the last few
weeks that I could leave at once, quite happy in the possession of an
enormous stock of notes, were I not detained by the linguistic inquiries
which I am now set on making. It is quite impossible to give here even
the merest indication of the knowledge so far gained as to all these
more or less strange customs and usages. The details will have a place
in official and other documents to the preparation of which the leisure
of many coming terms will have to be sacrificed; here I can only
indicate such prominent points as are calculated to interest every
civilized person.
Personal names among the natives offer an unlimited field for research.
Where Islam has already gained a footing, Arab names are prevalent. The
Makonde _askari_ Saidi bin Musa keeps step with his comrade Ali bin
Pinga from Nyasa, and Hasani from Mkhutu marches behind the Yao porter
Hamisi. Among the interior tribes the division into clans predominates
as a principle of social classification, and therefore, even in the case
of converts to Christianity, the baptismal name is followed by the clan
name. Daudi (David) Machina is the name of the native pastor at
Chingulungulu, and the presumptive successor to Matola I and Matola II
calls himself Claudio Matola. We shall have something more to say about
these clan names later on.
The meaning of the names is often equally interesting. My carriers alone
have already provided me with a good deal of amusement in this respect,
the appellations they go by being in most cases exceedingly absurd. Pesa
mbili (“Mr. Twopence”) is as familiar to us as his friend Kofia tule,
the tall man with the little flat cap, Kazi Ulaya, the man who works for
the European and Mambo sasa—“Affairs of to-day.” Besides these, the
following gentlemen are running about among the two dozen who compose my
faithful retinue:—Mr. Blanket (Kinyamwezi _bulangeti_, corrupted from
the English word), Mr. Cigarette (no commentary needed), Kamba Ulaya
(European rope, _i.e._ hemp rope as distinguished from native cordage of
cocoa-nut fibre or palm-leaf twist), Mr. Mountain (Kilima) and Messrs.
Kompania and Kapella (Company and Band—from the German _Kapelle_). The
names Mashua (boat) and Meli (steamer, from the English “mail”) have a
nautical suggestion and Sita (Six) an arithmetical one—and, to wind up
with, we have Mpenda kula—(“He who loves eating”).
The names used by the interior tribes are free from the noticeable
European touch found in these designations of the carriers, but here,
too, we come across amusing specimens. I notice at the same time that
these names are certainly not the first to grace their bearers. As is so
often the case with primitive peoples, and with the Japanese at the
present day, we find that every individual on being formally admitted to
the duties and responsibilities of adult life assumes a new name. The
natives hereabouts do not know or have forgotten the original
significance of this change, but we are not likely to be wrong in
supposing that the new name also means a new person, who stands in quite
a different relation to his kinsmen and his tribe from his former one.
Officially, every adult Yao, Makua, Makonde or Matambwe has the right to
offer himself as godfather, but I have the impression that the majority
of names one hears are really nicknames, casually given by
acquaintances.[53] It is well known that the native has a very acute
sense of the weak points and absurdities of others.
Che Likoswe (“Mr. Rat”) will be remembered by his war-songs at
Chingulungulu, and with him may be classed Che Chipembere (“Mr.
Rhinoceros”). The latter is liable to fits of sudden rage, like the
pachyderm, hence his name. The name of the old beer-drinker, Akundonde,
is a reminiscence of his original kinship with the Wandonde tribe. Che
Kamenya is he who is victorious in fight; there was joy at the birth of
Machina; Makwenya gathers everything to himself, but Che Mduulaga, on
the other hand, thinks nothing of himself,—he is modesty in person. In
the same way, Mkotima is a quiet man, Siliwindi is named after a
song-bird so-called; and, finally, Mkokora is he who carries away dirt
in his hands.
These are some Yao men’s names. I will only mention the following
women’s names for this tribe:—Che Malaga means “She is left alone”—all
her relations have died. Che Chelayero, “She who has a hard time.” Che
Tulaye, “She who fares poorly,” and Che Waope, “She is yours.”
The personal names of the other tribes have on the whole the same
character—Kunanyupu is an old Makua, who, according to his own
statement, has killed many gnus (_nyupu_) in his youth. Nantiaka is the
Don Juan who flits from one attraction to another. A similar train of
thought has suggested the name of Ntindinganya, the joker, who contrives
to saddle others with the blame of his own tricks. Linyongonyo is the
weakling; Nyopa the ambitious man who strives to make himself feared by
others; Madriga is the sad, melancholy man; Dambwala the lazy one.
Among the women Alwenenge is “the one who knows her own worth,”—her lord
and master has, it is true, taken another wife, but he will not remain
with her, but return penitently to Alwenenge, as she very well knows.
Much less fortunate is Nantupuli; she wanders about the world and finds
nothing at all, neither a husband nor anything else. Other unfortunates
are Atupimiri and Achinaga—the former has a husband who is always on his
travels and only comes home from time to time to “measure” (_pima_) his
wife, _i.e._, to see how she is behaving. Achinaga’s husband, on the
other hand, is ill and cannot work, so that she has to do everything by
herself. There is also a Pesa mbili among the Makonde women. The name
implies that she formerly stood high in the estimation of men, but now
she has grown old and is only worth two pice. Beauty has its market
value even with the negro.
A field of inquiry, extremely difficult to work, but which will
everywhere well repay cultivation, is that of the customs accompanying
the life of the individual from his cradle to his grave.
The native infant—which is not black, but at first as pink as our own
new-born babies—has come into the world in its mother’s hut. The father
is far from the spot, the women having sent him out of the way in good
time. The baby is carefully washed, and wrapped in a piece of new
bark-cloth. At the same time its ears are anointed with oil, that it may
hear well, and the ligature under the tongue loosened with a razor, to
ensure its learning to speak. Boys are everywhere welcomed; but with
regard to girls, the feeling varies in different tribes, and, just as is
the case among ourselves, in different families. It is often stated in
ethnographical works that primitive peoples rejoice on purely interested
grounds at the birth of girls, on account of the price they will bring
when married. Up to a certain point such considerations may have weight
here, too, but in general people are glad of daughters if only because
they can soon begin to help their mother in her numerous outdoor and
indoor tasks. Their marriage, moreover, brings an additional faithful
and unpaid worker into the household. For this is the land of exogamy,
where the young wife does not go to her husband’s home, or enter his
family, but, on the contrary, the man leaves his father and mother and
either moves directly into the house of his wife’s parents, or builds
his own close beside it. In any case for some years, until his own
family circumstances necessitate a different arrangement, he devotes all
his powers to keeping up his mother-in-law’s establishment. He sees to
the planting of the crops and their ingathering, he breaks up new
ground, in short he renders every possible service, and anticipates her
every wish. I have often been ashamed when the conversation turned on
this and other features of native life, to remember the tenor of those
venerable jests of which our comic papers never weary. Of course, a mere
passing traveller like myself is no judge of the more intimate side of
family life, but Knudsen, who has lived in the country long enough to
become thoroughly familiar with the people’s ways of thinking and
acting, confirms the impression I had arrived at, that, not only is the
relation between mother and son-in-law nothing short of ideal, but that
the behaviour of young people to their elders in general deserves to be
called exemplary. We who belong to the highest stage of culture, or,
according to the view held by most of us, _the_ stage of culture, spend
half our lives in educational establishments of various kinds and
grades, and the final result is shown by statistics in the diminishing
percentage of illiterates in our population. But let all who have eyes
to see and ears to hear observe how little ethical sense and how much
downright brutality make up the daily life of these very representatives
of culture. I am far from wishing to say anything against our system of
education and our schools—I am a kind of schoolmaster myself—but it
gives food for serious reflection to see how worm-eaten, in spite of all
the care bestowed on it, is much of the fruit they produce, and how
ethically sound is the life we meet with among these barbarians. And
this is the outcome of a training extending over three or four months
and received from teachers who have passed through no school or college.
[Illustration: WOMAN CARRYING A BABY ON HER BACK. FROM A DRAWING BY PESA
MBILI]
The treatment of twins is different among the various tribes in this
part of the country. The Wayao welcome them with unmixed joy, while the
Makonde look on their birth as a terrible event, to be averted if
possible by all sorts of charms. But even here the parents are not so
cruel as to kill them if they do come into the world; they are allowed
to live and treated in the same way as by the Wayao, _i.e._, their
clothing (such as it is) is always alike. If this were not done, it is
believed that one of them would certainly die.
For the first year the African infant remains in close contact with its
mother. When it is only a few days old, she takes it out for the first
time, to be shown to the admiring neighbours. Like a little lump of
misery it squats in the large coloured cloth enfolding the upper part of
its mother’s person. It usually hangs on the mother’s back, but she very
often swings it round to one hip. When the time comes for feeding the
baby, it and the bag containing it are brought round to the front.
Nothing so impresses me with the idea of poverty and squalor as this
treatment of infants: no change of clothing for mother or child—for
there is no supply of extra garments—no drying, no powdering, no
napkins, no regular bath after the first few days, no care of the mouth.
On the contrary, every child has sore places where the skin has been
chafed, especially at the joints, and in folds and depressions of the
body; half-healed scabs, where nature is getting the upper hand in spite
of neglect; eyes nearly always bleared and running in consequence of the
perpetual attacks of flies, and, finally, individual cases, here and
there, of thrush-ulcers on such a scale that fungoid growths actually
protrude from mouth and nostrils. It would be well if the Government and
the Missions could unite to put an end to this frightful state of
things, not so much by medical work, which is naturally limited to
certain localities, as by training the mothers, as extensively as
possible, in the simplest rules of hygiene and cleanliness.
[Illustration: THREE MAKUA VEGETARIANS]
I have been half-an-hour in a native village. The men and boys were all
assembled within two minutes of my arrival; the women are gathering more
slowly; the little girls, curiously enough, are altogether absent. Just
as with us, the women have at once gathered into a closely-packed group.
A shy silence reigns at first, but no sooner have they had time to get
used to the sight of the white man, than there is an outburst of talk in
every key, in spite of the hugest of _peleles_. At least half these
women are carrying babies, but this term is tolerably comprehensive.
Great boys and girls of two, or even three years old, are sprawling on
the slight backs of delicate-looking mothers, or making violent attacks
on the maternal fount of nourishment. My camera apparently affords the
pretext for this last manœuvre; for, as if at a given signal, the whole
little black band is propelled forward into position at the very moment
when I press the bulb.
The later stages of childhood among the natives are passed in a way not
materially differing from our own youthful recollections. The little
boys band themselves together in troops and carry on their games in the
village and the bush; while the little girls begin at an early age to
help their mothers indoors and out. Wherever I have been able to carry
on my activity as a collector, I have been particularly assiduous in
getting together all toys and games in use in the country. There is one
point deserving of special notice in connection with children’s games,
and this is that almost from the first day of its existence the child is
present wherever anything is going on. When the mother joins in the
dance, the baby on her back goes through every movement with her, and
thus learns dancing, so to speak, instinctively. By the time it can
stand on its own little feet, it joins in with the same certainty as
that with which the partridge chick just out of the egg goes to pick up
its food. Whether native children have outside these dances anything
that can be called concerted games, I cannot say, but so far I have seen
nothing of the sort,[54] unless we might count the great skill shown in
clapping the hands in unison, in which, with its pleasing rhythm and
(one might almost say) variety of tune, they are as much at home as
their elders. Otherwise every child seems to be dependent on itself, at
least as far as toys are concerned. For boys, bow and arrows are the
_sine qua non_ in the first place. If I had been willing to buy all the
toy bows offered me, I should have had enough to load a small ship. Here
in Africa the weapon is as much of a survival as in most other
countries. The fact of its being confined to children shows that, as in
Europe, it is no longer seriously used in war, but only in play, or at
most, in the chase. We find, as might be expected, that the grown men
are no better archers than the boys, and _vice versa_. Where firearms
have once been introduced, more primitive weapons are no longer valued.
[Illustration: USE OF THE THROWING STICK]
It is not easy to form an ethnographical collection in this country. It
is only in consequence of my very resolute attitude—which is far more
effectual than my bags of copper coin—that the people make up their
minds to bring anything at all, and then it is chiefly rubbish. In order
to obtain the more valuable class of articles, such as the more
important household implements, or the carved masks and other works of
art, I am frequently compelled to resort to a mild display of force, by
making the headman of the village morally responsible for the production
of the specimens. And yet every article is liberally paid for. How
peculiarly difficult it is to obtain toys, of all things, people at home
have no notion. I would suggest the following explanation for this fact.
If a Japanese ethnographer, for instance, were to visit Germany in the
autumn he would find it easy enough to make a large collection of kites,
but tops—to take one of our most typical children’s toys—he would only
be enabled to see and procure if he definitely inquired for them. It is
just the same here; everything has its season, and toys above all.
Having once grasped this truth, I always made short work of the
business, by delivering to the assembled villagers a lecture on all the
playthings of mankind, winding up with, “If you have so and so—or so and
so—be quick and bring it here.” In many cases neither my own linguistic
acquirements nor the interpreter are sufficient, and gestures have to
supply the lack of words. I was quite startled at my success, one day at
Chingulungulu, when, on having gone through the vigorous movement of
slinging a stone, I saw Salim Matola, the all-accomplished, return in a
short time with two remarkable objects, which, on his demonstration of
the way in which they were used, proved to be a veritable throwing-stick
and a sling—an _amentum_. I have rarely had such a feeling of complete
success as at this moment. Who would have thought to find the
throwing-stick and the sling in Eastern Africa, a region hitherto
considered so barren as regards ethnography? The former is an implement
intended to serve no other purpose than the lengthening of the lower arm
in order to throw a spear or a stone; it represents, therefore, in terms
of physics, the lengthened arm of a lever. Its principal region of
distribution is Australia; it also exists in some parts of the Western
Pacific, among the Hyperboreans, and in isolated parts of America.
Hitherto it has been assumed that the African had not arrived at this
invention. The sling in the same way serves to lengthen a lever, but the
spear or stone is in this case not thrown by means of a catch on the
stick or board, but by a string fastened to the root of the forefinger,
while the free end is coiled round the missile. If the warrior throws
his arm forward, the weapon leaves the hand by centrifugal force,
uncoils itself from the string and flies away with great initial
velocity.
[Illustration: THROWING WITH THE SLING]
[Illustration: SPINNING A TOP]
Where such antiquities as these occur—I reflected at the time—surely
there are more discoveries to be made. This expectation was in fact
fulfilled, though I had first to fight my way through a superfluity of
another species of toy. One day, in the course of the lecture already
referred to, I happened to make the gesture of whipping something over
the ground, and it was at once correctly understood, for from that time
forward the young people simply overwhelmed me with tops. No less than
four kinds are in use here. One exactly corresponds to our European
peg-top,[55] and is, like it, driven with a whip, a second has a round
or square piece of gourd fixed on a short, stout wooden peg as axis of
rotation;[56] a third is similar to the last, but has a second disc
under the first (which is about the size of a five-shilling piece), in
order to place the centre of gravity higher up. Finally, we have a very
complicated mechanism whose action resembles that of our humming-top.
The second and third require no whip, but are spun with the thumb and
middle finger. The fourth, on the other hand, needs a “frame” to spin
it. This is represented by a piece of maize-cob perforated lengthwise,
through which the string wound round the top is quickly pulled back.
Like many other things, the art of spinning tops is not made easy for
native boys, the soft, sandy ground being ill-suited to this game; yet
the little fellows show great skill in it.
[Illustration: IKOMA DANCE AT THE GIRLS’ UNYAGO, ACHIKOMU]
[Illustration: XYLOPHONE (MGOROMONDO)]
With one exception, children have no musical instruments peculiar to
themselves. Whether they fiddle on the _sese_, the one-stringed violin,
or maltreat the _ulimba_, that instrument on which all Africans
strum—the box with wooden or iron keys fixed to its surface, and struck
with the finger-tips—or strike the _mgoromondo_, that antediluvian
xylophone in which the keys rest on a layer of straw, or play on the
_lugombo_, the musical bow with calabash resonator, which is so widely
distributed over East and South Africa—in every case the instruments are
only clumsy imitations of those used by grown-up people. The only one
whose use is confined to the young is the _natura_—a friction-drum, made
from a bottle-gourd or the fruit of the baobab, cut across and covered
in, like a drum, with the skin of some small animal. A blade of grass
passes through the middle of the diaphragm, and thence down through the
bottom of the shell. By rubbing a wetted thumb and forefinger down the
stalk, as the little wretches are perpetually doing, a noise is produced
so excruciating that even my carriers—who are not precisely sufferers
from nerves—take to flight when they hear it. But young people are not
only capable of preserving ancient survivals in culture through
thousands of years, but also have the advantage of a greater receptivity
for novelties. I have in my collection two charming specimens of an
African telephone, consisting of two miniature drums, beautifully carved
and covered with the delicate skin of some small animal, perforated in
the middle to allow the passage of a thin string, which is kept from
slipping through by a knot on the inside of the skin. I never thought,
at first, of taking this thing seriously, but one day, having a spare
quarter of an hour, I put one of the drums into Knudsen’s hand, and told
him to walk away till the string—about a hundred yards in length—was
stretched tight. I held the membrane to my ear, and heard quite clearly,
“Good-day, Professor. Can you hear me?” So the thing really acts, and
all that remains for us to do is to develop it and boldly link ourselves
up with the coast and that centre of civilization, Lindi![57] There can
be no question of independent invention in this case; the telephone is
undoubtedly borrowed—but the fact of the borrowing, and the way it is
applied by children are not without interest.
[Illustration: PLAYING THE _NATURA_]
[Illustration: NATURA (FRICTION-DRUM)]
Such an important epoch in native life as that represented by the
_unyago_, with all its joys and woes, its games and dances, cannot be
without influence on the habits of the young people, even before it
arrives. Thus I have some _ipivi_ flutes obtained from little fellows
far too young to be admitted to the mysteries. Anyone who wishes to
excel in an art must begin his training early, and the flute players of
the _ndagala_ practise their instrument for years beforehand. Moreover,
boys, who had evidently not yet passed through the _unyago_, have more
than once brought me specimens of the _kakale_, the long sticks, painted
black and white in alternate rings with a little trophy at the top,
consisting of the shell of some fruit with a plume of feathers stuck in
it. These two insignia of maturity, therefore, are also found in the
capacity of toys. There is nothing surprising in this so far as the boys
are concerned, for the native has no secrets from them. At the
ceremonies I witnessed at Achikomu, as well as at Niuchi and Mangupa,
there was always a whole troop of little fellows, covered with dirt and
ashes, running about. Strangely enough, there were never any half-grown
girls to be seen on these occasions; everything relating to the
mysteries seems to be carefully kept secret from them. It was only
during my long residence at Newala, with its possibilities of free
intercourse between me and the different tribes, as well as among
natives of different ages, that I could see and photograph any of these
young things. They seem to be brought up much more within the walls of
the hut and its compound than we are accustomed to suppose; and even in
the hundreds of visits I have paid to native homes, I have seldom been
able to see the young daughters of the house face to face. As a rule, I
only caught sight of a slender little figure retreating swiftly through
the back door of the hut.
[Illustration: _UNASIKIA?_: “DO YOU HEAR?”]
[Illustration: _NDIO_: “YES”]
Under these circumstances, of course, I cannot say how the little native
girl actually grows up, and whether she enjoys anything even faintly
resembling the happy childhood of our own loved ones—but nothing leads
us to suppose that she does; though there is no question that the native
shares in the universal instinct which inspires all parents with
affection for their offspring; he feeds his children and protects them
when they need protection; he rejoices when they thrive and mourns over
their illness and death. I can still see Matola, as he came to me one
day—his usual expression of gentle melancholy heightened to one of deep
grief and anxiety—carrying a little girl of some five or six years. She
was not even his own child, but a relative, for whom he entreated my
help. To my sincere regret, it was impossible for me to do anything—the
poor little thing was suffering from a malignant gangrene, which had
eaten away the whole front of one thigh, so that the tendons were laid
bare and the bones were beginning to bend. I spoke very seriously to
Matola, asking whether he were as much of a _mshenzi_ as his people, who
were perishing through their own stupidity and apathy. He, the headman,
and a clever man at that, knew very well, so I told him, that there were
German doctors at Lindi, who could cure even such cases as this, if the
patients were brought to them. He ought therefore, to send the child
down at once, unless he wished her to die, as all her elder brothers and
sisters had done.
[Illustration: NATIVE TELEPHONE]
Matola gazed at me for some time, evidently wavering between hope and
doubt; but in the end he followed my advice; and I have since heard that
the child is well on the way to recovery. But it is astonishing and
perplexing that such an enlightened man as the chief of Chingulungulu
should have allowed the disease to go on so long before taking any
serious steps to obtain assistance. What then could be expected of a man
from the bush, who consulted me immediately after my arrival, asking me
for medicine for his sick child?
“What is the matter with your child?”
“A wound on her foot.”
“But, my good man,” I said, “I can’t give you medicine to take home,—you
would not know how to put it on. You must bring your child here. Where
do you live?”
“_Mbali_—a long way off—Bwana,” he answers, lengthening the vowel to
signify inexpressible distance.
“How far?”
“Well—about two hours.”
“Oh! you call that far, do you? you _mshenzi!_ if you were going to a
beer-drink, twenty hours would be _karibu sana_. Off with you now, and
come back at eight to-morrow morning.” But neither at eight nor at any
later hour was there any sign of the noble father from the Makonde bush.
It was not till the fifteenth day after the preliminary consultation
that he appeared, bringing with him a little girl of five or six. I did
not at first remember him, but at once recalled his previous visit when
the child, overcoming her natural shyness, held out her foot. Nothing
was to be seen but a horrible mass of dirt and sand cemented together
with blood. I started at once on the cleansing process, with the help of
Stamburi, my trusty hospital orderly; and when at last the foot was laid
bare, we found that the whole ball was eaten away to the bone—whether
owing to jiggers, or through the cumulative effect of various other
circumstances, my medical knowledge is insufficient to decide. When at
last I glanced at the father, I saw him staring like one hypnotized at a
leg of antelope intended for the next day’s dinner, which Knudsen had
hung up just over my table. Having recalled him to reality, I bade
Moritz give him the softest part from the skin of a recently killed wild
pig, and told him to make a shoe, or at least a sandal such as are
certainly not unknown in this country, as he must see for himself that
the child could not walk through the dirty sand with her
freshly-bandaged foot. He had his knife with him—let him get to work
without delay! We two practitioners devoted ourselves once more to the
treatment of the wound, which was in truth a terrible one; and in a
little while the bandage was put on as correctly as we knew how. A
second look at the father showed that he was still staring at the raw
joint, as intently as if he had really eaten his way into it. It is a
good thing, after all, in such cases, to have the _kiboko_ within reach.
In another quarter of an hour the well-wrapped foot was protected by a
very serviceable pigskin slipper. But that is the last I ever saw or
heard of the gentleman, and he never so much as thanked me either for
the treatment or for the thrashing.
[Illustration: MAKONDE CHILDREN]
Boys and girls, as a rule, reach the age of eight or nine, perhaps ten,
before any event of importance interrupts the even tenor of their lives.
Then the assembly of the men, which when the harvest is over, meets
daily in the _baraza_, decides where the _unyago_ is to be celebrated in
the current year. Since all the adjacent districts have now taken their
turn in bearing the expense of the ceremony, it is a point of honour
that our village should invite them this time. The resolution is soon
carried into effect; the moon is already on the wane, and the
celebration must take place before the new moon. The _unyago_ presents
exactly the same features in all the tribes of this region. The men
erect a circle—larger or smaller as circumstances may require—of simple
grass huts in an open space near the village. In this space the opening
and closing ceremonies are performed; the huts are intended for the
candidates to live and sleep in. Such an arena, with all its
appurtenances in excellent preservation, was the circle of something
over fifty yards’ diameter which I was enabled to photograph when
visiting the _echiputu_ at Akuchikomu. The charred remains of a similar
_lisakasa_, as the system of huts is called in Yao, were to be seen near
the road on this side of Akundonde’s—the relics of a former festival.
[Illustration: MASEWE DANCE OF THE MAKUAS IN THE BOMA AT NEWALA]
It is inherent in the nature of the whole institution that both boys and
girls should be passive throughout. They sit silent, inactive and
motionless in their huts while, on the first night of the festival, the
grown-ups feast and drink and enjoy themselves in the wild _masewe_
dance. Next day the boys, each one in charge of his instructor, are
conducted to the bush by the chief director. There they sleep one night
without any shelter whatever. For a short time, on the following day,
they may do as they please, but during the remainder they have to set to
work with their _anamungwi_ (teachers) and build the _ndagala_. As soon
as this airy construction is finished, one after another of the boys is
laid on a very primitive couch of millet-straw, and the _jua michila_
performs the operation. For weeks the little patients lie there in a
row, unable to do anything to accelerate the slow process of healing.
Not till this is complete and the subsequent moral and other instruction
has begun do the _wari_, as the boys are now called, acquire the right
to take part in public life. In the high spirits engendered by the pride
of their new position, they indulge in many a mad freak. Woe to the
unhappy woman or girl who, ignorant of the situation of the _ndagala_,
strays into this region of the bush. Like a troop of mischievous imps,
the boys rush on her, tease her, perhaps even tie her up and ill-use
her. According to tribal custom, they are quite within their rights in
so doing, for their abode in the bush is supposed to be utterly unknown
to women. When he goes out into the _pori_ the boy is dead to his
mother,—when he returns, he will be a different person with a new name,
and nothing to connect him with his former relationship.
I have already tried to describe the course taken by the instruction
imparted in the _ndagala_. Old Akundonde and his councillor, in the
candour induced by their libations, were certainly trustworthy
informants in this respect. It is an irreparable misfortune that the
liquor supply coming to an end when it did (in such a surprisingly short
time) deprived me of the conclusion of the address to the _wari_, but
the fragment already given is quite sufficient to indicate the character
of the teaching.
The _lupanda_ reaches its culminating point only with the closing
ceremony. The preparations on both sides are extensive: in the bush the
_wari_ are being restored by their mentors by means of head-shaving,
baths, anointing with oil, and a supply of new cloth, to a condition
worthy of human beings. In the village, meanwhile, the mothers, long
before the time fixed, have been brewing large quantities of beer and
preparing still larger piles of food for the festivity. When the great
day at last arrives, the boys come back in procession, in their clean
new garments, with their faces, necks, and freshly-shorn scalps all
shining with oil, and carrying in their right hands the _kakale_, the
sticks headed with rattles which have already been described. Men and
women line the road in joyful expectation. Ever louder and more
piercingly, the “lu-lu-lu” of the women vibrates across the arena, and
yonder the drums strike up with their inspiriting rhythm, while the
hoarse throats of the men utter the first notes of a _ng’oma_ song. In
short, everything is going on in the most satisfactory and genuinely
African way.
[Illustration: _KAKALE_ PROCESSION ON THE LAST DAY OF THE _UNYAGO_]
The Africans, being human, like ourselves, it is only to be expected
that all their works and ways are subject to as many changes and
inconsistencies as our own. I have devoted a disproportionate part of
the time (over a month) spent at Newala to the task of fixing the
typical course of all these ceremonies. This has been a most severe
labour, for if, in my wish to obtain unimpeachably accurate results, I
arranged to let my informants of each tribe come separately, I might be
sure that the two or three old men who made their appearance would say
little or nothing. The native intellect seems not to become active till
awakened and stimulated by sharp retort and rejoinder in a numerous
circle of men. I have thus been compelled to go back again and again to
my original method of assembling the whole senate of “those who know,”
some fifteen aged Yaos, Makua and Makonde in a heterogeneous crowd round
my feet. This was so far successful as to produce a lively discussion
every time, but it becomes very difficult to distinguish between the
elements belonging to different tribes. Yet I venture to think that,
with a great deal of luck, and some little skill, I have succeeded so
far as to get a general outline of these matters. I feel quite easy in
my mind at leaving to my successors the task of filling up the gaps and
correcting the inaccuracies which no doubt exist.
Further, it must be remembered that my notes on the initiation
ceremonies of these three tribes would, if given in full, take up far
too much space to allow of their reproduction here. Two other points
must be borne in mind. What I saw with my own eyes of the _unyago_, I
have here related in full, with that local colouring of which actual
experience alone enables a writer to render the effect. But those scenes
at Achikomu, Niuchi and Mangupa are only tiny fractions of the very
extensive _fasti_ represented by the girls’ _unyago_ in reality; while,
as to the remainder, I can only repeat what I have heard from my
informants. Quotations, however, always produce an impression of dryness
and tedium, which is what I would seek to avoid at any price. I
therefore think it better to refer those interested in the details of
such things to the larger work in which it will be my duty, according to
agreement, to report to the Colonial Office on my doings in Africa and
their scientific results.
The last point belongs to another department. The negro is not in the
least sophisticated as regards the relation between the sexes.
Everything pertaining to it seems to him something quite natural, about
which his people are accustomed to speak quite freely among
themselves,—only in extreme cases showing a certain reticence before
members of the alien white race. Now the part played by sex in the life
of the African is very great, incomparably greater than with us. It
would be too much to say that all his thoughts and desires revolve round
this point, but a very large proportion thereof is undoubtedly concerned
with it. This is shown in the clearest way, not only in the _unyago_
itself, but in the representation which I subsequently witnessed. In the
present state of opinion resulting from the popular system of education,
such delicate matters can only be treated in the most strictly
scientific publications, being debarred from reproduction in a book of
any other character. This is necessary—I must once more emphasize the
fact,—not on account of the subject itself, but out of consideration for
the misguided feelings of the public. It may be regrettable, but it is
true.
Of all the tribes in the South of German East Africa, the Yaos seem to
be, not only the most progressive, but the most prosaic and
unimaginative, and in fact their initiation ceremonies are very simple,
compared with those of the Makonde and Makua. Those of the latter have
to a certain extent a dramatic character. The Makua choose a branch of a
particular shape, and forked several times, which they plant in the
midst of the open space where the festival is held. This is fetched from
the bush by the men, who, singing a certain song, carry it in procession
into the arena, where the director of the mysteries stands, in the
attitude of a sacrificing priest. He now kills a fowl, the blood of
which is caught in a bowl, while some charcoal is pounded to powder in a
second vessel, and some red clay crushed in a third—the branch is then
encircled with a triple band of the three substances—red, black, and
red. Meanwhile some men have been digging a hole, in which is laid a
charm made out of pieces of bark tied together. The hole is then filled
up and the earth heaped over it in a mound on which the forked branch,
called _lupanda_, is planted. A second mound is then made, which, as
well as the first, was still clearly recognizable in the ring of huts at
Akundonde’s. This second mound is the seat for the _unyago_ boy who is
considered of highest rank, the others being grouped around him, on
stumps, which, if the director of the proceedings has the slightest
sense of beauty, are arranged in two regular, concentric circles similar
to those which I saw in the bush near Chingulungulu. “The cromlech of
the tropics!” was the idea which occurred to me at the time, and even
now I cannot resist the impression that this arrangement of tree-stumps
resembles our prehistoric stone circles, not only in form but perhaps
also in the object for which it is designed. If our Neolithic megaliths
were, really used by assemblies for ritual purposes, there seems no
reason why these venerable stones should not have served as seats for
our ancestors. The negro, too, would no doubt dispense with wooden
seats, if stone ones had been obtainable in his country.
If I were at all given to imaginative speculations, I could easily prove
that the Makonde are fire-worshippers. As soon as the men have built the
_likumbi_, _i.e._, a hut of the kind we saw at Mangupa, all scatter to
look for medicine in the bush. In the evening of the same day, they give
the roots they have collected to an old woman who pounds them in a
mortar. The resulting paste is dabbed in spots on the arms of some five
or six men by the high priest or doctor. When this is done all sit
inactive till midnight, when the _munchira_ (doctor) begins to beat his
drum. As the deep sound of this instrument thunders out through the dark
tropical night, all the people, adults and children, stream out of the
huts, and dancing and gun-firing are kept up till the following
afternoon, when they distribute presents to each other and to the boys’
instructor. Thereupon the _munchira_ delivers an address. The six men
above referred to are, he says, sacred; if they should take it into
their heads to steal, or commit violent assaults, or interfere with
their neighbours’ wives, no one must do anything to them, their persons
are inviolable. The six, for their part, are now informed by him that it
is their duty to beat the drum at midnight for the next three months.
When the three months are ended, the village is all stir and bustle. Men
go into the bush to collect dead wood, and in the evening carry it in
perfect silence to the open space near the _likumbi_ hut. The women,
meanwhile, have been preparing enormous quantities of beer, which also
finds its way to the _likumbi_. In this hut stands a small round covered
basket (_chihero_), containing medicines, into which (and on the
medicines) every one of the wood-gatherers spits out a little of the
specially prepared beer. Beside the _chihero_ stands the old woman who
pounded the medicines in the mortar, who then puts the basket on her
head, seizes in one hand the end of a whole piece of calico, specially
bought for the ceremony, and leaves the hut with a slow and solemn step,
dragging the cloth behind her. The first of the wood-gatherers quickly
takes hold of it, so as not to let it touch the ground; as it unrolls
from the bale a second takes it, then a third, and a fourth, till at
last it passes along a little above the ground, like a train borne by
pages. The _munchira_ walks in front next to the woman, and they
circumambulate the _likumbi_, after which the _munchira_ takes the end
of the calico and wraps it round the _chihero_. This he then holds to
his right ear; after a short pause, he places it on his shoulder, again
keeping it there for a few moments; then it is lowered to the hip, the
knee, and finally to the outside of the ankle. At the close of the
ceremony the venerable man takes both cloth and _chihero_ as his
well-earned fee.
Again it is night—the outline of the great wood-pile is just
recognizable in the faint light. About an hour after midnight, a tall,
gaunt figure rises from the circle of prostrate figures wrapped in their
sleeping-mats. Silently it glides up to the pile, a little flame flashes
up, to disappear again; but soon there is a fresh crackling; the flame,
in the draught produced by the rhythmic pulsations of a fan, grows and
strengthens. Now we recognize the figure—it is that of the _munchira_.
In a few minutes the whole large pile is a sheet of flame, its
flickering, quivering lights dancing on the shining faces of the men
standing round in a circle. The fire having now burnt up brightly, the
_munchira_ walks quickly round it, and, his face turned to the pile,
utters the following words:—“Let the wounds of the boys heal soon and
painlessly, and let the chief who is keeping the _likumbi_ this year
find the boys do him credit in after life.” At the same time he ties a
white rag to a pole, and fans the fire with powerful strokes. The men
remain standing round it, watching it as it dies down, till broad
daylight.
Fire, as the central point in a ceremony which cuts so deeply into
social life as do the celebrations of puberty among these tribes, is so
far as I know quite an isolated phenomenon among the peoples of Africa.
Have we here a case of genuine fire-worship, or are the walk round the
fire and the address to it only the last unconscious survivals of a cult
prevalent in ancient times? I do not know, and, to speak frankly, cannot
even say where the answer to this question may be looked for. We must
not _a priori_ assume it to be impossible that the Makonde should once
have been fire-worshippers; we know far too little as yet of their
social evolution. The abundant results of my inquiries up to this point
are the best proof that unexpected discoveries are yet in store for us.
[Illustration: MASKED DANCE AT THE GIRLS’ UNYAGO, NIUCHI]
In the male sex the transition from childhood to the status of
fully-qualified maturity is a single, definite process, though extending
over a long period. The memory of rejoicings and sufferings experienced
in common is preserved henceforth among the men by means of a free,
voluntary association known as the “age-class.” All those who have
passed through the _unyago_ in the same year stand by each other till
death severs the connection. This connection, however, must be thought
of in terms of African conditions; there is no society or club, or the
like, and the sole obligation incurred by the old friends is that every
one of them is bound to offer hospitality to any of the others who may
come to his village. Secret societies no longer consciously influence
the character of the age-classes here in the East, though the reverse is
the case in West Africa where the two things go hand in hand, acting and
reacting on each other as cause and effect, and both finding their
common outward expression in great festivals with masked dances and
other mysterious accessories calculated to terrify the women and the
uninitiated men. Here on the Makonde plateau, the three phenomena—the
age-classes, the festivals and the masked dances—are at the present day
not very closely connected together; yet everything leads to the
conclusion that the masked dance now in use among the Makonde was
originally the outcome of a long-forgotten system of secret societies,
similar to the quite analogous institutions of Kamerun, Upper Guinea,
and Loango. There is many a knotty problem yet to be solved in this
department of African ethnography.
The girls’ _unyago_ is a graduated series of courses of instruction. I
have purposely emphasized the word instruction, as there is nothing here
in the nature of a surgical operation, with a single exception in the
case of the Makua. In all the tribes each girl is given for the whole
period of the _unyago_ into the charge of a special teacher, who remains
her friend through life. Under the guidance of these older women, the
novices in the first place go through a curriculum very much resembling
that of the boys. The children are unreservedly enlightened as to all
sexual relations, and have to learn everything connected with married
life. They are also taught all the rules which govern intercourse
between members of the same tribe, and above all of the same family.
There is an opening and a closing ceremony for this first course of the
girls’ initiation. I was able personally to observe the revels which
take place on such occasions, at all three of the places where I had the
opportunity of making the _chiputu_ (or _echiputu_) illustrious by my
presence. The phenomenal thirst shown is quite explained by the amount
of dancing gone through.
[Illustration: WOMAN OF THE MAKONDE TRIBE]
After the mysteries, both boys and girls in due course become
marriageable, but I have not succeeded in ascertaining, even
approximately, the age at which this is the case. Individuals are always
out of measure astonished when asked their age, and their relatives are
profoundly indifferent on the subject. In general, marriage takes place
very early, as is proved by the very young mothers who may be seen in
any large assemblage of people, and who are mostly no further developed
than German girls at their confirmation. Matola tells me that the form
of marriage known as _masange_ was formerly very prevalent, in which
young children of from five to seven were united, huts being built for
them to live in. This custom is said still to be practised
occasionally.[58] The same informant states that it is very common for
one woman, who has just had a child to say to a neighbour expecting a
like event, “I have a son—if you have a daughter, let him marry her”;
and this, in due course, is done.
The African native is a peasant, not only in his avocation, but in the
way in which he sets about his courting. In no other department is his
mental kinship with our own rustics so startlingly shown. To express it
briefly: the native youth in love is too shy to venture a bold stroke
for his happiness in person; he requires a go-between quite in the style
of our own rural candidates for matrimony. This office is usually
undertaken by his own father, who, under some pretext or other, calls on
the parents of the bride-elect, and in the course of conversation
touches on his son’s projects. If the other side are willing to
entertain the proposition, the negotiations are soon brought to a
satisfactory conclusion—that is to say, if the maid, too, is willing.
Girls are not in reality so passive in the matter as we are apt to
assume, but most certainly expect to have their wishes consulted; and
many a carefully-planned match has come to nothing merely because the
girl loved another man. In this respect there is not the slightest
difference between white and black. Of course, not every native girl is
a heroine of constancy and steadfastness; here and there one lets
herself be persuaded to accept, instead of the young man she loves in
secret, an elderly wooer who is indifferent to her, but in that case she
runs the risk of incurring—as happens elsewhere—the ridicule of her
companions. The old bridegroom, moreover, may be pretty certain that he
will not enjoy a monopoly of his young wife’s society.
Marriage is a matter of business, thinks the African, quite consistently
with his general character, and the contract is only looked upon as
concluded when the two fathers have come to an agreement as to the
amount of the present to be paid by the bridegroom. The people here in
the south are poor—they have neither large herds of horned cattle, nor
abundance of sheep and goats; the whole purchase—were it correct, which
it is not, to call the transaction by that name—is effected by handing
over a moderate quantity of calico.
Much more interesting from an ethnographic point of view than the Yao
wooing just sketched, are the customs of the Makua and Makonde. In their
case, too, negotiations are opened by the fathers; but this is, in
reality, only a skirmish of outposts,—the main action is afterwards
fought by the mothers, each supported by her eldest brother, or perhaps
by all her brothers. The fact that the _matriarchate_ is still
flourishing here explains the part they take in the matter.
Nils Knudsen, by the way, can tell a pretty story—of which he is himself
the hero—illustrating the constancy of native girls. During the years of
his lonely life at Luisenfelde, he so completely adapted himself to
native ways as to take a wife from among the Wayao. Even now, after the
lapse of years, he never grew tired of praising the virtues of this
_chipini_ wearer;—she was pretty, and domestic, and a first-rate
cook—she could make excellent _ugali_, and had all the other good
qualities which go to make up a good housewife in the bush. One day he
went off to the Rovuma on a hunting expedition; he was only absent a few
days, but on his return she had disappeared. On the table lay a knotted
piece of bark-string. He counted the knots and found that there were
seventy; the meaning of the token, according to the explanation given by
the wise men of the tribe being this:—“My kinsfolk have taken me away;
they do not like me to live with the white man, and want me to marry a
black man who lives far away on the other side of the Rovuma. But even
if I should live as many years as there are knots on this string, I will
not take him, but remain faithful to you, the white man.” This was
Knudsen’s story, and he added, with emotion not untouched by the pride
of a man who feels himself to be greatly sought after, the further
statement that the girl was in fact keeping her vow. She was living far
away, in the heart of the Portuguese territory, and near the man for
whom she was destined, but even the strongest pressure brought to bear
by her family could not make her give way. After all, there is such a
thing as faithfulness in love.
The native wedding is a very tame affair—one might almost say that there
is no such thing. Betrothal and marriage, if we may say so, coincide in
point of time. When once the wooer has obtained the approval of the
rightful authorities, there is no further hindrance to the union of the
couple than the delay necessary for erecting a new hut for them. When
this is done and they have taken up their abode in it, the young husband
begins to work for his mother-in-law, in the manner aforesaid, which
appears so strange to our European ideas, though we cannot deny that
there is room for improvement in our manners in this respect.
Now, however, we have to consider the question of who may marry whom,
or, in other words, the table of forbidden degrees. This question has
its importance even in Europe—how much more among people so much nearer
the primitive conditions of society. If it is for the wise men of an
Australian tribe one of the highest problems of social science to
determine with absolute correctness which girl among the surrounding
families the young man A may marry, and who is eligible for the young
man B, so neither are the matrimonially disposed in the Rovuma valley
free to indulge their inclination in any direction they may choose.
It is late in the afternoon. In the baraza at Newala fifteen natives of
respectable age are squatting, as they have done for some weeks past, on
the big mat. From time to time one of these seniors rises, and leaves
the building to stretch his cramped legs, but always returns after a
short time. The place is hot, a fetid vapour hangs over the assembly, so
that the European in khaki, writing so assiduously at his folding table,
presses his hands again and again to his aching forehead. The company
are obviously tired, but they have to-day been occupied with a very
exhausting subject. Hour after hour, I—for I am the man with the
headache—have been trying, in the first place, to make clear to Nils
Knudsen the principles of human marriage customs, of the various tribal
divisions, of totemism, of father-right and mother-right—in short, a
whole series of points in sociology, but with no very satisfactory
result, as is clearly shown by every question I put. Now the task before
me is to elicit from the fifteen wise elders, with his help and that of
the usually acute Sefu, everything they know on these subjects. All my
small failures have made me quite savage, besides wearying me to the
point of exhaustion; and it costs me an appreciable effort to fling a
question into the midst of the learned assembly.
“Well, old Dambwala, lazy one, you have a son, have you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you, Nantiaka, you have a daughter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good. Now, Dambwala, can your son marry Nantiaka’s daughter?”
“No.”
“And why not?” I must have been very tired, indeed, for even the
surprise audible in this decided negative raised no particular
expectations in my mind. I only began to listen more attentively when,
among the reasons for the negative then alleged, my ear caught the word
_litawa_. “_Nini litawa?_ What is a _litawa_?” I ask, now quite fresh
and lively. Well, it appears, a _litawa_ is a _litawa_. Then comes a
long _shauri_, in which the wits of the natives, who, like us have been
half asleep, awaken to full activity, and all three languages—Makonde,
Yao, and Makua—are heard at once with a clatter of tongues like that
conventionally attributed to a woman’s tea-party. At last the definition
is found. Translated into technical language _litawa_ means the
matriarchal exogamic kin, including all descended from one common
ancestress. A man’s inheritance does not descend to his son, but to the
son of his sister, and a young Makonde takes his wife, not from his own
_litawa_, but in one of the numerous matawa outside his own. The Makua
have exactly the same arrangement, but the word they use instead of
_litawa_ is _nihimu_.
The evening of this day—the twenty-first of September—was cheered by the
feeling that it had been among the most successful of my whole journey.
In order to celebrate it in a worthy fashion, Knudsen and I, instead of
the one bottle of beer which we had been in the habit of sharing between
us, shared two.
The reader, especially after my declaration in Chapter II, will wonder
how we suddenly became possessed of this beverage. It is true that, in
the heat of the plains the mere thought of it was intolerable, but, up
here, close to the clouds, especially when the east wind blows cold of
an evening, a glass of German beer is very welcome. A few weeks ago I
had occasion to send a dozen cases of specimens down to Lindi. The
twelve carriers left early one morning, and were expected back in a
fortnight. On all previous occasions of this sort, their absence had
left me cold; this time, to be honest, we two white men counted the days
of that fortnight, and, when, on a Sunday morning, the unmistakable
sound of Wanyamwezi porters approaching their journey’s end was heard
far out in the bush, we hurried to meet the great case containing many
long-forgotten comforts—not only the heavy German stout from the Dar es
Salam brewery, but above all, the milk we had so greatly missed, and
which in our present state of emaciation was an absolute necessity.
On that memorable afternoon, however, the close of which I have thus
been anticipating, I had no leisure to think of such material delights
as these.
“So your son, friend Dambwala, cannot marry Nantiaka’s daughter, because
both belong to the same _litawa_—what is the name of your _litawa_?”
“Waniuchi.”
“And where do you live?”
“In and around Niuchi.”
“And you, Kumidachi,” I went on, turning to another old man, in a new
embroidered fez, which marked him as a headman, “to what _litawa_ do you
belong?”
“Nanyanga,” was the prompt reply. Instantly the name is written down,
and my eye rests questioningly on the next wise man. He, one of the
quickest, already knows what is wanted, and does not wait to be asked,
but calls out, “Wamhwidia.”
But I cannot go on in this way—I must find out, not only the names but
their meanings. I have already discovered, in my study of personal
names, how fond the natives are of discussing etymologies, and here,
too, only a slight hint is needed to get the meaning of the clan-name as
well as the name itself. I had translated _Waniuchi_ as “the people of
Niuchi;” but this interpretation did not satisfy these black
philologists,—_niuchi_ was “a bee,” they said, and the _Waniuchi_ were
people who sought honey in hollow trees. The Nanyanga were flute players
in time of war, _nanyanga_ being the name of the Makonde flute. The
Wamhidia, they said, had their name derived from the verb _muhidia_, “to
strike down,” from their warlike ancestors, who were continually
fighting, and had beaten down everything before them.
That afternoon, the old men, in spite of their weariness, had to keep on
much longer than usual: I had tasted blood and pumped them, till, about
sunset, their poor brains, unaccustomed to such continued exertion,
could do no more. They, however, received an extra tip, in return for
their self-sacrificing help in this difficult subject. Even Moritz, the
finance-minister, had to-day quite lost his usual hang-dog expression,
and grinned all over his brown face when he came, after we had struck
work, to hand my assistants their bright new silver pieces. Since then I
have devoted all my efforts to the study of the clan system, and do not
know what most excites my astonishment, the social differentiation of
the tribes, their subdivision into innumerable _matawa_ and _dihimu_
(plural of _nihimu_), or the fact that, as I am forced to assume, none
of my predecessors in this field of study has had his attention called
to this arrangement. However, when I come to think it over, I have no
reason to be surprised, for in the first place, I had been travelling
about the country for months without suspecting the existence of the
clan system, and in the second, it was a mere accident that, in the
discussion just described, the answer happened to take just the form it
did. Men are to a certain extent at the mercy of the unforeseen—the
scientific traveller most of all.
Needless to say, immediately after this momentous discovery, I came back
to the problem of the Yaos. After my Makua and Makonde men had for some
time been dictating name after name with the most interesting
explanations into my note-book, Nils Knudsen suddenly said, “The Yaos
have something of that sort, too.” Ten minutes later, swift messengers
were already on the way to fetch up from the plain any men of that tribe
who had the slightest pretensions to intelligence. They all came
up—Zuza, and Daudi, and Masanyara and the rest. Even now the examination
was no easy task, either for me or for the subjects, but after honestly
doing my best, I got enough out of them to be able to say, “Nils Knudsen
is right, the Yaos, too, have something of the sort.” Not only so, but
in their case I ascertained without much difficulty that there is a
second division into large groups, quite independent of the system of
matriarchal, exogamous clans.
Of the great groups of the Yao tribe, which is now spread over an
extraordinarily large region of East Africa, since it extends from Lake
Chilwa in the south almost to the gates of Lindi in the north, the
following are known to us,—the Amakale, near the sources of the Rovuma,
the Achinamataka or Wamwembe at Mataka’s, between the Rovuma and the
Lujende; the Amasaninga, originally at the south end of Lake Nyasa; the
Achinamakanjira, or Amachinga, on the Upper Lujende; the Mangoche in the
neighbourhood of Blantyre. The indication of the residences of these
great groups, as here given, has now merely a historic value. Through
the gradual migrations already alluded to, the old limits of the groups
are now quite effaced, and can no longer be definitely laid down on the
map. The clans, too (here called _ngosyo_, plural of _lukosyo_), cannot
possibly have any definite position assigned them on the map; and this
is also true of the other tribes. Some clans, indeed, may have a
recognizable centre of distribution, but in general, the same confusion
prevails here as in the case of the larger divisions.
It was not merely curiosity which made me so persistent in inquiring
into the meaning of clan names, but the desire to ascertain whether they
convey any indications of totemism. It may not be superfluous to say
that the word totem comes from North America, and was originally applied
to the drawings of animals appended by the Iroquois chiefs to their
treaties with the white man by way of signature, the animal represented
being that from which the clan of the signatory traced its descent.
Totemism was first studied among these North American Indians, but was
afterwards discovered to exist in Australia, apparently, also, in
Melanesia, and in a very marked form among the older populations of
India, as well as in various other parts of the world. In most cases,
the clans trace their descent from some animal, which is reckoned sacred
and invulnerable and must not be hunted or eaten. In some isolated
instances it is even considered the height of good fortune for a man to
be eaten by his totem animal. Small and harmless creatures, as well as
plants, are also chosen as totems—otherwise it would scarcely be
possible to find enough; as, for example, in Southern India, where the
totems are innumerable. I cannot here give the whole long series of clan
names collected by me for all three tribes, but must refer the reader
for this part of my results to the official publication. But it was
interesting to find that though totemism no longer consciously exists
among the natives, many a small trait witnesses to its former
prevalence. To point out these traits in detail will be the task of
later inquirers, I will here give only a few specimens of the clan
names.
[Illustration: PHONOGRAPHIC RENDERING OF A NATIVE SONG]
Matola and his cousin, our common friend, Daudi, belong to the _lukosyo_
of the Achemtinga, but at the same time to the group of the
Amachinga.[59] The prefix _Che_, as already stated, is an honorific
title for both men and women:—Chemtinga, according to Daudi, was once a
great chief in the region of the upper Lujende. The Masimbo lived in
Zuza’s district. These take their name from the pitfalls (_lisimbo_,
plural _masimbo_) in which their forefathers used to catch game. The
Amiraji, who lived near Mwiti, derive their name from the character of
the country where they formerly lived, which abounded in bamboo
(_mlasi_).[60] Another Yao clan are the Achingala, who take their name
from the _ngala_, a kind of mussel, found in the Rovuma and its
tributaries, the shells of which are still used as spoons; the reason
for the name is said to be that their ancestors chiefly lived on this
mollusc.
In the same category as these last we may place the Makua clan of the
Wamhole, whose forefathers fed on the wild manioc (_mhole_), a root
still eaten in time of famine. The Makonde clan of the Wambunga derive
their name from the tradition that their ancestors ate the _nambunga_,
or fruit of the bamboo. The Wantanda formerly had the custom of cutting
the flesh of the game they killed into long strips (_nantanda_). The
Wamunga[61] are rice-planters, the ancestors of the Alamande lived on a
small locust of that name, and the Wutende are people famous throughout
the country on account of a quality for which we are little disposed to
give the natives credit—they are always working (_kutenda_).
Even in the cool climate of Europe it is not altogether easy for the
mind to grasp the marriage laws of these clans. Here in tropical Africa,
with its perpetual alternations of heat and cold, I find it almost
impossible to follow the expositions of old Mponda, my principal
lecturer on Civil Law. Moreover, it is very much of a shock to our
customary ways of thinking, to hear, for example, the following:—After
the Makonde boy has been circumcised he does not return to his parents’
house, but remains in that of his maternal uncle. There he has nothing
further to do but grow up and wait till his girl cousins are grown up
likewise. If the uncle has no daughters, the nephew first waits till one
is born, and, after this event has taken place, he has again to wait. It
must be understood that the young man is not supposed to get his board
for nothing all this time; he is expected to work pretty hard, like
Jacob serving seven years for Rachel. When at last the goal is reached
and the cousin is marriageable, the suitor, meanwhile arrived at years
of discretion, goes away somewhere where he can earn a rupee’s worth of
calico, hands this to his uncle, and takes home his wife. He is not,
however, free to live where he likes, but remains at his uncle’s
village, and works for him like a bondsman, as before. If, in due
course, he has a son, this son, according to Mponda, must again marry a
cousin—the daughter of his father’s sister. In the old man’s own concise
words: “If I have a sister and she has a daughter, and I have a son, my
son can marry that girl. But if I have a brother and he has a daughter,
my son cannot marry his daughter, because she is _numbuwe_—his sister.”
We took our leave of the young girl at the moment when, after passing
through the months of the _chiputu_ with their formalities and
festivities, she has taken her place among the initiated. According to
some of my informants the child’s marriage takes place very soon after
this epoch—certainly before the period which we in Europe consider as
the beginning of maturity, viz., the first menstruation.
I have no means of checking these statements, so cannot say whether this
is so or not; in any case we are just now more interested in the
treatment of girls on the occasion alluded to—the more so that this
treatment is analogous to that practised in a whole series of other
regions. As on the Lower Guinea coast, (in Loango,[62] on the Gabun, and
on the Ogowe) and in various parts of Melanesia, the girl is lodged in a
separate hut, where she remains entirely alone; her friends come and
dance, uttering the shrill cry of the _ntungululu_ outside the hut, but
otherwise keep at a distance. Her mother, her instructress during the
_unyago_, and the other wise women, however, impart to her the rules of
conduct and hygiene:—she must keep at a distance from every one; she
must be particular as to cleanliness, must wash herself and bathe, but
above all, must have intercourse with no one. This is repeated over and
over again, while at the same time eating, singing and dancing go on
incessantly.
At the first pregnancy of a young wife, also, various ceremonies take
place. At bottom, however, these are only a pleasant setting for a
number of rules and prohibitions inculcated on this occasion by the
older women. In the fifth month the young woman has her head shaved, and
a month later the women make a feast for themselves, and roast some
maize for her. Some more maize is then soaked in water and pounded and
the resulting paste smeared on her head. Then the husband goes to the
bush, accompanied by a near relation of his wife’s, the woman wearing
nothing but a small waist-cloth. The man cuts down a suitable tree and
prepares a piece of bark-cloth in the way already described, while the
girl sings in time to the strokes of his mallet “_Nalishanira wozewa
neakutende._” The fabric when finished is ornamented with beads, and the
instructress hangs it round her protegée’s neck as a charm. This is
called _mare ndembo_, and the same name is henceforth applied to the
expectant mother. Next morning all the people are again assembled for
the dance—the inevitable _ntungululu_ inseparable from all joyful
feelings or festive occasions, mingling, of course, with the singing and
hand-clapping. All, however, do not take part in these rejoicings; the
wise women and the instructress stand apart from the crowd, in a group
round the young wife. “You must not sit on other people’s mats,” says
one toothless old woman, “it would injure both you and the child—you
would be prematurely confined.”
“You must not talk to your friends, men or women,” says another woman,
whose utterance is impeded by an enormous _pelele_, “that, too, would be
bad for the child.”
“You must not go out much after this,” says a third. “If possible let no
one see you but your husband, or the baby might resemble someone else.
But if you do go out, you must get out of people’s way, for even the
smell of them might hurt the child.”
There is, after all, something in these rules and warnings. We in Europe
are quite familiar with the idea that a pregnant woman must not see
anything unpleasant or terrifying, and ought not, if she can possibly
help it, to let herself be impressed by any other face than that of her
husband. The other prescriptions belong to the region of sympathetic
magic, or action by analogy—the mere possibility of coming within the
atmosphere of people who have recently had sexual intercourse with one
another may endanger the coming life.
But this is not all,—the most important points are yet to come.
“You must not eat eggs, or your child will have no hair.”
“You must not eat the flesh of monkeys, or the child will have no more
sense than a monkey.”
“You must not eat what is left over in the cooking-pot from the day
before, or the baby will be ill.”
“If you go to the garden or the well, and anyone salutes you, you must
not thank him or answer him in any way, for then the birth of the child
will be long delayed.”
The conclusion of the whole lecture which, in contrast to the system
pursued in our Universities, is simultaneously delivered by many
teachers to one unhappy student, is the very urgent and serious warning
to have nothing to do with any other man than her husband, or she will
infallibly die. On the other hand, if her husband were to forget himself
and go after another woman, she would have a miscarriage, resulting in
her death. She must, therefore, be very good to him and cook his
porridge as he likes it.
This is the last word. With the peculiar gait of the native woman,
which has an inimitable twist in it, not to be described in words, the
dispensers of wise counsel hasten, as fast as their dignity will
allow, across the open space and join the rest of the throng,
“_Lu-lu-lu-lu-lu-lu_,”—the shrill vibrations again agitate the air,
the drums, beaten by the men’s strong hands, strike up afresh, a
mighty cloud of dust rises and veils the whole scene, everything is in
motion and full of genuine African mirth, all unconscious of life’s
daily miseries. One alone sits by in silence, the young woman herself
who, according to the instructions just received, is entirely
interdicted from taking any part in the festivity. Her brown
eyes—which would deserve to be called beautiful were their effect not
marred by the white being interspersed with yellowish-brown specks—are
fixed musingly on one point. Is she thinking of the dark hour she will
have to encounter in a few months’ time? The Scripture, “In sorrow
shalt thou bring forth children,” is true for the black race also.
But, personally, I do not think that the young thing is looking so far
ahead; it is not in any case natural for youth to do so, and African
youth, in particular, sees no occasion to be anxious about the future.
The race is truly happy, in the enviable facility with which it lives
for to-day, leaving to-morrow’s cares entire and untouched for
to-morrow.
NOTE.—The system of kinship among the Yaos and neighbouring tribes has
not been so entirely overlooked by inquirers as Dr. Weule supposes.
The subject has been investigated by Archdeacon Johnson, the late
Bishop Maples, and the Rev. H. B. Barnes among others, though,
unfortunately, many of their notes are buried in little-known
periodicals. Some valuable information is also to be found in Mr. R.
Sutherland Rattray’s _Some Folk-lore, Songs and Stories in Chinyanja_.
We think Dr. Weule is mistaken in distinguishing the “larger groups”
of the Yao tribe from the _ngosyo_: they are probably identical with
the latter in origin: _e.g._, the Machinga would be the descendants of
a single (female) ancestor, who in the course of generations became
numerous and powerful, and perhaps increased their consequence by
incorporating weaker clans who placed themselves under their
protection and adopted their name. But there is a second system of
descent, which may be what Dr. Weule is referring to. This is called
by the Anyanja _chilawa_, and descends through the father; marriage
within it is prohibited. “A man may not marry any woman who is of his
_kamu_ (Yao, _lukosyo_) or of his _chilawa_. Thus the daughters of his
mother’s sisters are excluded because they are of the same _kamu_, and
daughters of his father’s brothers are excluded because they are of
the same _chilawa_; but the daughters of his mother’s brothers or of
his father’s sisters are eligible, because they are neither of the
same _kamu_ nor of the same _chilawa_” (Rev. H. B. Barnes). This
tallies with the information given to Dr. Weule about the Makonde
marriage laws (p. 314). Mr. Barnes doubts whether the clan names
explained to Dr. Weule are really connected with totems, and thinks
the customs they refer to are “perhaps more likely to be traceable to
individual peculiarities of some ancestor than to any religious
totemistic restriction,” and that the _chilawa_ names, whose
significance appears to be lost, are the real totem names. But the
subject is too wide to be discussed in a note. [TR.]
CHAPTER XV
LAST DAYS AT NEWALA
NEWALA, October 10, 1906.
“Morgen muss ich fort von hier
Und muss Abschied nehmen....”
The words of the German students’ song rise to my lips, now that I am
thinking of bringing our stay here to a close—though, as a rule, I am
anything but musical, and Knudsen, for his part, can never get beyond
the first line of _Gamle Norge_. The mention of music suggests my
experiences with the phonograph. When laying in my stock of blank
cylinders at Berlin, it was a happy inspiration of mine to take
half-a-dozen records as well, in the hope that they might serve to charm
the savage breast of the African. I have no sort of responsibility for
the choice of these pieces, as I left it entirely to the girl who served
me at the shop where I bought them. What determined her selection I
cannot tell, but it is a fact that the greater number of the six
records, though not all, are immensely popular. An American march—quite
rightly—produces no impression whatever, and a selection of songs fails
to attract my public: it seems to suggest nothing at all to them. The
next item on the programme, the arrangement of which I always leave to
Knudsen, so that he may learn to work the instrument,—is “_Die beiden
kleinen Finken_” (“The Two Little Finches”). Here and there an eye
lights up with intelligence when the twittering of the birds begins, and
many sets of white teeth are seen flashing behind the parapet which
shuts off our _baraza_ from the outer passage. Then comes the well-known
xylophone solo, “_Der Specht_” (“The Woodpecker”). As the deep bass
voice announcing the title of the piece issues from the funnel, the
whole audience leans over the wall in feverish excitement, one might
almost say with ears erect. A few of the experienced elders, who have
been on the coast and therefore have the right to appear _blasés_, laugh
ostentatiously to show that they understand. But this laughter dies away
when the pure tones of my instrument, unmixed with any adventitious
sound, begin to reproduce in the most striking way the unmistakable
notes of the xylophone. One can see that these people have an ear and
enjoy the harmony of sounds perhaps as much as we do. Besides, the
sounds are not in this case unfamiliar—for the _mgoromondo_, the straw
xylophone already described, has exactly the same timbre. By the time
the final tapping duet begins, everything about them is shining—their
eyes, their teeth, their whole faces—in fact they shine all over, for
they keep crowding together more and more closely, and it is by no means
cool. “_Die Schmiede im Walde_” (“The Forge in the Forest”) scarcely
heightens their pleasure; it is true that the enjoyment is great and
general, but the blacksmith is a familiar figure of everyday life, and
the rhythm of his hammer as well known to them as it is to us. Now,
however, comes our _aria di bravura_. It has been my experience that
when a white man, after long residence among savages, declines more or
less from the level of civilized society, music is the first thing to
stimulate the endeavour towards recovery. Nils Knudsen can listen to the
_Fledermaus_ seventeen times running without getting enough of it. He
winds up the apparatus over and over again and remarks that this is real
music—the right sort. The natives, too, are delighted with the merry,
audacious tunes, and if the mood of the moment is such that I feel moved
to execute a few waltz or polka steps and float, like a fairy weighing
some thirteen stone, round the table on which the phonograph is placed,
their delight becomes indescribable rapture. This is the right moment
for turning the tables and calling on the audience to become performers
in their turn. The Newala natives are very reluctant to oblige in this
respect; the men can only be induced to come up to the phonograph when
under the influence of the ecstasy just alluded to, but the women are
off like the wind whenever I want them.
The men, too, here at Newala, would not come near me for a time. I had
become so absorbed in the linguistic studies which had been occupying me
more and more during the last few weeks, that my growing isolation did
not at first strike me. Only when Knudsen and I found that we scarcely
ever saw any one besides my three teachers, the _akida_ Sefu, the Yao
Akuchigombo (which is, being interpreted, Mr. Toothbrush), and the Makua
Namalowe (Mr. Echo), it became clear to me that some circumstance
unknown to me must be the cause of this boycotting. Neither Sefu nor the
other two could or would explain matters. Mr. Echo had only been
resident a short time at Newala, having recently come to be trained as a
teacher under his older colleague at the Universities’ Mission, so that
his ignorance was not surprising; but it annoyed me greatly that the
other two would give no answer to all my inquiries beyond “_Si jui_” (“I
don’t know”). However, I was forced to admit that even these two did not
really belong to the place, Sefu being a coast man, and in his capacity
of _akida_, probably more feared than loved, while Akuchigombo was
educated at Zanzibar, and through his position as teacher of the Mission
School, separated by a great gulf from the illiterate mass of the
population. This school, with a rusty tube of an artesian well and a
small church-bell, hung according to the custom of this country in the
first convenient tree, are the only relics of the once flourishing
station of New Newala.
Only within the last few days has Knudsen been able to get out of an old
friend from the plains the reason why we have been left so severely
alone. The explanation, strange as it may seem to a European, is
genuinely African: it is nothing more nor less than the suspicion—indeed
the certainty—that I am a dangerous sorcerer. Somehow the belief had
gained ground that in photographing people I deprived them of whatever
clothes they were wearing. “Have you not seen,” some individual whose
name is as yet unknown to me, is reported as saying to his countrymen,
“how the white man gets under his great black cloth? It is then that he
bewitches you. You are standing there with all your clothes on, but he
goes and stands for hours in his tent overnight, working his charms, and
next day, when he gets out his glasses, there you are on them quite
naked. And if you are foolish enough to go and stand in front of the
other machine, he will take away your voices, too. He is a great wizard,
and his medicines are stronger than even our _chisango_ (divination
oracle). We made war against the Wadachi (the Germans), but what fools
we were to do so, for this white man is one of them!”
The comic aspect of the situation struck me far more forcibly than the
annoying one, and we both laughed heartily. I had not before realized
that the phonograph had all along seemed to these people more or less
uncanny—the apparatus always stood so that they could only see the
mouthpiece and the smooth front, the rotating cylinder being invisible
to them. They had seen, indeed, that Knudsen or I went through some
manipulation of the instrument, but none of them had formed any idea as
to the nature of the process. Thus the inexplicable assumed the aspect
of the occult, and I was promoted to the rank of a wizard who robbed
people of their voices. I must in this connection make honourable
mention of the enterprising Zuza. Once, though only after the spell had
been broken in another way, he seized a favourable opportunity to walk
round the apparatus and see the revolving cylinder. Since that day this
intelligent man and the more enlightened of his followers look on the
phonograph as a mere machine, as innocent as any other brought by the
white man from distant Ulaya.
In regard to my magic for stripping people of their clothes, I took very
energetic steps. We used all our persuasions to get a few men and women
to pose before the camera, took the photographs, developed them on the
spot, printed them and exhibited the finished picture-postcards. “Well,
are you naked in this picture, or are you clothed? And are these the
very same clothes you are now wearing on your black bodies, or are they
not?” Half-timid, half-startled at the novel spectacle, both men and
women stared at the wonder of the picture; then they all went off with
their portraits and the parting injunction to tell everyone that the
white man was no sorcerer and did not rob people of their clothes, but
that they were dressed in his pictures exactly as in real life. This
proved quite effectual, and to-day the natives gather round us as
confidingly as they did at first.
On the whole they might now save themselves the trouble, for I find that
I no longer require them. The objects they bring for sale are the same
as I already possess by the hundred, and my photographs reveal no
further novelties—it is always the same type, the same keloids, the same
_pelele_. I therefore find it best to devote the greater part of my time
to languages, and the remainder to desultory notes on points which turn
up of themselves during my excursions in the neighbourhood. A few days
ago, I came across the strangest thing I have yet met with in this
country where strange things are so common. For some weeks past,
Namalowe had spoken of a custom of the Makua girls, who, he said, carry
a collection of pebbles under their tongues as in a nest. I had laughed
at the man—with a significant gesture towards my forehead—every time he
said this. The day before yesterday, we five were assembled in the
_baraza_ as usual, and worrying ourselves over some peculiarly difficult
forms in Yao. Namalowe, being a Makua, was not wanted just then, so
excused himself and left the _baraza_. We were hardly thinking of him
when I heard steps approaching and a slender figure of a girl appeared
between the mat screen and the clay parapet, immediately followed by
that of the native teacher. The next moment the pretty young creature
stood before us, shyly smiling. “_Hapa namangahlu, Bwana_” (“Here are
the mouth-stones, sir”), said Namalowe, pointing with a triumphant
gesture to the girl’s mouth which was adorned with a _pelele_ of only
moderate dimensions. We all rose to our feet in the greatest excitement.
Sefu, Namalowe and Akuchigombo all talked to her at once for some time,
and at last reluctantly putting her hand to her mouth she produced an
oval pebble, as large as the kernel of a hazel-nut, worn quite smooth,
and almost transparent, and held it out to us on her open palm. A
second, third and fourth followed, and I stood dumb with surprise, while
Namalowe could scarcely contain himself for satisfaction. Is it a
hallucination? or has the good schoolmaster been cheating? The girl
takes a fifth pebble out of her mouth—then a sixth; at last, after the
seventh and eighth, the nest appears to be empty. My three _savants_
informed me that these _namangahlu_ are quartz pebbles found in the
gravel of all the rivers hereabouts, though the finest and clearest are
those from the Rovuma, so that it is a point of honour for the young men
to bring them from thence as presents to their _innamoratas_. Pearl
necklaces and settings _à jour_ are as yet beyond the aspirations of
fashion on the Makonde plateau, and pockets are also an unknown
refinement of luxury, so that the mouth is the only place for storing
these jewels. This at least is how I explain the unique method of
carrying about the stones. According to my informants, the meaning of
the custom is equivalent to a troth-plight, and therefore the pebbles
are the African for an engagement ring, except that, in contrast to the
latter, they are seen by no one but the lover. My first instinctive
suspicion of a hoax was, I may safely assume, unfounded. I have since
studied the matter on my own account, and found several young Makua
women carrying the stones in the manner described, so that I have
independent evidence for the custom.[63] It really seems as if there
were no degree of lunacy of which human beings are incapable!
The climate of Newala has been growing worse and worse. We enjoyed a
short interval of lovely weather resembling that of a fine autumn in
Central Germany; but now the mist shrouds the _boma_ every morning up to
about half-past eight, and in the evening the east wind blows more icily
than ever. We two Europeans are afflicted with chronic colds, and our
men are in a sorry plight. They have not much in the way of clothes, the
carriers being without even a change of calico; and the commissariat of
the poor wretches is not all that could be desired. When we consider in
addition that the water is far from pure, I am not surprised that the
sick list grows from week to week. On every side I hear indications of
severe bronchial catarrh, and almost fancy myself back again with
Ewerbeck’s company of coughers. Cases of dysentery, too, are not rare,
neither are those of sexual disease. Most of the patients have
sufficient confidence in their _mzungu_ to come voluntarily and take in
the most heroic manner any kind of _dawa_ that is put into their mouths.
I have to treat my soldiers in military fashion by having them up for
medical inspection from time to time. At the same time, as one might
expect from the native character, they will very often carry on a
concurrent treatment with _mshenzi_ medicines. Whenever Knudsen and I
take a stroll along any of the roads leading out of Newala, we are
pretty sure to come upon curious objects at places where two paths meet
or cross. The ground has been carefully cleared of leaves, branches,
etc., and in the middle of the level space thus made, an unknown hand
has traced with snow-white meal, a magic circle about a foot in diameter
and never quite regular. Within the circle little heaps of flour are
arranged according to some recognised system, with more or less
regularity, in rows of three or four.
[Illustration: AN OFFERING TO THE SPIRITS]
It was some time before I could get any explanation of the object and
meaning of these figures, which I had also seen before coming to Newala.
This kind of therapeutics can only be understood if the native’s views
as to a life after death and the action of supernatural powers are
considered as a whole. In his belief human life by no means ceases with
death. It is true that the body is buried and decomposes, but the soul
lives on, and that in the same locality where it was active during life.
Its favourite abode is a conspicuous tree. The religion of these
southern tribes is thus distinctly tree-worship, in so far as the
natives sacrifice and pray to their deceased ancestors by laying food
and drink at the foot of such a tree, and addressing their petitions to
its crown.
[Illustration: LANDSCAPE ON THE ROVUMA. VIEW FROM MY CAMP UP THE RIVER,
IN LONG. 39° 6′ E.]
The _msolo_ tree (in Makonde _mholo_) is the one here distinguished as
the abode of the gods. To this tree the native goes when there is
sickness in his family, or when he is about to undertake a long journey,
or go on the war-path. He does not come empty-handed, but decorates the
trunk with coloured stuff, so that, with all the gaudy rags previously
fastened there by other distressed petitioners, the spectacle presented
is more curious than beautiful. He sweeps the ground about the tree with
a bunch of leaves, sprinkles flour on it, and pours strengthening
_pombe_ into the jar placed there for the purpose. These are the
voluntary offerings of the living. But the giver being only human, and
not only human, but African, expects a _quid pro quo_ on the part of the
dead. “I have given you cloth and brought you meal and beer; you, my
ancestor, know that we are going to war against our enemies the Mavia.
We are to march to-morrow; let no bullet strike me, no arrow, and no
spear.” The tree rustles in the evening breeze, and the believer departs
reassured.
But the souls do not always live in the _msolo_ tree. As a rule, they
are restlessly wandering about the country, and naturally prefer the
main roads, as they did while in the flesh. There, and above all in
places where several roads meet, they are most commonly to be found, and
their protection is most likely to be successfully invoked. This at
least is the best explanation that occurs to me of the flour offering
being made by preference at the cross-roads. The sick see the
possibility of cure only, or at least principally, in the help of the
ancestral spirits who are presumably endowed with greater powers than
they enjoyed in this life. What, therefore, is more natural than to
sacrifice to these spirits at the spots which they may be supposed to
pass most frequently, at the cross-roads and at the junction of two
paths? This is the view taken by my informants, in which I am quite
disposed to concur; it seems extremely probable, while at the same time
I admit that there may conceivably be another idea underlying the flour
circles.
The planting of special trees at the graves seems to be closely
connected with tree-worship. In the plains—and among the Yaos in
particular—I noticed no such trees, but here on the plateau they are
very common. On recent graves I find young, slender saplings; in other
spots, where only the old men remember that anyone is buried, there are
enormous trees with mighty trunks sixty feet high and more. More than
one place near the _boma_ of Newala is rendered solemnly impressive by a
number of such old sepulchral trees. The tree is the one called
_kamuna_, and is always planted at the head of the grave.
[Illustration: TREES IN THE BURYING-GROUND AT NEWALA]
Whether the natives believe that the spirit has its abode for a time in
these trees, I have hitherto been unable to make out. In fact, it is
exceedingly difficult to get any definite statements at all as to the
abiding-place of the soul. The Yaos gave no information whatever on this
point. The Makua said: “The shadow of the man goes to God, and God lives
up there.” But what the shadow does “up there,” and how it fares in that
mysterious abode, they, too, do not know. The ghost stories current
among the natives of these parts are horrible and awe-inspiring enough,
to judge by the specimens I have heard. I will give one of them. Both
Wayao and Wamakua have a ghost called _itondosha_ (or in Yao,
_ndondosha_). If a magician has killed a child—like all peoples in the
primitive stage, the African does not look on death as a natural
occurrence, but always attributes it to magical practices—he takes it
out of the grave, brings it to life again, and cuts off both legs at the
knee-joint. The sorcerer throws away the severed limbs, and sets the
mutilated body of the child secretly in a certain place. Then people
come from every direction and bring the _itondosha_ porridge, beer,
fruits and cloth. If this is done regularly and in sufficient
quantities, nothing more is heard of the ghost, but if the people, as
time goes on, forget it, it suddenly raises piercing and uncanny
shrieks, which frighten the people and cause them to renew their
offerings to the _itondosha_.[64]
With the usual good fortune which has attended my inquiries, I obtained
possession, quite accidentally, of a song referring to this _itondosha_.
This was given me by Anastasio, or as he called himself, Anestehiu,[65]
a pupil of the Universities’ Mission, who distinguished himself among
the inhabitants of Newala by his willingness to face my phonograph. His
zeal, indeed, was more conspicuous than his musical ability, but his
services to the cause of science deserve recognition all the same.
The words of his song run as follows:—
“I went to Masasi; I went again to Masasi. In the evening I heard
screams; I turned round and saw the _itondosha_. ‘My cousin Cheluka!’ (I
cried), ‘Give me a gun and caps and a bullet.’ ‘Load it yourself,’ (said
my cousin). ‘Come and let us pursue the _itondosha_; it went through a
hole in the side wall of the house.’ My brother (cousin) turned round
and said: ‘It has its legs stretched out straight before it, like a
beard on the chin.’ It was seated, and we tried to tame the _itondosha_,
the girl of Ilulu. _Elo_ (Yes), that is so.”
A less uncanny subject was broached by an old Makonde by means of a
little gift which he brought me. We had been talking about the method of
reckoning time among these tribes, and had arrived at the fact that they
were as backward, and at the same time as practical, in this respect as
in their way of marking the hours of the day.
The recording of events by means of knots on a string is a contrivance
adopted by mankind at different times and in different places. The
famous _quipu_ of the Peruvians is one example. Others have been
discovered in the Pacific, and also in West Africa. Here on the Makonde
Plateau it is still in daily use, for the number of children learning to
read and write in the German Government Schools at Lindi and Mikindani
is as yet but small.
[Illustration: KNOTTED STRING SERVING AS CALENDAR]
With a courteous gesture the Makonde handed me a piece of bark string
about a foot long, with eleven knots at regular intervals, proceeding to
explain, with Sefu’s help, that the string was intended to serve as a
kind of calendar. Supposing he were going on an eleven days’ journey, he
would say to his wife, “This knot” (touching the first) “is to-day, when
I am starting; to-morrow” (touching the second knot) “I shall be on the
road, and I shall be walking the whole of the second and third day, but
here” (seizing the fifth knot) “I shall reach the end of the journey. I
shall stay there the sixth day, and start for home on the seventh. Do
not forget, wife, to undo a knot every day, and on the tenth you will
have to cook food for me; for, see, this is the eleventh day when I
shall come back.”
Here, again, then, we have a survival, something which reminds us of a
stage of culture passed through long ago by our ancestors. After all,
have we left it so very far behind? Do we not, to this day, make a knot
in our handkerchief, when we have something we want to remember? Mankind
is poor in ideas, not only in the sense that inventions in all parts of
the world can be reduced to the same simple fundamental principle, but
with all our technical and intellectual progress the most advanced
members of the race are in some points extremely conservative. So much
the knot in the handkerchief is sufficient to prove.
The Makonde system of knot-records does not seem to be always quite so
simple as we might think from the above example. Another Makonde has
just brought me a whole bundle of knotted strings, saying that they
belong to such and such a headman, who cannot remember which of his
villagers have paid their hut-tax and which have not, but can manage in
this way to keep count of them quite successfully.
In the light of my experiences in this country I am more and more
confirmed in the conviction, formed on the ground of previous study at
home, that our conventional estimate of the difference between “savage”
and “civilized” mankind is to a great extent misleading. It is true that
Amerinds and Eskimo, Hyperboreans and negroes, Oceanians and Australians
alike, along with many peoples of southern and south-eastern Asia, live
in more intimate connection with surrounding nature than we, who think
that our environment is entirely artificial. But has not in reality each
one of these despised groups of mankind a culture of its own? Is not—to
take those who most nearly concern us just now—the material and mental
life of these Rovuma Valley natives made up of a thousand details, not
less differentiated from each other than the activities of our own
lives? It is true that the native cannot attain by means of his
hoe-culture and his simple arts and crafts to that standard of comfort
and well-being demanded by every white man who is even moderately well
off. But surely in many parts of Germany our rural population are no
better, perhaps even worse off, than these barbarians who lie under the
terrible reproach of being unable to write their names. I am, indeed,
very far from seeing these so-called primitive peoples through
rose-coloured spectacles; but when I consider that, in despite of the
high opinion we entertain of ourselves, the enormous advance consequent
upon the invention of printing, the discovery of the New World and the
Reformation has after all affected in the fullest sense only a very
small fraction of the white race—we might say, only a thin upper
stratum, and that not continuous,—I cannot but come back again and again
to my conviction that culture is not a thing of which we have the
monopoly.
The time, however, has now come to say farewell to Newala, with its
roaring evening gale, its cool mornings, its jiggers, and its
interesting congeries of tribes.
The weeks of my stay here have been a time of hard work—averaging, one
day with another, about sixteen hours daily,—and this very circumstance
has produced a sort of attachment to the place, making one loth to part
from it. We leave at daybreak to-morrow.
NOTE.—The _itondosha_ suggests in some points a comparison with the
Zulu _umkovu_, or “familiar” of wizards, who “are said to dig up a
corpse and give it certain medicines which restore it to life, when
they run a hot needle up the forehead towards the back part of the
head, then slit the tongue, and it becomes an _umkovu_, speaking with
an inarticulate confused sound, and is employed by them for wicked
purposes” (Colenso’s _Zulu Dictionary_). The _umkovu_, like certain
animals (the baboon, the wild cat), is, however, sent out on errands
of mischief, instead of being set up in the mode indicated by Dr.
Weule’s informant. See also Mr. Dudley Kidd’s _Essential Kafir_, p.
147, and _Among the Zulus and Amatonga_, by the late David Leslie, who
calls them _Esemkofu_ (_isikovu?_) and says that the witches who bring
them to life clip off the top of the tongue so that the creature can
only wail out “_Maieh, maieh_,” “which is a sound like the soughing of
the wind.”—[TR.]
CHAPTER XVI
THE ROVUMA ONCE MORE
ON THE ROVUMA, about 39° 40′ E., October 23, 1906.
From a height of 2,300 feet above sea-level at Newala we have descended
to something under 200 feet, and instead of the usual noonday
temperature of 76° or 77°, we are sweltering in the jungle at 97° or
thereabouts, though in the immediate neighbourhood of our old friend the
Rovuma. But I must proceed in chronological order, if my narrative is to
be intelligible.
The early morning of October 11th was as misty, raw and cold as all its
predecessors, yet to our perceptions it did not resemble them in the
least. The spectacle of uproarious high spirits, which my men presented
when we left Chingulungulu was here repeated if possible in an
intensified form. Newala proved, in fact, anything but a Capua for these
poor fellows. Even Pesa mbili II, formerly a fellow of generous
proportions, has become quite slender. When I asked him yesterday,
“_Tumbo lako wapi?_” (“Where is your stomach?”) he replied with a
mournful glance at the place it had once occupied, “_Tumbo limekwenda,
Bwana_” (“It has gone away, sir”). Knudsen and I, by the way, can say
much the same, for our khaki suits hang quite loosely round our wasted
limbs.
Mahuta is the only place at which I could think of pursuing my Makonde
studies. It is not only the political centre of the hill country, and
the residence of the highest Government official, the Wali, but is from
a geographical point of view very favourably situated for my purposes,
as roads lead from it in all directions, by which I can easily reach the
various native tribes, or by which, this being in every way more
convenient, the natives can come to me. But, in the meantime, another
goal was beckoning—the Wangoni enclave on the southern edge of the
plateau.
From the day of my leaving Lindi I have heard all sorts of statements as
to these Wangoni, who of course are supposed to be akin to the Kafir
tribes of that name on the eastern shore of Lake Nyasa. On one of the
many raids in which these tribes, whether called Mazitu, Mafiti,
Magwangwara, Wamachonde, or Wangoni, have more or less laid waste, the
whole southern part of German East Africa, this division was separated
from the main body by a gallant counter-attack of the Yaos under Matola
I, and driven into the Nchichira district, on the southern edge of the
Makonde plateau. Nils Knudsen had more information to give me than this;
he described the Wangoni as splendid figures of warriors, in every
respect immeasurably superior to their present neighbours, and even to
his beloved Wayao. And if I wanted to see regular villages—rows of
houses with fine streets between them,—he said, I must go to Nchichira.
“So I will, but of course you must come, too,” was my answer. Honest
Nils did not wait for a second invitation: the Rovuma and
elephant-hunting are in his mind inseparably connected, and I think he
would walk straight to the Congo without stopping, if anyone told him
that a decent-sized tusker had been seen there. He is a good shot, too,
in spite of the unwieldy old-fashioned guns—in a very shaky condition,
moreover—which form his armoury.
I therefore determined on an excursion to Nchichira, to see something of
the Wangoni, before going on to Mahuta, where I mean to spend some weeks
in order to finish my inquiries. I feel already as if I had collected
nearly all the information I am capable of assimilating at present, and
that there is some danger of my receptive faculties failing me one of
these days, amid the abundance of new impressions.
We passed Mahuta on our march from Newala to Nchichira—the easiest march
yet experienced. Had I not bestridden my well-tried old mule, I could
have wished for a bicycle; even a motor could have been driven quite
comfortably along this road. No steep hills and no deeply eroded gorges,
but a plain with a gentle and almost imperceptible eastward slope,
covered throughout with dense bush, in which the industrious Makonde
have here and there cleared their little patches for cultivation, and
through which run broad, well-kept roads, sometimes perfectly straight
for a kilometer at a time. The Makonde have certainly not made these
roads out of any personal interest in improving their means of
communication. In fact, considerable pressure from Lindi was needed
before they could be got to accomplish the task; but, once finished, the
roads—everywhere wide enough for a column, and sometimes for a section,
to march abreast—are equal to every strategic requirement. The only
thing calculated to diminish the pleasures of travel is the loose, deep
sand, which, however, one is thankful to find does not occur everywhere,
but only in the depressions, where it has been washed down from the
higher parts of the road. In these spots it seems all but bottomless.
[Illustration: MY ESCORT HALTED AT HENDERERA’S VILLAGE IN THE MAKONDE
HIGHLANDS]
But the men’s delight in change and movement would conquer greater
difficulties than this trifle. The bush is green, the sun has just
dispelled the mists, and now shines down victoriously on black and white
alike with such cheerfulness that the carriers cannot help singing. So
they strike up their fine old Nyamwezi songs which have so often helped
us over the small unpleasantnesses of the march, and also some
newly-composed ones, which, heard to-day for the first time, are still
more pleasing than the old répertoire.
There is only one settlement of any size on the road between Newala and
Mahuta. This is the village presided over by Henderera, an old
club-footed Makonde headman. His ugliness seems to have impressed even
my carriers; at least one of them, a few days later, brought me a
sketch-book, in which the old man was most faithfully portrayed.
Henderera’s village is laid out on a surprisingly large scale; the open
space round which the huts are grouped is large enough for a company of
German soldiers to exercise in, and my scant dozen warriors make a very
poor show in it.
The _boma_ of Mahuta is conspicuous at a great distance by its palisade
and an unusually large drill-ground. In fact, all trees and bushes have
been cleared away to a distance of at least a couple of hundred yards
all round the fort. In front of the main entrance—a small gateway
scarcely wide enough for one man to pass—I see the Wali’s whole force
drawn up; five _baharia_, black fellows in khaki sailor-suits, who are
making convulsive efforts to get into tolerable alignment. The Wali is
not visible; he is at the coast, I am told. The commanding officer is
just bellowing “Present arms!” when I am unkind enough to leave the road
to the _boma_ and turn to the right. A few hundred yards on one side of
the _boma_, and behind it, I see the house which was long ago named in
my honour and in which it is surely my bounden duty to take up my
quarters. This is a building which Mr. Ewerbeck, in anticipation of our
working together at Mahuta, caused to be erected for our common use some
months ago. The architect was punctually at hand on the day fixed for
the house-warming, but his guest had been grappled with hooks of steel
by the ethnological interests of Chingulungulu. Half in sadness, half in
vexation, Ewerbeck moved in by himself, bestowed on the house the sign
of “The Professor who Never Came,” and, finally, took his own departure.
Scarcely had the five sailors become aware of my intention before they
were off like lightning. I rode after them at a round trot, but
nevertheless the “Ready! Present arms! Eyes left!” came quite in time. I
must say they are smart at their drill, these black lads!
The house at the sign of “The Professor who Never Came” has a
magnificent situation. From its verandah, or from the steps leading to
it, we look into a deep ravine yawning immediately at our feet. On both
sides is a splendid forest of large timber trees—the Makonde avoid steep
slopes in their destructive system of farming—and, in the far distance
behind the spot where the ravine (which must be some twelve miles long)
is closed in by two projecting spurs of the plateau, we see a pale grey
strip with a silver streak in it. That is the Rovuma. Behind it again is
a shining mirror—the Lidede Lake,[66] and behind that, in dark,
dull-green contours, the level of the Mavia plateau. After the monotony
of the Makonde Highlands, the scenery of Mahuta is indeed refreshing.
We continued our march on the following day. Hour after hour, the
long-drawn-out line of the caravan wound its way between the green walls
of the bush. The aspect of the latter had now undergone a change. It was
not so high, and the place of the terrible thorns was taken by a perfect
exuberance of plant-forms reminding me of our box-thorn (_Lycium
barbarum_). As the sun rose higher, the heat in the narrow pass now
forming the road became more stifling, and the sand of the soil finer
and deeper. At last we reached Nchichira, which, like Masasi, Newala and
Mahuta, possesses a _boma_—a square enclosure of about 100 yards to a
side, surrounded by a palisade of stout logs. This contains the
dwellings of the Akida and the other officials of a subordinate German
administrative centre. In the months which have passed since we left
Lindi, my men have become thoroughly proficient in pitching and breaking
camp. One, two, three, and my tent is in place—and in an equally short
time we have installed ourselves under the low _baraza_. It is no more
comfortable than our previous abodes, but I prefer a strong thatched
roof to the necessity of living in the hot tent, or to a freshly-built
_banda_ with its abundance of all sorts of vermin. In such structures
insects incessantly rain down from the newly-cut grass on one’s head and
body, and into all the plates and dishes.
The twelve days at Nchichira passed like a dream. Not that I really did
any dreaming: the excessive amount of work awaiting me there prevented
that. Just because I have not yet attained a clear consciousness of the
impressions received—have, so to speak, not digested the abundant repast
set before me—the whole time of my stay seems, on looking back, like a
confused reverie. I shall not attempt to describe its details here, but
only to note the most striking points.
I can find no trace of the heroic qualities alleged to be possessed by
the Wangoni. These fellows do not seem to differ much, physically or
mentally, from the other tribes in this region; in fact, to confess the
honest truth, their physique is somewhat inferior. Moreover, many of
them are diseased. I was confronted with a ghastly sight one day, when
following a strange track in the sand which I took to be that of a
python, I went round to the back of a hut and found seated there a
living skeleton—a man without a vestige of flesh or muscle on his whole
body. He had been dragged along in a sitting posture by a compassionate
small boy, thus producing the track I had noticed. This disease is
called _ububa_.
[Illustration: NATIVE SUFFERING FROM THE _UBUBA_ DISEASE]
The only really tall man is old Makachu, the headman of the neighbouring
village, and at the same time the chief of one of the two clans into
which the Wangoni living here are divided. I measured Makachu and found
his height to be a fraction under six feet. If this stature makes him
look like Saul among his people, it is obvious how very poorly developed
the rest of them must be. Indeed the old men of the tribe, as they drag
themselves up to the _baraza_ to talk to me, seem quite emaciated with
chronic underfeeding; and the rising generation does not promise much
better. “No—these are no Zulus,” I said to myself on first seeing them;
and I have since found this conclusion confirmed by all sorts of proofs.
[Illustration: MAJALIWA, SAIDI AND MAKACHU]
In the first place, there is not a single South African touch in the
arrangement and construction of their huts. The widely-scattered
villages, through which we have marched for the last few hours of the
road from Mahuta, are exactly like the villages in the plains west of
the plateau. The only difference is that the fields here appear to be
better kept, and to have been better cleared and broken up, to begin
with. But then it is one thing to clear ground in a large timber forest,
and another to burn off the sort of bush that grows up in these parts.
The details of hut-construction, too, are exactly the same, and the
interiors just as wildly untidy, and furnished with the same sort of
grain-stores, pots and bark boxes, the same bedsteads and the same
smouldering log on the hearth as at Mchauru or Akundonde’s; while the
outer walls are daubed over with the same sort of childish paintings
found elsewhere in the country.
But let us consider the language and history of this group of people.
Among my carriers we have in the person of Mambo sasa a genuine Zulu, a
Mngoni from Runsewe. These Wangoni are the descendants of that wave of
Zulus which penetrated furthest north. While the main body of the
warriors who, three quarters of a century ago, crossed the Zambezi,[67]
settled on both shores of Nyasa, and founded kingdoms there, amid
sanguinary struggles, these Wangoni kept on northward along the eastern
shore of Tanganyika, till their advance, too, was checked in
north-western Unyamwezi. Under the name of Watuta, the descendants of
these first conquerors continued their predatory career for some
decades, till Captain Langheld, in the nineties, settled them in the
bush at Runsewe where they now live. “Now, Mambo sasa, you can go ahead
and interpret!” I remarked to my merry friend, when the Wangoni made
their appearance. I have already more than once mentioned Mambo; he is
jester-in-ordinary to the whole company; his voice, though not
melodious, is powerful and untiring, and his improvised ditties never
cease during the day, whether on the march or in camp. With the Wangoni
of Nchichira confronting the Mngoni from Runsewe, I prepared to take
notes in my usual way. Mambo, when I had made sure that he understood my
first question, repeated it in his mother tongue—but there was no
answer; the men simply stared at him in bewilderment. Repeated
experiments led to the same result; it was abundantly clear that the
alleged fellow-tribesmen could not understand one another’s speech.
Subsequently I questioned both parties separately, and noted down as
much of their respective languages as the incredible and equal stupidity
of the good Mambo sasa and the Nchichira elders would allow. So far as I
have been able to get a connected view of the result, my supposition is
confirmed; the Wangoni of this district have nothing beyond the name in
common with those in the hill country near Songea. They are just such a
congeries of broken tribes as we find elsewhere in the south of our
colony.
A clear proof that I am right in the above opinion was afforded me when
talking over the history of the tribe. After the giant Makachu, my
principal informant is old Majaliwa, within the area of whose village
the _boma_ is built, and whose guests, in a manner of speaking, we
therefore are. He is also the chief of the second clan previously
mentioned. The younger and more “educated” element is represented by
Saidi, the teacher at Nkundi, who arrived to act as interpreter in
response to my urgent appeal for his help. The people here are, after
all, too primitive for anything. Half-a-dozen other men, mostly elderly,
who seem more concerned with expectorating all over my _baraza_ than
with adding to my knowledge of their tribal history, serve to fill up
the background behind the above three worthies.
In the first place Majaliwa and Makachu enlighten me as to their
respective families. The former belongs to the _lukohu_ (= _lukosyo_) of
the Makale, the latter to that of the Wakwama. Makachu, the effect of
whose fine stature is somewhat spoilt by very high shoulders, between
which his head appears quite sunk, then, uninvited, begins to relate how
he was born near the Lukimwa River, but his people were driven thence to
the Mluhezi when he was a boy. Quite mechanically, at the word boy, the
old man, as he sits on the ground, raises his arm to a horizontal
position, and as mechanically his hand rises so as to make a right angle
with his arm. It was the Wangoni, he goes on, who drove them away.
“The Wangoni?” I ask in astonishment, “but you are a Mngoni yourself!”
“Yes, but it was the Wangoni, all the same.”
I thought it best for the moment not to confuse the old man, so made no
further remark, and he went on: “When my beard was just beginning to
grow”—Makachu’s short beard is now quite white—“the Wangoni came again,
but that time they were as many as the locusts, and we were driven away
as far as Namagone’s.”
[Illustration: VIEW FROM NCHICHIRA OVER THE ROVUMA, LAKE NANGADI, AND
THE MAVIA PLATEAU]
I always, of course, have my only and highly-prized map handy, and a
glance at it shows me that such a chief as Namagone really exists, and
that his village is on the right bank of the Rovuma, in 38° 26′ E.
longitude, so that one troop of these Wangoni must at some time or other
during their retreat have got as far east as this. This was confirmed by
several other men sitting by. Kambale says that he, too, was at
Namagone’s when a boy, and Liambaku, a younger brother of Majaliwa’s,
states that he was born at the Lukimwa.
Makachu is just about to continue his narrative when Majaliwa, the
senior of those present, opens his withered mouth, with its worn-down
stumps of teeth, to say: “From the Lukimwa we went to Kandulu’s, the Yao
chief; the Wangoni drove us away from there; first we went to
Namagone’s, and then to Makachu’s, where we remained a year. But the
Wangoni came again and drove us out once more, and we came to Nchichira.
But even here they have attacked us once, and that was at the time when
you Wadachi (Germans) built your _boma_ at Lindi.”
No one else offers to speak, so that I can put in a word in my turn.
“You have so much to say of the evil the Wangoni have done you, but are
they not your brothers?”
Lively gesticulation all round the circle. “No,” is the unanimous
answer, “they are our worst enemies.”
“But surely you can understand and speak their language?” Again a most
decided negative. Further cross-questioning elicited the following
explanation:—
“We people of Nchichira call ourselves Wangoni, but we call the people
from Songea Mafiti. They came from a far country long ago, but we do not
know what country they came from. Our fathers always lived on the
Lukimwa, and if it were not that the evil Mafiti had raided us so often,
we should be living there still. We are no kin to the Wamatambwe, but we
are good friends with the Wayao; our fathers always took refuge with
them in time of war.”
A detailed study of the Wangoni at Nchichira thus shows that, as already
stated, they are a conglomerate of all possible elements, who during the
long Mafiti troubles fled to this remote corner and became amalgamated
into a sort of tribal unit of their own. How much they resemble—or try
to resemble—the Yaos, nothing shows more clearly than the fact that
almost all the women wear the _kipini_ or nose-stud; the _pelele_ is
quite a rarity among them. Though disappointed of the new and strange
traits I had hoped to meet with, had the Wangoni proved to be true
Zulus, I cannot help feeling a certain pride in correcting the old
mistaken view of these people which is even now current on the coast:
yet I cannot deny that the discovery made me less unwilling to leave
Nchichira than I should otherwise have been.
Knudsen has been spending the whole time which I have devoted to my
inquiries among the Wangoni elders, hunting in the alluvial valley of
the Rovuma, with its rich variety of high, dense forest, tangled scrub,
and open, meadow-like glades. I often thought I could hear his gun, so
close under the _boma_ of Nchichira do these hunting-grounds lie, and,
more than once, standing on the plateau, I have fancied my eye could
follow his stooping figure as he advanced quickly and yet cautiously
along the bottom of the valley.
The one evening walk possible at Nchichira is very short, but reveals
almost an excess of beauty. The sun has just set behind the distant
Nyasa, and, quite exhausted, I lay aside pencil and note-book, light a
fresh cigar (we have had in a supply by this time, not derived from the
Indian’s store at Lindi, but genuine Leipzig ones), beckon my
camera-bearers to follow, and leave the _boma_ at a good round pace. We
walk along the palisade till it comes to an end, and then we have
reached the goal; the Rovuma Valley in all its glory is lying
immediately at my feet. It is no easy task to depict a sunset in words,
and here, where to the peculiar character of the country, with its
remarkable contrasts between the highest degree of erosion and the
greatest amount of alluvial accumulation is added an indescribable
richness of colour in the evening sky, the pen fails—if only because in
the presence of such beauty it is impossible for a person of any feeling
to put his impressions on paper. If I could photograph in colours what a
picture I should have! But as I am confined to the use of common, or at
most orthochromatic plates, I shall have to do the best I can with my
note-book, after reaching home, to give some idea of the glory I have
been witnessing.
[Illustration: FOREST RUINED BY NATIVES NEAR NCHICHIRA, ROVUMA VALLEY]
The plateau, here, at the centre of its southern edge, is much lower
than at Newala; it may be estimated at from 1,300 to 1,500 feet. And yet
the valley of the Rovuma, with a breadth of from six to nine miles and a
height above sea-level, at its lowest point, of barely 200 feet, makes
the impression of a vast eroded ravine. Its two edges are absolutely
similar, and it must be clear to any child that the Mavia plateau on the
other side and the Makonde highlands on this are of the same age and
have the same origin. The Rovuma, working downward like a saw, has
gradually excavated this cañon across the old tableland. Now at the end
of the dry season, the river looks more poverty-stricken than ever—a
scanty thread of water trickling along a bed over half-a-mile wide,
filled with enormous banks of gravel and sand. The river in flood must
be a grand sight, but to-day the prevailing note of the scenery is
gentle and cheerful. A whole series of terraces marking different
flood-levels are visible to the naked eye below us, while similar ones
can be made out with a field-glass on the Portuguese side of the river.
The grey strip with the shining silver thread in it looks near enough to
be touched by the hand, yet Knudsen says it is a good two hours’ walk to
the river-bank—so deceptive is the wonderfully clear air. It is true
that here, too, there are clouds of smoke rising to the sky—they are at
times particularly dense and frequent on the other side of the valley,
between the river and the Nangadi Lake. I am almost tempted to think
that the Mavia want to smoke out the unlucky Portuguese who is probably
meditating in his _boma_—easily distinguishable with the glass—on the
reason why he has been condemned to pass his life here: so numerous are
the concentric zones of fire which seem to surround his lonely abode. To
our right the grey bed of the river with its green margins stretches
away westward till it is lost in the distance. The Lidede Lake is by no
means near, yet it, too, by an effect of perspective, seems to lie at
our feet, so far can I look beyond it into the interior of the
continent. And over all this the western and southern horizon glows in a
thousand brilliant tints. It almost seems as if the sun, for love of so
much beauty, were departing less quickly than he usually does between
the tropics; the sunset hues pale and fade away only very gradually. It
was with difficulty that I could tear myself away from this picture in
order to take one or two photographs of it with my smallest stop, while
my dark friends stood behind me in silence, evidently as much impressed
as their master. At first the darkness came on by slow degrees, but
after a while the shadows, growing deeper and deeper, descended more
quickly over Lidede and Nangadi; then the first sombre tones touched the
meadows and the green forest, and only the light grey of the river bed
showed up for a while amid the gathering darkness. I am a very prosaic
person, on the whole; but I am quite willing to admit that a single
sunset like this would have amply repaid me for the march to Nchichira,
even had I found no Wangoni living there.
In this valley, then, Nils Knudsen has been pursuing the pleasures of
the chase. At any time, the first chance native who comes to him with
the remark, “Master, there are elephants down there,” is enough to send
him off in ten minutes at the best pace of which his rolling seaman’s
gait will permit. He is sensible enough, however, to trust no longer to
his ancient blunderbusses, but has asked me for the loan of one of my
rifles.
One afternoon, I am sitting as usual with my native tutors. Our Kingoni
studies are not progressing very satisfactorily. If I direct the
intelligent Saidi to translate, “Your father is dead,” I infallibly get
a sentence which, when afterwards checked, turns out to mean, “My father
is dead.” If I want him to tell me the Kingoni for “My father is dead,”
he translates (quite correctly from his point of view), “Your father,”
etc., etc. I am now so far used to these little jokes that they no
longer excite me, but a worse difficulty lies in ascertaining the forms
of the personal pronouns: “I, thou,” etc. They caused me no end of
trouble even at Newala, where my teachers were by no means stupid. Here,
whatever I do, I cannot succeed in getting the third person singular and
plural. I have arrived at the first and second, of course, by the rule
of contraries; for, if I say “I,” involuntarily pointing to myself, I am
sure to get the word for “you,” and _vice versa_. Resigning myself to
disappointment, I am just about to light a cigar to soothe my nerves,
when I become aware of a perceptible excitement all round me. At a rate
compared with which Pheidippides must have come from Marathon at a
snail’s pace, one of Knudsen’s boys arrives, spluttering out something
which I cannot understand. My men are all assembled in no time, and from
them and the inhabitants of the _boma_ I hear the news of Knudsen’s
success in bringing down a large elephant. Its tusks are “so big”—the
fellows stretch out their, long, gibbon-like arms to show their
girth—and as for meat...! I could see how their mouths were watering at
the thought.
That day and the next were entirely dominated by the slain elephant. The
men kept bringing in veritable mountains of meat, and the whole
countryside smelt anything but agreeably of African cooking. Then
arrived the four feet, then the tusks, and last of all the successful
hunter himself. His triumph, however, was somewhat damped by the fact
that the tusks were small in proportion to the size of the animal,
weighing, by our reckoning, certainly not over forty pounds. To make up
for this, he brought me another piece of news, to my mind much more
welcome; the people in the valley had houses of a style totally
different from anything to be seen up here—in fact, constructions of
several stories. Nils was obliged to asseverate this in the most solemn
way before I would believe him; but once convinced of his _bona fides_,
I could not stay another day on the plateau. Early the very next
morning, we were clambering like monkeys down its bordering cliffs into
the river-valley.
For the last few days we have been encamped here close to the left bank
of the main river, in the scanty shade of stunted trees, surrounded by a
tangle of reeds and tall grass, in which our people with some trouble
cleared a place for the tents. At this spot there is an extensive view
both up and down stream, and, for a wonder, this reach is free from the
islands which elsewhere obstruct the channel, so that the eye can range
unhindered across a sea of sand-banks to the further shore. The steep,
eroded banks whose acquaintance we made on the central course of the
river are here, too, the rule. Sitting at the top of one of these steep
slopes, it requires some skill to hit the hippos which from time to time
unexpectedly rise in the river; even Nils, usually a dead shot, misses
time after time, to his great disgust. These slopes are the only
picturesque point in the vast desolation of the river-bed where nothing
is to be seen except sand and gravel, gravel and sand. Between these
great masses of drift, the Rovuma is still more broken up into small
streams than is the case higher up at the mouth of the Bangala, and the
wandering Wamatambwe, here more numerous than on the upper river, have
no need to exercise their famous powers of swimming and diving, but can
wade at their ease across the shallow channels.
This is rather unfortunate for Knudsen, as it deprives him of an
opportunity to prove the truth of a story he is never tired of telling
me about the Wamatambwe. Not content with saying that they are excellent
swimmers, and not afraid of crocodiles, partly because of their faith in
the charms with which they are always provided and partly because they
are much more agile in the water than the reptiles—he insists that they
cross the river at its highest level, when the current is too strong to
launch their canoes, by simply walking through, though the water is far
above their heads. Though unable, in face of his superior knowledge, to
disprove this assertion, I find it somewhat difficult to believe.
The state of the river, as I have already remarked, will not allow them
to show off their diving at present, and as regards their trust in the
_dawa_ for protection against crocodiles, my own observation does not
bear out what he tells me. At least, I see that the Wamatambwe whom he
sends across the channel at our feet, in order to pick up the numerous
ducks shot by him, always look about them uneasily when they chance upon
a deeper spot and make the best of their way to shore.
[Illustration: MATAMBWE FISHERMAN CATCHING A TURTLE, WHICH A WATER-SNAKE
IS TRYING TO SEIZE. FROM A DRAWING BY THE ASKARI STAMBURI]
But this is not the purpose for which I came down to the Rovuma, and I
may give myself credit for devoting to the river only the afternoons of
my scanty leisure. Every forenoon is occupied with the discovery as to
which Knudsen was so enthusiastic. This time, for once, he was right;
but, as the simplest photograph tells more than the fullest description,
I refer the reader to the accompanying illustrations and only give such
additional comments as are absolutely necessary to make them
comprehensible.
Our departure from Nchichira was slightly delayed by a warm shower,
falling in straight, vertical lines on the dry sand. Both nature and man
drew a long breath at this first symptom of the approaching rains. But
the pitiless sun reasserted his rights only too quickly, and the
procession started on its way, soon vanishing down the precipitous
slope. After descending a few yards, the steep path ceased to be
slippery; hot, dry stones crunched under our feet—the atmosphere, too,
into which every step plunged us another fraction of a yard deeper, was
likewise hot and dry; it became evident that the rain must here have
evaporated before it reached the ground. At last we arrived at the
bottom and entered a dense forest of huge trees. But even here we did
not find the pleasant coolness of our German forests; the air we
encountered was hot, moist and mouldy-smelling, and the foot had to feel
its way uncertainly over the quaking soil.
“If the Department of Woods and Forests only knew—there is plenty of
timber to be had here!” I was just saying to myself, when we suddenly
came to the end of it. It looked as though a hurricane had passed, or an
avalanche ploughed its way down the neighbouring precipice. The mighty
boles lay like broken matches, across one another in all directions; a
lamentable sight indeed to an economical European eye. With great
difficulty we scrambled on; the ground became drier; here and there we
stepped into heaps of ashes, and then a glance round revealed the true
state of the case. Even here, it is man who will not leave nature in
peace. The Makonde plateau, with its area of 6,000 square miles, might
surely be expected to afford subsistence for a mere trifle of 80,000 or
90,000 natives with their simple wants. As a matter of fact, however, we
see that it is not sufficient for them. In this case the underwood had
been cut down and burnt over a considerable distance, and the large
trees had been attacked, as usual, with axe and fire. Everywhere fallen
logs still smouldered, and the vanished shapes of splendid trees were
traced on the ground in outlines of white ashes. While I was still
gazing in horror at the work of destruction, my men brought forward one
of the criminals—no other than old Majaliwa himself. He had his axe
still in his hand, and was grinning all over with pride at his
achievements.
German East Africa has no superfluity of real, commercially valuable
timber; the famous Shume forest in Usambara and a few others (remarkable
on account of their rarity) are but the exceptions proving the rule. The
necessity, therefore, of protecting the hitherto untouched forest areas
on the Rovuma from the wasteful farming of the natives is all the more
urgent. We have a well-founded right to prohibit the tribes living in
the neighbourhood of this valley from cutting down a single tree in it,
since it is solely in consequence of the security afforded by the German
administration that they are able to cultivate any new ground at all
outside their hereditary seats on the plateau. If the _boma_ of
Nchichira had not been planted on the top of the escarpment, bidding
defiance to the Mavia across the valley, no Mngoni or Makonde would
dream of sowing a single grain of maize beyond the edge of the
tableland. So to-day, knowing that, under our protection, they are quite
safe from Mavia raids, even in the valley, they go down and destroy our
finest forests.
A little farther on, having reached the top of an undulation in the
soil, we at last came to the wonder we were in search of—two specimens
at once. With astonishment I found myself before a regular tower, and
saw my men staring uncomprehendingly at a style of architecture quite
new to them. Majaliwa’s new palace—it was here then, that the old man
retired every day after our _shauri_ was over—is not, indeed, as Nils
Knudsen had asserted, a three-storied house, but, with a little goodwill
we can easily make out two stories and an attic. The ground floor is a
square apartment with grass walls, filled with pots, calabashes, ladles
and the rest of a native woman’s household requisites, and having the
usual fire smouldering between the three lumps of earth in the centre.
The first floor is much more elegantly appointed, only the access to it
is less convenient than might be wished. My early training in gymnastics
enables me to negotiate without difficulty the primitive ladder,
consisting of cross-pieces lashed to the supporting piles at intervals
of about a yard; but they give Knudsen a good deal of trouble, and how
old Majaliwa and his wife get up it every night, like chickens going to
roost, is beyond my comprehension. Their sleeping apartment is quite
comfortable—a thick layer of straw covers the logs of the floor, and the
mats which make up the bedding are of a quality by no means to be
despised. As the _matriarchate_ is not in force among the Wangoni, no
rule of propriety is violated by the fact that Abdallah, the heir to the
house, lives in the attic. This, too, is, for a native dwelling, very
neatly arranged, with its soft bed, mats and baskets of provisions.
[Illustration: PILE-DWELLING ON THE ROVUMA, NEAR NCHICHIRA]
Such was my first sight of the pile-dwellings of this region. It was
followed by more extensive studies, but the main features of these
constructions are everywhere the same. My first notion as to the reason
for this mode of building was that it had been adopted to escape the
mosquitoes in the neighbourhood of the river, and also for safety in
time of flood. Some of these huts, in fact, are within reach of the
inundations during the wet season; but the majority are placed on the
top of ridges well beyond high-water mark. If we ask the natives why
they build their huts in this particular way, the answer is always the
same—“_Pembe_” (“Elephants”). I was at first unwilling to believe this,
the elephant being an extremely shy animal, who, under all
circumstances, avoids the vicinity of man; but I was informed that the
local representatives of the species are of a somewhat different
disposition from their congeners elsewhere. Only a few days before, one
of these monsters had, quite unprovoked, seized a Mngoni going peaceably
about his business, and tossed him into the air. In the light of these
facts, the strong palisade surrounding many of these high structures
cannot be considered an unnecessary precaution. In any case the
discovery of this pile-dwelling district within easy reach of the coast
was almost as pleasant a surprise as my success in establishing the
tribal divisions at Newala.
The heat here certainly makes us wish ourselves back in the
comparatively low temperature of that place. It is impossible to remain
even a minute in the tent during the daytime, the thermometer there
standing at over 104°, while even under our _banda_ (a hastily erected
grass shelter), we are sitting perspiring at 98° and 99°. The evening
gale which was the terror of our lives at Newala is here entirely
absent, but, on the other hand, we are tormented by a legion of
mosquitoes, from which we can only escape by retiring under our nettings
soon after sunset.
“Have you anything more on your mind?” I have just asked the
indefatigable Knudsen, who seems quite worn out. “I mean,” I add, seeing
that he does not at once understand, “have you any more ethnographical
curiosities in reserve?”
“Not that I know of,” is his answer.
“Well, then, let us march again to-day, as far as the _boma_ of
Nchichira, and to-morrow morning at 4.45 we will leave for Mahuta.”
“Let us do so at once, by all means!” replies Knudsen, and goes into his
tent to change his soaking khaki suit.
CHAPTER XVII
ACHIEVEMENT
MAHUTA, November 8, 1906.
Now for the dessert to my feast of research. If all its components have
not been equally appetising, yet several of the courses have been
good—some of them, indeed, very good—and there have been many dainty
tit-bits; while the dessert is quite in character with the whole:—no
further tax on the digestive powers, but a pleasant, gradual transition
to the after-dinner cigar, the coffee and bitters. Thus has Mahuta, so
far, appeared to me.
How ceremonious, to begin with, was our reception! It is true that all
Africans have the finest manners, whether they have already assumed the
white _kanzu_ of the Coast men, or walk about in the scanty loincloth of
primitive man. It has always been a matter of course, at every place I
have visited in this country, for the elders of the village to come out
to meet me and pay their respects. But Abdallah bin Malim, Wali of
Mahuta, surpasses them all in the accurate formality with which he
greeted me. It is not for nothing that he holds the highest position in
this district; and we were disposed to feel ashamed of our stained and
shabby khaki suits, and our generally dusty and dilapidated condition,
when the Wali, dressed in the long, black, embroidered coat of the Coast
Arab, and carrying a silver-mounted sword in his hand, met us long
before we reached Mahuta.
Our quarters, too, looked very promising. Having squeezed ourselves into
the _boma_ through an incredibly narrow gap in the palisade, we were
struck with admiration. The enclosure is nearly twice the size of all
others we have seen; and a wide avenue of rubber-trees and Mauritius
aloes runs across it from one gate to the other. The dwellings are
placed in orderly arrangement on either side of this avenue. The sight
of the solidly-built rest-house made it easy for me to dispense with the
Professor’s house out by the ravine. Before long our tents had been
pitched in the open space, while the carriers and soldiers distributed
themselves, according to custom, among the various huts and rooms of the
people inhabiting the _boma_. We were scarcely settled when Abdallah
thought fit to call on us. Being still in his festive garments, he
seemed to feel justified in claiming Knudsen’s long chair for himself. I
was busy bathing my left foot, which I sprained on board the
_Prinzregent_, and which has given me an immense amount of pain and
discomfort throughout the last few months. Abdallah’s voice was loud and
not melodious; he talked unceasingly, and expectorated all over the
place with a freedom and marksmanship which might have been envied by
the proverbial Yankee. Notwithstanding my ingrained respect for
government officials, regardless of colour, I was compelled at last, in
the interests of self-preservation, to get Knudsen to call the Wali’s
attention to the unseemliness of his behaviour;—why, not even the
_washenzi_—the pagans of the bush—would do thus in the presence of the
_Bwana Mkubwa_. The hint took immediate effect.
[Illustration: THE WALI OF MAHUTA]
It is now eight a.m., the sun is already tolerably high—at this season
it is quite vertical over Mahuta at noon—and the two Europeans are
enjoying the delicious morning air. The air of Mahuta would make it an
admirable health-resort, no troublesome heat or uncomfortable cold, no
mist and no gale, but excellent drinking-water hard by at the edge of
the plateau, a clean _baraza_ and plenty of fowls—what can heart desire
more? We are just enjoying our morning cigars, when we hear a strange
noise. Is it distant thunder? or are the Makonde making war on us?
Nearer and nearer it comes, and as the rolling, rhythmic sound grows
louder, we begin to perceive that it is approaching from several
different directions at once, from the east, the west, and seemingly
from the north as well. We soon recognise it as the sound of drums
mingled with singing. Coming out from under the roof and between the
tents, we see the people already pouring in through the narrow gates in
an apparently endless procession.
Already the black masses have met in the midst of the spacious _boma_,
but fresh throngs are streaming in from both sides; the avenue is
full,—the black, surging sea spreads out beyond it into the lateral
enclosures, the drums thunder, the voices screech, _luluta_, and
sing,—coloured flags, looking more like flowered handkerchiefs than
anything else, float from long poles above the heads of the crowd, and
the whole is over-arched by the sky with its radiant sunshine and
innumerable flocks of fleecy cloudlets. The picture is certainly unique
of its kind, and well-fitted in its wild beauty to tempt the brush of a
Breughel.
I cannot paint, but what is the good of having some thirty dark slides,
well provided with plates? But, then, which way is one to turn in this
superabundance of subjects? Here is an enormous circle of men, women,
and children; six mighty drums are thundering away at a frantic pace,
and in perfect time, as if moved by some invisible force; the whole vast
assembly move arms and legs, mouths and hands as one person. Outside
this huge ring is another circle of slender young girls just budding
into womanhood. Their _ntungululu_ vibrates through the air in shrillest
treble, while their palms, raised high in the air, clap in time with the
evolutions of the other performers. “Oh! I see,—the _likwata_”—the stock
of human ideas is very limited, after all. Turning away in
disappointment, we see in the background, occupying half of one side of
the _boma_, two lines of sharpshooters, exercising under fire, in a
truly African way. The native scorns to take cover, he is a fatalist—if
he is hit, well—_Inshallah!_ This is brought out very strikingly in the
_majimaji_ dance, the mimic representation of the late insurrection. The
black attacking line charges at a run, regardless of even the uncanny
“rack-rack” of the “_Boom-boom_”—those infernal machines out of which
the Wadachi—the accursed Germans—can fire a thousand bullets a minute.
In vain—not even the strong _dawa_ of Hongo, the great war-doctor, can
protect them from destruction. The enemy is already surging up—how can
the _majimaji_ stand against him? Instinctively the whole line falls
back before the sharp bayonets of the _askari_, as far as the dimensions
of the “battle-field” will permit, and then, howling their war-song,
they charge again. This goes on for hours.
[Illustration: MOTHER AND CHILD]
I have done what I can with camera and cinematograph, and now my stock
of plates is exhausted, and so am I. Meanwhile the sun has climbed to
the zenith;—five hundred natives are standing and lounging about, tired,
hungry and thirsty, under the shadeless rubber-trees, while we, for our
part, are called by the cooks to soup, chicken and omelette with
bananas.
Abdallah meant well in summoning this enormous host of natives, but from
the first I saw that it was useless to have so many at once. After a
time the _wali_, too, understood this, and sent once more for the
village headmen from far and near, addressing them somewhat as
follows:—“To-morrow morning you, Nyamba”—or as the case might be—“are to
come at eight and bring the people of your village, and they are to
bring _midimu_ and _mitete_ (dancing-masks and snuff-boxes) as many as
they have, and all the other things that you use in the house and in the
_shamba_ and in the bush,—for the white man likes these things and will
pay you for them in pice and rupees. And the day after to-morrow,”—he
turns to the next man, “you must come with your people and bring all the
things I have just told you.” The headman, to show that he has
understood, salutes with his hand to his cap, the next one follows, and
so on in order.
The new plan is a complete success. In the morning I have time to
photograph the people individually, to take cinematograph films of
dances and games, make photographic records, and so on. The middle of
the day is spent in studying the endless variety of keloid patterns in
vogue among the population here, and the afternoon devoted to bargaining
with the men for their household and other implements, ornaments,
weapons, etc.
[Illustration: TWO-STORIED HOUSES AT NCHICHIRA ON THE ROVUMA]
[Illustration: MAKONDE GIRL WITH LIP PIERCED FOR _PELELE_ AND ULCERATED]
And the women! Closely huddled together, their heads all, as if in
obedience to one impulse, inclined forward and downward, a band of
thirty or forty Makonde women stand in a corner of the _boma_ at Mahuta.
Up to a moment ago they were chattering for all they were worth—then the
strange white man in the yellow coat came up, and all were immediately
quiet as mice, only the twenty or thirty babies on their backs
continuing to snore or yell, according to circumstances, as before. I
have long since found the right way to deal with women—at the first
small joke the shyness takes its departure, heads are raised and the
right frame of mind is easily produced. It is, indeed, highly necessary
to produce this result by some means; there is so much to examine in
these heads and bodies. Only the laughter going on all round them
induces each to let the white man look at her closely, perhaps even
touch her. Soon, however, the rumour spreads, that the stranger is a man
of wealth—of inexhaustible riches—he has whole sacks and cases full of
pice, and his servant has orders to pay over bright coin to every native
woman who does what he asks her. Friends and acquaintances from other
villages have said so, and surely it must be true. My experience up to
this point had shown me so much in the way of queer manifestations of
human vanity, that I thought there could be no more surprises in store
for me. But I was mistaken—fresh wonders awaited me in the depths of the
Makonde bush. In truth, it seems to me a miracle that these tender lips
can sustain such huge masses of heavy wood, a hand-breadth in diameter
and three fingers thick. The wood is daily whitened with
carefully-washed _kaolin_. The process by which the hole in the lip is
gradually brought to this enormous size has already been described. The
initial operation is performed by the girl’s maternal uncle. Her mother
sees that the hole is kept open and enlarged, and the day when the first
solid plug is inserted is kept as a family festival. The husband cuts a
new _pelele_ for his wife when required, each a size larger than the
last, and every time he has occasion to go to the bush he brings some of
the fine white clay she uses for bleaching the wood. The young woman
before me has a good husband, as her name Ngukimachi implies, signifying
that she has no need to deceive him as other wives do theirs. But he
knows, too, how well she looks in her _pelele_—it stands straight out, a
pleasure to see, and when she laughs, her teeth flash out magnificently
behind it. How ugly compared with her are those old women yonder! They
have lost their teeth, and when with one trembling hand they carry the
lump of porridge, taken from the heap before them, to their mouths, it
is dreadful to see the food vanish into a dark cavern, when the other
hand has carefully lifted up the _pelele_.
The next two women are greatly to be pitied. Both are young, one a girl,
the other a young wife, but they are always sad, and well they may be,
for the adornment of the _pelele_ is denied them. No matter how much
_dawa_ their mothers and uncles have put on their lips, the wound has
only become worse. In the elder, the front of the lip is quite eaten
away by the ulceration, so that, with her large white teeth showing
through in the middle, her mouth is like that of Sungura, the hare.
Their looks are not improved, and even the white man, with his big box
of medicines, can do nothing to cure them. No wonder they are sad.
[Illustration: PSEUDO-SURGERY. MAKONDE WOMAN WITH TORN LIP ARTIFICIALLY
JOINED]
Alitengiri, too, yonder, looks serious. Death has been a frequent
visitor to her house of late; indeed, she has lost so many of her
relations that her _shamba_ cannot be cultivated. She used to be very
lively, and chattered away so quickly that the eye could scarcely follow
the motion of her _pelele_, which was a very fine one, so large that her
lip could scarcely support it. Now she looks greatly changed—is she ill?
or has the _pelele_ shrunk? But that is impossible. Let us ask what is
the matter. She does not answer—not a word can be got out of her. But I
soon observe what is wrong; her lip must have given way and she has
mended it,—I had already noticed the strip of blue stuff pasted over
it—and now she dare not speak or laugh, for fear of opening the wound
afresh.
There is no doubt that the largest _peleles_ to be found in the whole
southern territory are those worn by the women of Mahuta and its
neighbourhood. Blocks of seven and seven and a half centimetres in
diameter and three to five centimetres in thickness are not uncommon.
With the black or white discs, the size of half-a-crown, worn in the
lobes of the ears which are stretched in a similar manner to the lip,
this gleaming white ornament makes up a triad of decorations which as a
whole is surely unique. They are not enough, however, for the Makonde
woman,—her face and the greater part of her body are covered with
_keloids_, which, at first sight, seem to present an astonishing variety
of patterns. On examination, however, their component elements prove to
be surprisingly few. The present-day native gives to these elements such
names as _thitopole_ (“a pigeon-trap”), _chikorombwe_ (“a
fish-spear”),[68] _ceka_, etc. The first of these patterns is a curve,
which might stand for the bent twig of a pigeon-trap; the _chikorombwe_
is more like a fir-tree; the _teka_ is a _chitopole_ with a central
axis. Whether these patterns have any real relation to the bird-trap or
the fish-spear, I cannot say, for the natives do not know; but one thing
is certain, none of them can nowadays be considered as a genuine tribal
mark. The novice is inclined to look on them as such, till taught
better, as I was in a most compendious way by old Makachu. This
venerable man is covered all over with the same sort of pattern as those
displayed by the women, though some of his are much the worse for wear.
I asked him why he was thus decorated, expecting to receive a long
dissertation on tribal marks and similar institutions, and was somewhat
taken aback when he merely said “_Ninapenda_”—(“Because I like it so”).
[Illustration: MAKONDE KELOIDS]
This, in fact, seems to be the sole reason for the _keloid_ decoration
being applied at all, as well as for the choice of pattern in each
individual case. At Newala, at Nchichira, and now, at Mahuta, I have
photographed, or at least inspected several hundred persons with the
result, so far as I can come to any conclusion at present, that it is
impossible to discover from any of the patterns the nationality of the
wearer. Each of these figures has been chosen on the same principle of
“_ninapenda_.”
[Illustration: MATAMBWE AND MAKUA WOMAN, WITH KELOIDS]
It is not to be denied that there are fashions even in this form of
ornament. A new pattern is introduced from somewhere,—it finds
acceptance, first with one mother, then with another, and so quickly
spreads through a whole generation, who, of course, have to wear it
through life, so that, in fact, it might be considered a sort of badge.
Perhaps in former times the tribes in this part of the country placed a
higher value on the art; but it is no longer possible to prove that this
was so, and, in fact, the custom seems to be passing away under modern
influences. It is a great amusement, not only to myself, but to the
other parties concerned, when I suddenly ask a man or youth to take off
his shirt and show me his _torso_. Elderly men have a perfect menagerie
of antelopes, snakes, frogs, tortoises and other creatures, together
with _chikorombwe_, _chitopole_ and _teka_ adorning their broad chests,
while the rising generation can show little or nothing. The latter no
longer think the fashion “good form”; they have their eye on the coast
and its civilization, and if they scarify themselves at all, are content
with the two vertical cuts on the temples in vogue among the Swahili.
The Yaos and the Wangoni of Nchichira have already pretty generally
adopted these cuts, and other tribes will go on doing so in an
increasing degree, year by year.
[Illustration: MAKUA WOMAN WITH KELOIDS ON BACK]
The patterns are cut by a professional—a _fundi_, who makes numerous
small incisions, rubs in some sort of powder, and cuts the same place
again and again till the skin heals in a raised scar.
It is essential that the director of an ethnographical museum should be
a good man of business, even in Europe; but the same man, if he would
collect successfully in Africa, must be more acute, patient, and
unscrupulous in bargaining than any Armenian. I have already had
occasion to mention the unexpected difficulties met with in this
direction, and need not, therefore, express my feelings now, but the
Makonde are certainly not disposed to make my task an easy one. The
black crowd is moving up in close order.
“Well, what have you got?” asks the collector affably enough. By way of
answer a worn-out wooden spoon is put into his hand, probably fished out
of the rubbish-heap, as being quite good enough for the _mzungu_.
“_Mshenzi!_—you heathen! You may just take your treasure back again. Let
me see what else you have. Where is your mask?”
“I have none, sir?”
“Oh! indeed—then I will give you time to look for it. Come back
to-morrow, and mind you bring your _mdimu_, and don’t forget your
snuff-boxes.”
[Illustration: MAKUA WOMEN WITH KELOIDS]
This scene would be repeated a dozen times or more in the course of an
afternoon; in some cases the penitential pilgrimage was efficacious, in
others the men never turned up again. Since noticing this we have
adopted a different procedure, and now simply render the village headman
responsible for the production of the articles. This makes matters quite
easy, and every evening, Knudsen, the boys, and the more intelligent of
the carriers have their hands full making the inventory and packing the
day’s purchases.
This country well repays the collector, though East Africa is considered
a rather dull ethnographical area compared with the Congo basin, North
Kamerun, and some other parts of West Africa. It is true that one must
not be very exacting as to the artistic quality of weapons and
implements produced by these tribes. I was all the more surprised to
find among the specimens of wood-carving, collected in my district, some
veritable little gems. The dancing-masks are for the most part mere
conventional representations of human faces (those of women being
distinguished by the _pelele_ and ear-ornaments), or of animal heads. A
few specimens in my collection are supposed to be portraits of
celebrities—some heroes of the late insurrection, a young girl famous
for her beauty, and sundry others, but on the whole, it cannot be denied
that they are very roughly executed. Of a somewhat higher type are the
statues of the Ancestress alluded to in a previous chapter. They leave,
it is true, a great deal to be desired on the score of anatomical
knowledge and harmony of proportions, but, on the other hand, some of
these figures are, so far as I know, the only ones from Africa in which
the feet have been worked out in detail.
[Illustration: MAKONDE WOMEN WITH ELABORATE KELOIDS]
But it is above all the _mitete_, the little wooden boxes in which the
people keep their snuff, their medicines, and sometimes their
gunpowder—which show real taste and a style and execution which can pass
muster even from our point of view. The ornamentation which the elder
generation of men carry about on their skins in the form of _keloids_ is
applied to the lids of these boxes. Some of them take the shape of heads
of animals: various kinds of monkeys, the gnu, the bush-buck, and other
antelopes, but oftenest the _litotwe_. This is a creature of all others
likely to catch the artist’s eye and tempt him to reproduce it. It is a
large rat, about the size of a rabbit, and with a head which, by its
shape, suggests that of the elephant, or at least the ant-eater, the
snout terminating in a long delicate proboscis. At Chingulungulu Salim
Matola caught one of these creatures for me, but it escaped before I had
time to sketch more than its head.
[Illustration: AFRICAN ART. CARVED POWDER, SNUFF AND CHARM-BOXES FROM
THE MAKONDE HIGHLANDS]
[Illustration: MAKONDE MAN WITH KELOID PATTERNS]
Human heads, too, are found among these carvings, and are executed with
the same skill in technique. Most of them have the hair dressed in a
long pig-tail, and the face still more cicatrized than the Makonde;
these, I learn, represent members of the Mavia tribe. I cannot discover
whether they are the work of local artists, or of the Mavia themselves.
The vendors either give no answer at all when asked or say, as all
natives do when ignorant of the origin of an article, “_mshenzi_,” that
is to say, “some unknown person away at the back of the bush.” However,
this does not affect our critical judgment.
In the practice of one kind of art the Makonde seem to be deficient. As
has been my custom elsewhere, I occupy all my spare time in long walks,
in order to observe the natives in their own homes. This, however, is
not so easy as it was in other places. I think it would be possible to
walk over the whole Makonde plateau without finding a single settlement,
so closely are the little hamlets hidden away in the bush. But we have
here an ideal guide, Ningachi, the teacher, whose name means, “What do
you think?” Ningachi is a very decent, honest man, but thinking, in
spite of his name, does not appear to be his strong point. Indeed, he
has but little time for thought, being my courier and interpreter, and
in that capacity kept busy from morning to night. He has even made
himself useful by walking enormous distances to fetch plump young fowls
for our table.
[Illustration: YAO WOMEN WITH KELOIDS]
Under Ningachi’s guidance we inspected more than one Makonde village.
They are picturesque—not even envy can gainsay that; but not one of the
wretched, airy, round huts, in which the generations of these people
dream away their dim lives is comfortable even according to the modest
standard of the native. They are not even plastered with clay, in the
usual fashion, and this of itself makes fresco decoration impossible. In
one sense this fact is a relief to me, when I think of the miles I have
tramped at other times, on hearing of beautifully painted houses in such
or such a village. Painted they were, but the beauty was a matter of
taste. We do not admire the scrawls of our children, and just
such—clumsy, rudimentary, utterly devoid of perspective—are these
beginnings of native art. In fact, wherever artistically untrained man
gives way to the universal instinct of scribbling over all accessible
surfaces, whether blank walls or smooth rocks, the result is very much
the same, whether produced by the European tramp or street-boy, or by my
Wangoni and Makua.
The mention of sketch-books suggests what will probably be my most
enduring monument in this country—if, indeed, the people here in the
south, or even my own men, preserve any recollection whatever of the
_Bwana picha_ (the man who takes photographs), once the expedition is
over. If they do so, I feel it will not be my unpronounceable name (my
Wanyamwezi once, and only once, succeeded in saying “Weure,” and on that
occasion laughed so consumedly, that I gave up all further attempts to
accustom them to this uncouth word), nor my title (_Bwana Pufesa_ = Herr
Professor) nor the magical character of my machines, which will keep my
memory green, but the many books of thick white paper in which they were
allowed to scribble to their heart’s content.
[Illustration: THE LITOTWE]
It was at Lindi that this artistic activity on the part of my native
friends first manifested itself in all its intensity. Barnabas
especially was indefatigable; every day, proud and yet anxious as to my
judgment, he brought me fresh masterpieces, only one of which is
reproduced in these pages, the herd of elephants on p. 190, but this
alone is quite sufficient to characterize the artist. Can we deny him a
certain power of perception? and is not the technique quite up to date?
It is true that the animals, taken separately, have with their short
legs a somewhat unfortunate likeness to the domestic pig, while their
heads suggest the chameleon; the upper line of the trunk is seen in
three of them behind the left tusk; and the _mtoto_, the baby elephant
on the right of the picture, has no body, leaving off just behind its
ears. But, nevertheless, the man not only knows something about
perspective, but knows how to apply it, and that by no means badly.
With all his artistic virtues, Barnabas has one failing. He is no
_mshenzi_, no raw unlettered savage of the bush, but an educated, even a
learned man. By birth a Makua, from a distant part of the interior, he
has passed all the examinations in the Government school at Lindi, and
now attends to the stamping of letters and the weighing of parcels in
the little post-office of that town. In his spare time he writes for the
Swahili paper _Kiongozi_, published at Tanga.
Barnabas, therefore, cannot be considered as a representative of
primitive art. But not one of those who have produced my other
specimens, whether carriers, soldiers or savages from the interior, has
ever had pencil and paper in hand before.
[Illustration: “BWANA PUFESA” (THE PROFESSOR). FROM A DRAWING BY ONE OF
MY ESCORT]
Marine subjects appear to be in high favour. My _askari_ Stamburi
(Stambuli, _i.e._, Constantinople) is a smart soldier while on duty, off
duty a Don Juan; and now he shows himself possessed of an unsuspected
gift for marine and animal painting. He is a landsman, born far inland
on the Upper Rovuma and has therefore succeeded better in depicting the
adventure of the Matambwe fisherman (p. 347) than he has with the Arab
_dau_ (p. 25). The latter is, indeed, drawn accurately enough; it has
just anchored; the sail is bent to the yard; both flag and rudder are
shown. We have in addition three paddles, floating above in the clouds.
These are intended, so the draughtsman tells me, for use if a calm comes
on. But what is that amidships? Has the vessel sprung a leak, or,
indeed, two? No—they are the two hatchways. Stamburi knows that such
openings exist on the ship and therefore it is his duty as an artist to
put them in. Having no knowledge of perspective, he simply turns them
round through an angle of ninety degrees, so as to bring them into full
view from the side. Genius recognizes no limitations.
[Illustration: WANGONI WOMEN AT NCHICHIRA]
[Illustration: TWO NATIVES. DRAWN BY PESA MBILI]
The Matambwe fisherman in the other picture has just anchored his boat
at the bend of the river, and then cast his line with the uncouth iron
hook. A few minutes after, he feels a jerk,—then, a mighty pull—a broad,
round object swings through the air and lies on the grass. The fisherman
is just letting the line run deliberately through his hand to draw the
booty up to him, when some monster, probably of unearthly origin, dashes
at his fine, large turtle. It is only a common snake, after all, though
an unusually large one, and the old man is not going to give up his
spoil so tamely, but is holding on to the line for all he is worth.
Most of these drawings represent incidents actually witnessed by the
artist, and the figures, whether of men or animals, are intended for
portraits of real individuals. Some, however, are purely _genre_
pictures, such as the woman pounding at the mortar under the eaves of
her hut (p. 165), and the mother with the baby on her hip (p. 345),
which are typical figures from everyday life, with no attempt at
portraiture. So, too, the two natives drawn by Pesa mbili are not
intended for anyone in particular. The fact is that, on the day when
this was executed, at Mahuta (October 21st), I had been chiefly occupied
with the study of keloids, and a number of men had been induced to
remove their garments and submit to my inspection. This stimulated the
headman, who was more intelligent than most of his companions, to
attempt the reproduction of two such figures.
The majority of the other drawings, not only represent actual incidents,
but are derived from the artist’s personal experience. The drawing of
the s.s. _Rufiji_ (p. 18), done from memory, far inland, by the Swahili
Bakari, has a huge shark in the foreground, because it is a reminiscence
of a voyage in that vessel, when he saw that particular shark at a
certain place which, no doubt, he could point out with unerring
accuracy. When the carrier, Juma, brought me his “Monkeys breaking into
a plantation” (p. 168), he accompanied it with this explanation—“But,
_Bwana Mkubwa_, that is my _shamba_, and I threw stones at the monkeys,
and drove them away; there were seven of them—great big ones.”
Of portraits in the strict sense, “_Bana Pufesa_” (the Professor), by
one of the soldiers (see p. 368) and the stilt-dancer on p. 237 by my
cook, Omari, both belong to the early days of the expedition, when I had
not yet lost the charm of novelty, and the Bondei man had only seen one
masquerader on stilts. Poor as Omari’s work is in other respects, he on
this occasion showed considerable courage in attempting to represent his
subject in full face, which a beginner very seldom ventures to do. That
my right eye should be seen wandering through space like a star, is not
surprising; that eye exists, and therefore it must appear in the
drawing.
A number of these drawings depict whole scenes from native life in the
district I have traversed. Here we have the chain-gang (p. 26), to the
number of seven men, marching slowly through the streets of Lindi, five
of the convicts with large tins on their heads, the last two without
loads. They are going to fill the bath in some European’s house, an
unpleasant task, because of the high ladder which has to be climbed, in
doing which the heavy chain drags uncomfortably at the back of the man’s
neck, but the soldier on guard behind is very strict, and there is no
shirking.
It is true that the large whip is not really part of his insignia, being
due merely to a stretch of the artist’s imagination, but he always
carries a loaded rifle, I am told, since a recent mutiny, in which the
guard was murdered. A _likwata_ dance (p. 45) appeals to us as a much
more cheerful subject, especially when the _Bwana picha_ is engaged in
conjuring the scene on to one of those remarkable glass plates which are
contained in his three-legged box, and on which all the black women are
white and their white _peleles_ jet black. The white man’s caravan, too,
is a tempting subject. How proudly the two boys, Moritz and Kibwana, are
carrying their master’s guns, while he, seated on his _nyumbu_, the old
mule, is just turning round to survey the procession behind him. The
Imperial flag flutters merrily in the morning breeze at the head of the
long line of carriers laden with the cases and boxes on which they are
beating time to the march with the sticks in their hands, all of them in
the highest spirits, true to the character of Pesa mbili’s friends from
distant Unyamwezi. (See p. 104.) Another pleasant subject is the hunt
commemorated by Salim Matola (p. 77). In the sportsman armed with a bow
the artist has depicted himself striding along after his dog, in hot
pursuit of a buffalo. Kwakaneyao, the brown dog, is a keen hunter by
nature—his name means that he will drive away every other dog who may
attempt to dispute the quarry with him. In spite of this, however, Salim
Matola, by way of taking an extra precaution, before starting, rubbed
his companion’s teeth with certain roots, and gave him a piece of the
last-killed bush-buck to eat. Thereupon Kwakaneyao rushed off into the
_pori_ like an arrow, so that his master could scarcely keep up with
him.
[Illustration: THE BUSH COUNTRY AND ITS FAUNA. DRAWN BY SALIM MATOLA]
The same Salim Matola shows us this _pori_ with its characteristic
animals in another drawing which, sketchy as it is, reproduces the
character of the country with the utmost accuracy:—the scattered,
straggling trees, and the harsh, tall African grass between them,—the
dark green tree-snake in the tamarisk on the left, a hornbill on the
right, and in the background a small antelope. In short, this is in its
way a little masterpiece.
The Makua Isaki illustrates the superstitions of his tribe in the little
picture reproduced on p. 212. The comical little bird there depicted is
the ill-omened owl (_likwikwi_), which, crying night after night,
brought death to Marquardt’s little daughter. No native likes to see or
hear it.
The little sketch on p. 305 is a scene from Makonde life. _Mtudikaye_,
“the hospitable,” and her daughter Nantupuli, who has not yet found a
husband, though not for want of seeking, are taking their turn to fetch
water, as all the men are busy breaking up ground in the bush, and,
burdened with the carrying-poles and the great gourds, have just
accomplished the long, rough walk to the stream at the foot of the
plateau. The two banana-trees with their heavy bunches of fruit, mark
the place for drawing water: from the stepping stones in their shadow
one can get it much clearer than by standing on the trampled, muddy
bank.
Now we come to science. My men must have a marked topographical
instinct—otherwise it is difficult to explain the large number of maps
with which they have overwhelmed me. I have reproduced only one of these
(p. 9) the first, which quite took me by surprise. The author is
Sabatele, an unsophisticated child of nature from the far south-west of
our colony—the southern end of Lake Tanganyika. He produced it at Lindi,
quite in the early days of our expedition. It gave rise to a great
discussion, carried on with the aid of Pesa mbili, the headman and other
representatives of intelligence. In a quarter of an hour we succeeded in
identifying all the mysterious signs, and I discovered to my
astonishment that the orientation of this first cartographic attempt was
quite correct, and the topography only wrong as regards some of the
distances. Pointing to the curious object marked in my reproduction, I
received the unhesitating answer “_Mawo-panda_”—Kinyamwezi for Dar es
Salam. No. 2 is “_Lufu_”—the Ruvu of our maps, the large river always
crossed by Wanyamwezi carriers on the main caravan road. No. 3 is
explained as “_Mulokolo_”—that is to say, Morogoro, the present terminus
of the great central railway, which will put an end once for all to the
old caravan traffic of the Wanyamwezi and Wasukuma. The Wanyamwezi have
a difficulty in pronouncing “_r_” and usually substitute “_l_” for it.
The contrast between these sturdy fellows and the softness of their
speech is a curious one.
No. 4 is “Mgata,” the Makata plain between the Uluguru and the Rubeho
mountains, the whole of which is a swamp in the rainy season. “_Kirosa_”
is the sound which greets me when I point with my pencil to No. 5. “Of
course, where there is no ‘_r_’ they pronounce it,” I grumble to myself,
delighted all the time with the splendid trill produced; “therefore we
must set it down as _Kilosa_.” No. 6 is the “Balabala”—the caravan road
itself. No. 7 is “Mpapwa,” the old caravan centre, once the last halt on
the inland march before the dreaded Marenga Mkali, the great alkali
desert, and hostile Ugogo. Conversely, on the march down to the coast,
it meant deliverance from thirst and ill-treatment. Hesitatingly I place
my pencil on No. 8, which according to the drawing, must mean a stream
of some sort, though I know of none in that neighbourhood. In fact, the
name Mutiwe, which Sabatele now mentions, is quite unknown to me; it is
only on consulting the special map that I discover it, flowing past
Kilimatinde—N.B., when it contains water, which, needless to remark, is
not always the case. It must have impressed itself on Sabatele’s memory
as a water-course—otherwise, why should so matter-of-fact a fellow have
remembered the spot?
Now, however, we have reached the heart of German East Africa and find
ourselves in regions well known to my followers. No. 9 is the lofty
altitude of Kilimatinde, and No. 10 is called by Sabatele Kasanga. I
take the name for that of Katanga, the copper district far to the south
in the Congo basin, and shake my head incredulously,—it is impossible
that the young man can have travelled so far. On cross-examination it
comes out that he is from the Mambwe country at the south end of
Tanganyika, and his Kasanga is identical with our station of
Bismarckburg. No. 11 is my original goal Kondoa-Irangi, and No. 12 is
the post of Kalama, in Iramba. At _Tobola_, as my map-maker calls
Tabora, he even enters into detail. No. 13_a_ is the present Tabora with
the new _boma_,—No. 13_b_ is “_Tobola ya zamani_,” Old Tabora, with the
former _boma_. Nos. 14 and 15 are respectively Ujiji on Lake Tanganyika
and Mwanza, on Lake Victoria; these two trading centres are Sabatele’s
“farthest west” and “farthest north,” as he explains to me with proud
satisfaction.
Even without counting his comrades’ performances in the same kind,
Sabatele’s route-map is not an isolated phenomenon; on the contrary,
whole volumes have already been written on the subject of cartography
among the primitive races. Yet this unpretending little sketch is by no
means without psychological interest. We are accustomed to look at every
map from the south, considering the top of it as the north. All my
native maps are oriented in the opposite direction—they look at the
region represented as if from the north and place the south at the top
of the map.
[Illustration: MAKONDE WOMAN IN HOLIDAY ATTIRE]
This is likewise the case in the original of the one here reproduced,
which I have turned round through 180 degrees, merely in order to bring
it into agreement with our maps. The distances between the various
places are wrong, as already remarked, but otherwise it is wonderfully
correct, considered as the work of an entirely untrained man.
The last of the native drawings reproduced is a combination of
landscape-painting and topographical diagram—in it Salim Matola has
represented the mountains of his home at Masasi (p. 65). None of my
attempts to photograph this range were successful. When, in my
excursions, I reached a spot far enough off to see it as a whole, it was
even betting that the air would be too hazy; and when near enough to see
any of the hills well, I was too near to get a good view of all.
Salim has therefore supplied this want, and by no means unskilfully. It
is true that the native hunter on the top of Chironji, and his gun, are
both out of all proportion to the height of the mountain itself, and the
vegetation also errs in relative size (though not in character), but
everything else is right:—the series of gigantic peaks—Mkwera, Masasi,
Mtandi, Chironji, is given in the proper order, and, on the left, the
smaller outlying knobs of Mkomahindo, Kitututu and Nambele. The
steepness of the individual mountains is well rendered, as also the
rounded dome-shape of their tops;—perhaps it would not be too much to
say that Salim has tried, by parallel and concentric strokes, to
indicate the structure of the gneiss.
The early rains appear to follow me wherever I go. At Newala they began
at the end of September; at Nchichira, a few weeks later, and here at
Mahuta they set in with considerable violence at the end of October.
Fortunately I was able, before they began, to enjoy the natives even to
excess. The Makonde have for the last few weeks, been celebrating a
veritable series of popular festivals on a small scale, on the fine
large arena within the _boma_ enclosure. As these festivities were quite
spontaneous, I was able to feel assured of their genuinely native
character. More than once I saw the stilt-dancers, with their gigantic
strides, rigid, masked faces and waving draperies, stalking through the
crowd. One afternoon, a dancer, cleverly disguised as a monkey, earned
universal applause by his excellent imitation of the animal’s movements
and gestures. The African is fond of laughing—perhaps because he knows
that this reflex movement displays his magnificent teeth very
becomingly, but on this occasion the gambols and somersaults of the
mimic furnished a sufficient excuse for the echoing volleys of mirth.
[Illustration: MAKONDE HAMLET NEAR MAHUTA]
[Illustration: A DIABOLO PLAYER ON THE MAKONDE PLATEAU]
Another man, a muscular fellow of middle height, seemed to be a popular
all-round comedian. He first showed himself a skilled contortionist—in
fact, he might have appeared without hesitation in any European circus.
He next gave an equally masterly performance on the swinging trapeze,
four strong men holding up a long pole which served as the axis of his
evolutions. Finally, he distinguished himself as a clown. In accordance
with the mental constitution of the race, however, the comic effect was
produced, not so much by facial expression as by his attitudes and the
movements of his legs, as will be seen by the cinematograph records I
took of his performance. To complete the proof of his versatility, he
appeared in the second part of the programme as the hero of a pantomime.
This was a “problem play” of sorts,—the husband a blockhead, the wife
(played as in the classic drama of antiquity, by a man) an artful
coquette,—the lover, a Don Juan, approved in all the arts of seduction.
The foundation of the drama, as will be seen, is so far cosmopolitan,
but the naturalness and simplicity with which all the incidents of
actual life took place on the stage was genuinely primitive and African,
and equally African was the imperturbable gravity of the public, who
obviously followed the progress of the action with the deepest interest.
There was no silly laughter at the wrong time; no one made audible
comments.
[Illustration: DIABOLO]
If anyone is still inclined to doubt that the original and
uncontaminated culture of our primitive peoples is rapidly perishing, I
would request him to consider the following.
Again it is a lively afternoon: dancing, singing, and games going on
everywhere. I am fully occupied, as usual, but all at once, my attention
is directed to a figure apparently pursuing an individual activity by
itself. The arms move rhythmically up and down, holding two sticks about
half-a-yard in length, united by a string of twisted bark. Suddenly the
arms are abruptly thrown apart, the right being stretched upward, the
left spread sideways, and like a bomb a still unrecognisable object
descends out of the air, is cleverly caught on the string, and runs like
a frightened weasel backwards and forwards between the ends of the
sticks. Immediately afterwards it has again vanished in the air, but
returns repentant to its owner, and the process continues. I feel that I
have somewhere seen this before, and rack my brain for some time—at last
I have it. This is no other than the game of diabolo, which as we read
in the German papers, is pursued with such enthusiasm in England and
other countries where games are the rage. When I left home, it was still
unknown to my compatriots, who, in this as in other matters, limp slowly
but steadily after the rest of the world; but I venture to prognosticate
that it will begin to flourish among us when other nations have dropped
it as an obsolete fashion. Now, too, I can recall a picture of the game
seen in a shop-window at Leipzig, and if I compare my recollection of
this with the action of the man before me, I must confess that this
solution of the technical problem could not be bettered. The narrow
wedge-shaped notch cut all round the convex surface of the wooden
cylinder gives free play to the string without appreciably diminishing
the weight of the whole.[69]
Had I not been aware that the rain is the only cause for the daily
falling off in the number of my visitors, I should here, too, have
reason to consider myself a mighty magician; but, as it is, the people
tell me frankly enough that it is now time to attend to their fields. To
be candid, the leisure thus obtained is not at all unwelcome. I am,
indeed, satisfied, more than satisfied, and have several times caught
myself passing over with indifference the most interesting phenomena in
the life of the people. There are limits to the receptive power of the
human mind, and when overtaxed, as mine has recently been, it altogether
refuses to take in further impressions.
Only Ningachi and his school never fail to excite my interest. Our
_baraza_ is the second house on the south side of the _boma_, beginning
from the east. The first is the alleged abode of some _Baharia_; but in
reality it seems to be a large harem, for women’s voices keep up an
incessant giggling and chattering there. In the third house lives His
Excellency the Secretary of State to the Viceroy, in other words the
officially appointed clerk to the Wali. He is a Swahili from Dar es
Salam, and an intimate friend of Moritz’s, but his relations with the
pillar of my migratory household have not prevented my giving the rascal
a good dressing down. For some time after my arrival, I was unable to
get a proper night’s rest, on account of the perpetual crying of a baby,
evidently in pain, which was audible from somewhere close at hand.
Before long, I had traced it to its source and cited father, mother and
son to appear in my consulting-room. Both parents, on examination,
proved to be thoroughly healthy and as fat as butter; the child, about a
year old, was likewise round as a ball, but covered from head to foot
with sores in consequence of the most disgraceful neglect. And this man
can read and write, and is, therefore, in the eyes of statisticians a
fully accredited representative of civilization, and looks down with
abysmal contempt on those who do not, like himself, lounge about in
white shirt and embroidered cap.
But now as to the fourth house. On the first morning, I saw, without
understanding the meaning of the sight, some six or eight half-grown
boys assembled in front of it about half-past six. My first thought was
that they were going to play, and, as I watched them, they arranged
themselves in Indian file in the order of their height. They were then
joined by a man in a white shirt, and, at a sign from him, vanished, one
after another, in the same order, under the overhanging eaves. A sound
reached my ear soon after, which, it is true, was in itself nothing
extraordinary; a deep voice reciting words immediately taken up by a
chorus of high trebles,—but something in the quality of the utterance
induced me to approach within earshot without knowing what attracted me.
Standing at a distance of a few feet from the house, I became aware that
I was actually listening to German words. An elementary lesson in
arithmetic was taking place. “_Und das ist eins_—and that is one,” began
Ningachi, and the class echoed his words. Then followed, in like manner,
“and that is two,” “and that is three,” and so on, up to thirty-one,
which appeared to be the limit of the teacher’s arithmetical knowledge,
as far as numeration is concerned, for he then proceeded to exercises in
addition and subtraction. Having listened to these lessons on many
successive mornings, I have reluctantly been forced to the conclusion
that they are a mere mechanical drill. The pupils are at once
embarrassed if asked to point out at random any figure in the series so
neatly written out on the blackboard by their teacher, and in the sums
they appear to be hopelessly at sea. “Two minus eight is six,” is a
comparatively venial error. Ningachi himself does not feel very happy
when going through this routine, but says that he was taught so in the
Government School at Mikindani, and is bound to teach in the same way
himself. It was no great consolation to the honest fellow to hear that
there are cramming establishments elsewhere.
[Illustration: ASKARI IN FATIGUE DRESS]
I finished my notes on the Makonde language in an astonishingly short
space of time. Like a god from the machine, my pearl of assistants,
Sefu, suddenly appeared from Newala, and in conjunction with him and
Ningachi I have been able to convince myself, in the course of seven
very strenuous days, that Makonde is most closely connected with the
neighbouring idioms, and that it is probably only the absence of the “s”
sound which has led other writers to describe it as very divergent from
Swahili and Yao. The want of this sound, however, I feel certain, is
intimately connected with the wearing of the _pelele_ in the upper lip.
I suppose all of us have, at one time or another, suffered from a badly
swelled upper lip. Is it possible, under such circumstances, to
articulate any sibilant whatever? This theory, indeed, supposes that the
men originally wore the same lip-ornaments as the women. But why should
this not have been the case? The Mavia men wear them even now, and the
Mavia are said to be very closely related to the Makonde.
Only with the Wamwera I have had no luck. I have never lost sight of my
intention to return and spend some time in the country of that tribe;
but the Wali, Sefu, and other well-informed men tell me it is
impossible. They say that the Wamwera, having been in rebellion against
the Government, were unable to plant their fields last season, as they
were in hiding in the bush.
“The Wamwera,” they say, “have been at war with the Germans, and so they
were living in the bush, for the whole of the planting season, and could
not sow their crops. They have long ago eaten up the little store they
had hidden, and now they have nothing more; they are all suffering from
hunger, and many of them have died.” My next suggestion was that we
should provision ourselves here and make for the Rondo plateau, but my
advisers were very much against this plan. They said the people in their
despair would fall upon us and fight with us for our supplies of corn.
Well, I thought, if the mountain will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet must
go to the mountain, and a few days later, there appeared, summoned by
special messengers, the two Wamwera alleged to be the most learned men
in the tribe. They were two elderly men, emaciated to skeletons, without
a trace of calves, or any other muscular development, while their sunken
cheeks and hollow eyes bore eloquent testimony to the terrible
sufferings they had undergone. We waited patiently while they were
getting fed—they devoured such quantities of porridge that their
stomachs protruded like large skittle-balls from their bodies. At last
they were in a fit condition to be questioned.
In spite of their reputation for wisdom, there was not much to be got
out of Machigo and Machunya; a few dozen clan names, a longer list of
simple words—that was all. Every attempt to ascertain by their help the
forms of verbs or any of the mysteries of syntax was an utter failure.
Probably it was not intelligence so much as intellectual training that
was wanting; anyone who should attempt to ascertain the structure of the
German language with the assistance of a bullock-driver, would doubtless
fare no better than I did.
I dismissed the old men after a short time without resentment—in fact, I
loaded them with presents, and, cheered by the consciousness of their
unexpected gains, they stepped out manfully on their road northward.
With the departure of the two gaunt professors of Kimwera, I have really
got rid of my last scientific care, and that is just as well, for, as I
have already remarked, my appetite is more than satiated. I have
accomplished a respectable amount of work in the past few months. I have
taken more than 1,200 photographs; but the non-photographer, who
imagines the art to be a mere amusement, will scarcely place this to my
credit; and only the expert can appreciate the amount of exertion and
excitement represented by the above number of negatives in a country
like this. I have already alluded to some difficulties; these have only
increased with time, for the sun is every day higher in the heavens, and
the intensity of the light between eight a.m. and five p.m. is quite
incredible. I have always kept an exact record, in my register of
negatives, of all details of weather and light, but nevertheless I have
not escaped failure—so difficult is it to judge the intensity of light
in the tropics. One night, one may have the satisfaction of finding,
when developing the day’s work, that by good luck all the exposures have
been right. Next day the weather is precisely the same—you take the same
stop, and expose for the same length of time—and yet, when evening
comes, you find that every plate is over or under exposed. This is not
exhilarating. Then there is the perpetual worry about the background.
Unfortunately, I have brought no isochromatic plates; but the want of
them is partly supplied by a huge tarpaulin which I originally took with
me to cover my baggage at night, but which never served this purpose.
Even before leaving Masasi, we fastened it between two bamboo poles, and
covered one side of it with one or two lengths of _sanda_. Since then I
have always used it in photographing when the sun is high, to screen off
a too-strongly illuminated background. And if nothing else will serve,
the strongest of my men hold the screen over the object, when I find
myself obliged to take an important photograph with the sun directly
overhead.
Next come the phonograph cylinders. The extremely high temperature of
the lowlands has deprived me of the opportunity of making some valuable
records—a loss which must be borne with what philosophy I can summon to
my aid. It is the easier to do so, that, in spite of the drawbacks
referred to, I have only five left out of my five-dozen cylinders, and
for these, too, I can find an excellent use; to-morrow they shall be
covered with the finest Nyamwezi melodies. As to the cinematograph, I
must remember that I am a pioneer, and as such must not only incur all
the inconvenience involved in the imperfections of an industry as yet in
its infancy, but take the risk of all the dangers which threaten
gelatine films in the tropics. It certainly does not dispose one to
cheerfulness, when Ernemann writes from Dresden that my last consignment
of films has again proved a failure; but I have given over worrying over
things of this sort, ever since my vexation at the fall of my 9 x 12 cm.
camera let me in for the severe fever I went through at Chingulungulu.
Besides, I know, by those I have developed myself, that about two-thirds
of my thirty-eight cinematograph records must be fairly good, or at
least good enough to use, and that is a pretty fair proportion for a
beginner. Over twenty such imperishable documents of rapidly
disappearing tribal life and customs—I am quite disposed to congratulate
myself!
But my chief ground for pride is the quantity, and even more the quality
of my ethnological and sociological notes, which surely will not be an
entirely valueless contribution to our knowledge of the East African
native. As a stranger in the country, I could not, of course, in the
short time at my disposal, survey all the departments of native life,
but I have made detailed studies of a great many. I must not forget my
exceptional good fortune with regard to the _unyago_; the elucidation of
these mysteries would alone have amply repaid the journey.
To conclude with my ethnographic collection. In the Congo basin, and in
West Africa I should probably, in the same space of time, have been
able, without any difficulty, to get together a small ship-load of
objects, while here in the East a collection of under two thousand
numbers represents the material culture of tribes covering a whole
province. The number of individual specimens might, indeed, have been
increased, but not that of categories, so thoroughly have I searched the
native villages and rummaged their huts one by one. After all, the East
African native is a poor man.
But what is the use of speculating as to what is attainable or
unattainable? The sun is shining brightly, the woods are fresh and green
after the shower, and some of the _askari_ are lounging against the
palisade in a picturesque if untidy group. The metamorphosis undergone
by our native warrior in the course of the day is certainly surprising.
Smart and active on the drill-ground—they look on their drill as a kind
of game, and call it playing at soldiers—he is just the reverse, from
our German point of view, in the afternoon and evening.
It must be acknowledged that he knows how to make himself comfortable
when off duty. He has his boy to wait on him, even to take his gun from
his hand the moment the word has been given to “dismiss”; and the
respect commanded, in Africa as elsewhere, by anything in the shape of a
uniform secures him the best of everything wherever he goes. He lounges
through the hot hours on his host’s most commodious bedstead, and, when
evening comes on, sallies forth in fatigue dress to captivate the girls
of the place. They are less charming, it is true, than those of Lindi,
but a man has to take what he can get. The slovenly figures in the
photograph are those of Lumbwula and the Nubian Achmed Mohammed, taking
their ease in this fashion.
My release from work and worry has worked miracles, physiologically
speaking;—I sleep in my bed like a hibernating bear, wield a mighty
knife and fork at table and increase in circumference almost perceptibly
from day to day. Moreover, we have been living fairly well for the last
few weeks. The first case of porter was followed by a second, and
various other delights came up at the same time from Lindi—genuine
unadulterated milk from the blessed land of Mecklenburg, fresh
_pumpernickel_, new potatoes from British East Africa, tinned meats and
fruits in abundance, and so forth. The lean weeks of Newala are
forgotten, and our not much more luxurious sojourn at Chingulungulu
recedes into the misty past. The evenings, too, are pleasant and
leisurely. As decreed by a kindly destiny, I find that I have still some
plates left, but no chemicals for developing and fixing, so that I can
photograph as much as I like, while compelled to dispense with the
trying work of developing the plates in the close tent. Omari has
provided a spatchcocked fowl for our evening meal, which smells inviting
and tastes delicious. He has here revived for our benefit the primitive
process of roasting already known to prehistoric man, which consists of
simply holding the meat over the fire till done. Only one innovation has
been introduced: after splitting up the carcase of the fowl, Omari has
rubbed salt and pepper into it. This, though historically incorrect,
improves the flavour so much that it is quite a pardonable piece of
vandalism.
Here come my carriers, issuing with clean clothes and radiant faces from
their temporary lodgings in one of the thatched huts of the _boma_. They
know that in the next few days we are going on _safari_ again, the goal
in view being this time the eagerly anticipated paradise of the coast.
And they will be receiving uncounted sums of money at Lindi. Many a time
have they grumbled at the _Bwana Mkubwa_, because he refused them an
advance, when they wanted so very much to make a present to some pretty
girl in a neighbouring village. They had even been directly asked for
such presents, but the _Bwana Pufesa_ made a point of saying to any man
who wanted a trifle of a loan, “_Nenda zako_”—(“Be off with you”). He
was very hard, was the _Bwana Pufesa_, but it was best so, after all;
for now we shall get all the money paid down at once—it must be over
forty rupees. What times we shall have at Lindi—not to mention Dar es
Salam! And we will go to the Indian’s store and buy ourselves _visibau_
finer even than the ones sported by those apes of Waswahili.
The crimson glow of the sunset is still lingering on the western
horizon, while the full moon is rising in the east, behind the great
spreading tree, under which my camera has been planted day after day for
the last few weeks; and I am watching the spectacle, stretched
comfortably in my long chair, and at the same time listening to the
chant of the Wanyamwezi.
[Music:
Air A.
hi-la-la hi-la-la yum-be wa-li-la ki-ja-na wa-wa se-se
wa-tog-wa mam-bas-ya hi-si ngu-vu nsia-ko mwa-na wa li sum-bu-ka
wa-wo da-ma-na o-sen-te ki-ja-na ma-wa-na wa-li ne-na
ya kwe-li hi-la-la hi-la-la yum-be wa-li-la ki-ja-na wa-wa se-se
wa-tog-wa mam-bas-ja o dya-mu-yin-ga wa-wa ne-ne o dya-mu-yin-ga
wa ma yo a-ne ku-le-ka wa na wu-li-la
si-li-lo si-li-lo si-li-lo-lo wa-wa si-li-lo si-li-lo si-li-lo o sen-te
wa-to-gwa mam-bas-ya o dya-mu-yin-ga wa-wa ne-ne o dya-mu-yin-ga
wa ma-yo a-ne-ku-le-ka wa-na wu-li-la
hi-la-la hi-la-la yum-be wa-li-la ki-ja-na wa-wa se-
se wa-tog-wa mam-bas-ya hi-si ngu-vu nsis-ko wa-na wa li sum-bu-ka
wa-wo da-ma-na o son-te ki-ja-na ma-wa-na wa-li ne-na ya kwe-li.]
With the deep notes characteristic of the Wanyamwezi, the chant
penetrates the ear of the European listener. My men have often sung it
at Newala, at Majaliwa’s, and here at Mahuta, always accompanying the
rhythm of the song with equally rhythmical movements. It is a
hoeing-song. The Mnyamwezi going out into the fields with his hoe is
provided with a whole repertoire of such songs; the body bends and rises
in regular time as the broad blade crunches its way through the soil,
and the chant of labour sounds softly and harmoniously over the wide
plain. At this moment, when the men are squatting round me in
picturesque groups, they snap their fingers in time with great spirit
and energy, instead of going through the motions of hoeing.
The air is pleasing enough and insensibly steals into the consciousness
of the listening European, carrying him away from the harsh, raw nature
of Africa to the ancient civilisation of his native land, which the busy
days now left behind have left him little leisure to recall. As Pesa
mbili’s clear baritone alternates with the deep-toned chorus I recall
the blacksmith at the forge, seeking the rhythm in his strokes which
keeps his arm from tiring so soon in wielding the heavy hammer. It takes
me back, too, to my boyhood, when few if any small farmers owned a
threshing machine, and I used to hear from our neighbour’s barn the
triple and quadruple time of the flails. The same sort of rhythm, too,
is heard in our streets, above the bustle and noise of traffic, when the
paviours are ramming down the stones,—_ping_, _ping_, _ping_, _ping_,
_ping_, _ping_,—each note louder or softer according to the degree of
force employed, but all in the strictest time. This rhythm is the
outcome of a need inherent in human nature: it precedes, indeed it is
indispensable to, any sustained bodily exertion. This is felt even by
civilized people, as we see when the striking-up of the band puts new
life and vigour into the tired legs of a marching regiment, or when a
number of men are engaged in moving a heavy load; and it is true in a
much greater degree of the African. I am convinced that he cannot
accomplish the easiest task unless he accompanies it with a rapidly
improvised chant; even the heavily-ironed convicts in the chain-gangs,
push or pull their barrows to a continuous antiphonal chant. Thus, too,
when a number of people are hoeing a field together, the work becomes a
game in which the body spontaneously falls into the rhythmic motions of
the dance; but no dance is without its song.
The song comes to an end with a long-drawn _kweli_ (“it is true”). The
Wanyamwezi are famed for their endurance, both in marching and singing,
and the above performance has lasted for a considerable time. But after
a short pause the indefatigable Pesa mbili begins again,—this time with
my favourite melody, _Kulya mapunda_.
[Music:
kul-ya ma-pun-da wan-i-lam-ba wa-ha-ya na-ne ly-a ma-pun-da
wa-li-ha-ya ha-sim-po a-wa-ya-ko-ka ya-mo ka-gis-ya wa-na ka-lya lya
ku-li ma-yu ni-sa ho-wa-nä-ti na-no-wa-we-la na wa po-li-cy
wan-sen-te la-gi ko-li tu-li-ku-ja mwi-ko-lo a-li gon-ga twe-ka
na-we-li san-ga na-li san-ga wa-le lyangwi (la) o ku-mu-wa-nä-ti
ku ni-so-le ku-lya ma-pun-da ku-lya ma-pun-da wan-i-lam-ba wa-ha-ya
na-ne
ly-a ma-pun-da wa-li-ha-ya ha-sim-po a-wa-ya-ko-ka ya
mo ka-gis-ya wa-na ka-lya lya ku-li ma-yu ni-sa ho-wa-nä-ti
na no-wa-we-la na no-wa-we-la na wa po-li-cy wan-sen-te
la-gi ko-li tu-li-ku-ja mwi-ko-lo a-li gon-ga twe-ka
na-we-li san-ga na-li san-ga wa-le lyangwi o ku-mu-wa-nä-ti.]
The singing has exercised its usual fascination on the European auditor,
he is sitting upright and vigorously joining in, to the delight of the
performers. This _hasimpo_, as it is usually called for brevity’s sake,
is sung to accompany a dance. In the hoeing-song the tune and the words,
so far as I have been able to translate the latter, show some degree of
congruity with each other, but I cannot as yet make head or tail of what
Pesa mbili has to-day dictated to me as the gist of this _hasimpo_ song.
For the sake of completeness I will first give my attempt at the
translation of the _hilala_.
“Work, work. The headman will weep for his son. They love the white
_ombasha_, he is strong. Thanks, the son has prophesied. Oh! blockhead
that I am! my mother is going away, the children are crying. Do not cry,
do not cry, do not cry.”
As will be seen, it is confused enough, but at least some parts appear
to have a connected sense, and the _sililo_ “do not weep,” thrice
repeated, sounds rather touching. It is less easy to fit the
_ombasha_—the corporal—into the framework of the song; but who shall
fathom the profundities of the African mind? especially when it is the
mind of a poet.
The dancing song is as follows:—
“The Wairamba are eating vegetables—they are eating vegetables, I say,
at the well. When you get home, salute my mother, and tell her I am
coming. So I said and the police seized the devil. We set down our loads
of cloth and beads and yet again beads. The sun is going down, the time
for dancing is at an end.”
Here again the reference to the mother is a pathetic touch, but the
police and the nature of their association with the Prince of Darkness
must remain a mystery.
Now comes the song of the Standard:—
[Music:
yooh nderu-le yooh nderu-le wa bwa-na mku-bwa nderu-le
wa bwa-na mku-bwa nderu-le ku-bwa sum-ba na wo-gi nde-ru-le-wa
yooh-nderu-le.]
It is the chant of the Long Trail—the glorification of travel for its
own sake,—the element as necessary to the Mnyamwezi as his _ugali_:—“O
journey! O journey with the great master, O (delightful) journey! He
will give cloth to the young men—O journey, O beautiful journey!”
The deep bass notes have died away slowly, almost mournfully, and the
men are visibly growing sleepy; in fact, it is nearly ten, by which hour
they are usually rolled up in their mats and dreaming of home. A
questioning glance from Pesa mbili induces me to give the signal; the
whole band vanishes almost without a sound, and I am left alone. Really
alone, for Knudsen has been away for some days, hunting in the valley.
The people there sent him word that numbers of elephants had been seen,
and after that there was no keeping him back. He hurried off at such a
pace that his cook, Latu, and his boy, Wanduwandu, a splendid big Yao,
could scarcely follow him. He was to have returned at noon to-day. I
wonder what has detained him.
CHAPTER XVIII
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]
CHAPTER XIX
FROM LINDI TO TANGA
ON BOARD THE SS. _König_, IN THE MEDITERRANEAN, OFF THE MOUTHS OF THE
NILE, January 20, 1907.
A few hours ago, in losing sight of the palms of Port Said, we left the
last of Africa behind us. The flat, sandy shore of the Egyptian Delta
has now vanished from our view, and a grey waste of waters lies before
the vessel as she fights her way with increasing difficulty against the
rising north-west gale. The Mediterranean in winter is not inviting. No
trace in reality of the ever-cloudless sky we have been taught to look
for; and Captain Scharf, who certainly ought to know, says that he has
never experienced any other weather here at this time of year. This
season is always cold and stormy, forming no pleasant transition between
the delightful temperature of the Red Sea in winter and the sub-Arctic
climate of the Atlantic and the North Sea. We shall have to steam along
the coast of Crete and to pass close enough to the southern extremity of
Greece, to catch sight of the snow-covered peaks of the Spartan
mountains; so much does the head-wind retard the course of our
broad-bowed, somewhat old-fashioned boat, which, for a first-class
steamer, makes wonderfully little way. The traveller has all the more
leisure to retire, in the comfortable smoking-saloon, into the solitude
of his own thoughts, and take stock of all that he has seen, heard and
learnt in the last nine months.
The evening of the 2nd of December passed very pleasantly on board the
_Kanzler_ in Lindi roadstead. One could scarcely make out where so many
white-clad Europeans came from, all at once. One of the passengers
attributed this influx to the iced Pilsener which Ewerbeck and I
lavished in unlimited quantities in the high spirits of departure; but
this suggestion is scarcely to be taken seriously. The presence of a
German steamer in the harbour is in these latitudes always a festival,
celebrated by most people whenever it comes round. And quite rightly so,
for nothing is more deadening than the monotony of workaday life in
Africa.
The trip which had taken the _Rufiji_ three days of hard work was
performed by the swift _Kanzler_ in one day. Early on the morning of the
fourth, Ewerbeck and I landed at Dar es Salam: Ewerbeck, in order to
take his final leave of the Protectorate, and I, to give account to the
Government of the financial and administrative side of my expedition.
For a new-comer like myself a change of place made no difference; but
the Imperial District Commissioner was visibly moved by sad and serious
thoughts. He had spent the best part of his life, over fifteen years, in
the development of this very part of German East Africa; and, in such a
case, a man does not leave the scene of his labours with a light heart.
Dar es Salam was still more delightful than in June. At this time of
year it abounds in mangoes of every size and every variety. The
mango-tree was long ago imported from India, and is now found wherever
Indians are settled in East Africa, whether in British, German, or
Portuguese territory. It is certainly a pleasanter immigrant than the
low-caste Indian; it somewhat resembles our linden tree in its mode of
growth, and gives a pleasant look of home to a settlement. The fruit,
sometimes as large as a child’s head, is served on ice at every meal,
and is almost equal in flavour to the pine-apple.
Into this pleasant, easy life the news of the events of December 13th
came like a bolt from the blue. An excellent hotel, the “Kaiserhof,” had
been opened just before my return to Dar es Salam, and I had the great
pleasure of being one of its first guests. We were almost suffocated
with comfort: electric light, a broad, shady verandah outside every
room, a comfortable bath-room attached to each apartment, and a more
than luxurious table were, together, almost too much of a good thing,
after our lean months in the bush. Fortunately, however, man becomes
accustomed to every thing, even to good living.
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR IN BUSH COSTUME]
I have seldom seen so many long faces as in those days, when the news of
the sudden dissolution of the Reichstag burst like a bomb in the
comfortable, well-to-do official circles of the town. It seemed as
though every single European, down to the lowest subordinate, had been
personally affected by the event; all the mess-rooms were loud with the
dismal prognostications of the croakers as to the black future—or rather
the want of any future—before the colony, whose inglorious end seemed
placed beyond doubt, as each of us foresaw that the General Election in
January would admit at least a hundred Socialists to the Reichstag. “And
of course it is all up with the railways,” was the stereotyped refrain
of all these lamentations, which the mourners duly drowned in a sea of
whisky and soda. Personally I am convinced that things will not be as
bad as that, but that the next Reichstag will show at least as much
feeling for the colonies as its predecessor, or, indeed, it is to be
hoped, still more. On January 25th our steamer is to arrive at Genoa; on
that date the elections will be over, and on the following day we shall
be able to get a general survey of the results, and form some idea as to
the fate of our colonies in the immediate future.
I left Dar es Salam on December 20th by the _Admiral_, a splendid boat,
almost new, and rolling far less even than the _Prinzregent_. It was
also more comfortable than the latter; it was no wonder, therefore, that
all the cabins were full. We had still more English on board than in the
spring; many from Cape Town, and still more from Johannesburg.
Accordingly, the prevailing style of dress was noticeably luxurious.
This time I was able to go ashore at Tanga, and even see something of
the Usambara railway. Captain Doherr, with his usual foresight, had
(probably remembering the managerial functions which he had been called
upon to perform a few months previously, in the service of the eight
Deputies) arranged for a special train to be ready for the passengers,
or at least for such as wished to avail themselves of it. With this we
made the run to Muhesa, where the expedition was brought to a halt by
means of enormous dishes of sandwiches and trays of whiskies and sodas.
Something is really being done in the north-east of the colony, as one
can see even from the train; it is true that not all the land is yet
under cultivation, but every bit of it is already in the hands of a
permanent owner, even far beyond the rail-head.
There were grand doings at Tanga in the evening. This town enjoys a
whole series of advantages. In the first place, it is the nearest to the
mother country of all our East African ports, and thus constitutes the
gateway to the colony. In the second place, the harbour is tolerably
good; the bay, indeed, is not land-locked to the same extent as that of
Dar es Salam, but, like the latter, it has sufficient anchorage within a
short distance of the shore. The most important point, however, is its
nearness to Usambara, the choicest part of our territory as regards
climate and soil. Usambara has but one fault: it is not large enough to
accommodate all would-be settlers. It is said that even now the
available land has been allotted, and there is no chance for later
applicants. Many of these are now staying at Tanga, or on their way
south to seek new fields for their energies: in fact, the boom at Lindi
was in great part caused by the congestion in the north. The economic
centre of gravity, therefore, for our whole colonial activity lies at
present in this north-eastern district. This, by the bye, is evident
from the whole aspect of European life at Tanga. After passing many
months on end in the Usambara mountains, with no opportunities for
social intercourse, the planter suddenly feels the need of society, and
in a few hours’ time we may behold him seated in the club at Tanga.
Where there are Germans, there is also music. Dar es Salam enjoys the
advantage of two bands—that of the sailors from the two cruisers, and
that of the _askari_. Both are under official patronage, but I cannot
say much for the proficiency of the native performers: in any case,
their music was accompanied by a great deal of noise. At Tanga it is not
in economic matters only that the residents assert their
independence—even the Boys’ Band of that town is a purely private
enterprise. Tanga is a scholastic centre _par excellence_, hundreds of
native children being instructed in the elements of European knowledge
and initiated into the mysteries of the German tongue, which, indeed,
one finds that all the little black imps can speak after a fashion. The
more intelligent, in whom their teachers discover, or think they
discover, any musical gift, are admitted to the famous Boys’ Band. This
is just now in excellent training. When the passengers from the
_Admiral_ presented themselves in the evening on the square in front of
the Club, the band turned out to welcome them, and the playing was
really remarkably good.
CHAPTER XX
RETROSPECT
AT THE ENTRANCE TO THE RED SEA.
Christmas and New Year’s Eve were passed at sea, with the usual
festivities; the latter, on which the dancing was kept up with equal
enthusiasm and energy by German and English passengers, was also the eve
of our arrival at Suez.
About noon on the first day of January, 1907, I set foot on the soil of
Egypt, which I have only just left, after a stay of nearly three weeks.
I had a great desire to study the relics of ancient Egyptian culture on
the spot, and therefore left Cairo and its neighbourhood as speedily as
possible for Upper Egypt—Luxor, Karnak and Deir el Bahri. From a
climatic point of view, also, Cairo was not well adapted for an
intermediate station between the tropics and the winter of Northern
Europe. One after another of our passengers remaining behind for a tour
in Egypt became indisposed. Some, therefore, took the next boat for
Germany, arguing that their colds “would cost less at home,” while
others made off up the Nile by _train de luxe_, in order to accustom
themselves slowly and carefully in the glorious desert air of Assuan to
the sub-arctic climate of Ulaya.
The Assuan dam is historically a piece of Vandalism, technically a
meritorious piece of engineering, economically a truly great
achievement. The narrow-gauge railway winds up the Nile in sharp curves
between Luxor and Assuan. Sometimes the Nile flows in immediate
proximity to the track—sometimes there is a narrow strip of alluvial
level between the sacred stream and the new unholy iron road. All this
time one is oppressed by the narrowness of the country; it seems as if
the first high wind must blow the sand right across it and bury it
altogether. Suddenly the bare hills on the left retreat: a wide plain
opens out before us, only bounded in the far distance by the sharp
contours of the hills in the Arabian Desert. The plain itself, too, is a
desert—but how long will it remain so? Turn to the right and consider
the great block of buildings which meets your eye. It is neither
Egyptian nor Arabian, there is none of the dirt of Fellah barbarism
about it; on the contrary, it represents the purest Anglo-American
factory style. The tall chimney crowning the whole, and emitting a dense
cloud of smoke, forms an incongruous contrast with its surroundings—the
silver Nile with its border of green fields, running like a ribbon
across the boundless sands of the desert to east and west. Look before
you at the straight canal crossing the plain and lost to sight in the
distance and the ditches and channels by which it distributes the Nile
water in all directions, with perfect regularity. The building is a
pumping-station, established to restore the desert plain by irrigation
to its former fertility. Now it is still perfectly bare: in a few
months’ time, it will be a sea of waving corn with stalks bearing fruit
a hundredfold.
The economic exploitation of the Upper Nile Valley is an example which
ought to be followed by our own colonial administration. Without a
resolute purpose, without capital, and without accurate knowledge of the
country and its resources, even that English or American company could
do nothing. We need all three factors, if we want to make any progress,
whether in Eastern or in South-Western Africa, in Kamerun or in Togo.
There is only one small point of difference—the alluvial soil of the
Nile Valley, accumulated through many myriads of years needs nothing but
irrigation to once more make it into arable soil of the first quality.
The Nile, wisely regulated, is the magic wand which will, almost
instantaneously, change the desert into a fruitful field. This
transforming agency is absent in the bush and steppes of German East
Africa. It is true that that country possesses numerous streams, but at
present their volume of water is subject to no regulation, and none of
them is navigable on the same imposing scale as the Nile. In the course
of years, no doubt, the Pangani will become an artery of traffic, as
also the Rufiji, and perhaps our frontier stream, the Rovuma; but it
will not be within the lifetime of the present generation.
The soil of German East Africa, too, cannot be compared with that of
Egypt; it is no alluvial deposit, rich in humus, but in general a
tolerably poor one, produced by the weathering of the outcropping rocks
and not to be rendered fertile by moisture alone. Nevertheless, so far
as I am able to judge, the water question remains the cardinal one in
our colonial agriculture. At Saadani they have begun at once to do
things on the grand scale, breaking up large areas with steam-ploughs,
in the hope that wholesale cotton cultivation may put an end to the
American monopoly. So far this is very good; the temperature is
favourable, and the soil quite suitable for such a crop. One factor only
is uncertain: German East Africa, like India, is never able to reckon on
a normal amount of atmospheric moisture—and, if the rains fail, what
then?
The Dark Continent has often been compared to an inverted plate. The
land slopes gently upwards from the sea-shore, the angle of inclination
gradually becoming greater, till we have a bordering range of mountains
of considerable height. But it is only as seen from the coast that this
range can be said to have a mountainous character; once he has crossed
it, the traveller finds that, as on the heights of the Harz or the
Rhenish slate mountains, he is on a plain almost level with its summit.
To carry out the comparison with the plate, we may say that he has now
crossed the narrow ledge at the bottom, and is now walking over the
horizontal surface within that ledge.
This peculiar conformation has to be taken into account by those engaged
in developing our colonies, _i.e._, in the first place, it is
responsible for the fact that the rivers are navigable only to a very
slight degree, if at all. In the second place, the greater part of the
rainfall is precipitated on the seaward slope of the range, while its
other side is almost rainless, which accounts for the arid character of
Ugogo and the neighbouring districts. Yet the greater part even of this
interior has a soil on which any crops which can be cultivated at all in
Equatorial Africa are well able to thrive. The planter there is
fortunate in being able to count on the vivifying influence of the
tropical sun, which, throughout the year, conjures flourishing fields
out of the merest sand. In the south I was able, day after day, to
convince myself of the truth of this assertion.
The South has hitherto been the Cinderella of our colonial districts,
and I fear it is likely to remain so. The prejudice as to its barrenness
has deterred both official and private enterprise. It is true that
neither the Mwera Plateau nor the Makonde highlands, nor the wide plains
extending behind these two upland areas, between the Rovuma in the south
and the Mbemkuru or the Rufiji in the north, can be called fertile. Sand
and loam, loam and sand, in the one case, and quartz detritus in the
other, are the dominant note of the whole. Yet we have absolutely no
reason to despair of this country, for if the native can make a living
out of the soil, without manuring and with none of the appliances of our
highly-developed intensive farming—if this same native is in a position
to export an appreciable fraction of his produce in the shape of
sesamum, ground-nuts, rubber, wax, cereals and pulse—it would surely be
strange if the white man could not make much more out of the same
ground.
One thing, indeed, must never be forgotten: neither this district nor
Africa in general is a _pays de Cocagne_ where roast pigeons will fly of
their own accord into people’s mouths; work, unceasing, strenuous work,
is just as much an indispensable condition of progress as in less happy
climates. We have had sufficient opportunity to observe and appreciate
this persevering industry in the case of the Makonde, the Yaos, and the
Makua. And we may be sure of one thing, that the European planter,
whether in the north or the south, on the coast or in the interior, will
not have a much easier time than these people. That, however, will do
him no harm; on the contrary, the harder the struggle for existence, the
more vigorous has been the development of a colony throughout the whole
course of human history. The United States of to-day are the standing
proof of this assertion; the South African colonies, now developing in a
most satisfactory manner, speak no less clearly, and other cases in
point might easily be adduced.
The waves are running higher, the _König_ having more breadth of beam
than depth, does not roll, but cannot help shipping more seas than she
would like. Ought I, in face of this grand spectacle, to let myself be
absorbed in useless forecasts of the future? My friend Hiram Rhodes’s
taunt about “political childhood” was cruel—yet there was some truth in
it, and not as regards the Zanzibar treaty only. We Germans have begun
colonizing three hundred years later than other nations, and yet Dick,
Tom and Harry are raising an outcry because our colonies, acquired fully
twenty years ago, do not yet produce a surplus. The honest fellows think
that “South-West” alone ought to be in a position to relieve them from
the necessity of paying any taxes whatever. One could tear one’s hair at
such folly and such utter lack of the historic sense. Most books are
printed in Germany—none are bought, and but few read there. Among these
few we can scarcely include any works on colonial history, otherwise it
would be impossible that even colonial experts should know so little of
those thousand conflicts, difficulties and reverses experienced to their
cost by the English in India, in the South Seas, in Africa, and in
America, and which over and over again might well have disgusted the
Dutch, the Spaniards, and the Portuguese with their extensive colonial
possessions. Unconsciously influenced by the wealth of England and the
affluence of Holland, both in great part arising from their foreign
possessions, we are apt to forget that three centuries are a period
fifteen times as long as our own colonial era, and that at least ten
generations of English and Dutch have won by hard, unceasing work what
we expect to receive without effort on our part. I am firmly convinced
that we shall never learn to appreciate our really splendid possessions
till a more thorough system of instruction has supplied the want above
referred to—doubly inexcusable in a nation whose intellectual
pre-eminence is everywhere acknowledged.
Such historic sense is to be gained by putting two kinds of capital into
the colonies—the blood shed for their preservation and development, and
the hard cash spent on the utilization of their resources.
To illustrate the extent of the British Colonial Empire and its
distribution throughout the world, it is often pointed out that the
mother country is seldom without a colonial war of some kind. This is
true in the present, and it has also been true in the past: England has
in fact always had to fight for her dominions beyond sea. Undoubtedly,
this three hundred years’ struggle for possession, which, under her
special circumstances has often been for England a struggle for
existence, is the principal ground for the peculiarly close and intimate
relation between the mother country and the daughter states. Hardly a
family but has dear ones buried in Indian or African soil. This fact at
first attaches to the country a painful interest, which very soon gives
rise to an interest of another sort. The truth of this doctrine has been
illustrated in the saddest way for us by the sanguinary war in South
Western Africa.
The other kind of capital—the monetary—cannot be discussed in the case
of our colonies without touching on the railway question. What
complaints have been made of the invincible reluctance of German
capitalists to engage in colonial undertakings! I am not myself a
wealthy man, but, if I had a million to lose, I should nevertheless
hesitate before investing it in a country without means of
communication, being entirely devoid of natural ones, while artificial
ones are as yet only in the elementary stage. At home, every one is now
expecting great things from the new driver of our colonial chariot. Herr
Dernburg is a trained financier, and he, perhaps, can succeed where
others have failed—in the completion of the great railway system
projected long ago, and in procuring the no less necessary financial
resources.
Lastly, the native is not without an important bearing on the future of
our East African colony. As an ethnographer, I am in a better position
to form an opinion about him than with respect to other questions, in
which the outsider like myself has only common sense to guide him. The
black man is pronounced by some, “an untrained child;” by others,
“utterly depraved and incurably lazy.” There is yet a third party who
are inclined to leave him at least one or two small virtues, but these
are steadily shouted down. It is true that the native population of the
Coast towns have a horror of any serious work, and look down on it as a
lowering of themselves; but I think we may be permitted to entertain a
better opinion as to the great mass of the people in German East Africa.
The most numerous tribe in the whole colony are the Wanyamwezi, who are
estimated at about four million souls, and occupy the whole central area
east of the Great Rift Valley. No one has yet ventured to doubt their
industry or their capacity for progress; they are excellent
agriculturists, and at the same time they were, for a whole century, the
mainstay of the caravan trade between the coast and the heart of the
continent. Before long this traffic must in the nature of things cease,
but we have no right to suppose that the Wanyamwezi will therefore
become superfluous. A glance over the reports of the Uganda Railway will
show us how fortunate we are in possessing such an element in the social
structure as this vigorous tribe. Let us then be wise enough to
encourage and develop this economic force for the native’s own benefit,
and above all to get the full advantage of it ourselves. What is true of
the Wanyamwezi is also true of many other tribes. Even now, I cannot
forget the impression made on me by the high average of the farming
which I saw among my friends in the Rovuma Valley. People who, however
often they have been displaced, still cling so firmly to the soil, must
certainly have great potentialities for good, or all the teachings of
racial psychology and history are falsified. This unexpectedly high
stage of culture can only be explained by an evolution extending over a
period of incalculable length. There is nothing to disprove the great
antiquity of agriculture among the Bantu; they are conservative, as
their continent is conservative; the few alien elements still in the
economic stage of the collector and hunter—the Bushmen in the most arid
parts of the south, and the Pygmies in the most inaccessible forests of
Central and West Africa—must have been crowded out by them many
centuries ago.
The farming of our natives is done entirely with the hoe—that
implement-of-all-work, with the heavy transverse blade which serves
alike for breaking up and cleaning the ground, for sowing the crops,
and, to a certain extent, for reaping them. We are too much inclined to
think of this mode of cultivation as something primitive and inferior,
and, in fact, in so far as it dispenses with domestic animals, whether
for work or for the supply of manure, it is really very far behindhand.
But we must also take into account that some parts of our colonies are
infested with the tsetse-fly, and that the system of cultivating narrow
strips of ground entirely with the hoe really marks a very high stage of
farming. The best proof of this is the retention of the narrow bed in
our gardens, where the cultivation can scarcely be said to be of a more
elementary description than that of our fields. It is significant, too,
that for the more intensive forms of culture when carried on in the open
fields, _e.g._, flower-growing, as near Erfurt, Quedlinburg, Haarlem,
etc., and market-gardening as in the neighbourhood of Brunswick,
Hanover, Mainz, and other large towns, the long, narrow bed is most in
favour. Moreover, it is difficult to see how the native could cope with
the weeds—the principal danger to his crops—were it not that his narrow
beds are easily reached from all sides.
The native mode of agriculture, therefore, need not be interfered with:
it has been tested and found excellent.
Another question is, how shall we, on this basis, make our black
fellow-subjects useful to ourselves? In my opinion, there are two ways,
as to both of which the _pros_ and _cons_ are about equal. Both have
been in operation for some time, so that we have a standard to guide us
in forecasting the ultimate development of the whole colony. In the one,
the native is not encouraged to advance in his own home and on his own
holding, but is trained as a labourer on the plantation of a European
master—plantations being laid out wherever suitable soil and tolerable
climate promise a good return for outlay. The other method has the
progress of the native himself in view, and aims at increasing his
economic productivity by multiplying and improving the crops grown by
him on his own account, teaching him new wants and at the same time
increasing his purchasing power. In this way it is hoped that he will
exchange his exports for ours.
The future must show whether the German people will decide for one of
these ways to the exclusion of the other, or whether, as heretofore,
both will be retained. For the mother country their value is about equal
and depends on the degree of activity shown in colonial affairs as a
whole. But the second is decidedly to the advantage of the native
himself. As a plantation labourer he is and remains a _mshenzi_; as a
peasant proprietor he is able to advance. At the same time we must not
forget that our colonies were founded in the expectation of providing
homes for our surplus population, and that if the native is to claim the
most fertile parts of his own country for himself, nothing can come of
that _ver sacrum_. It also depends on the general direction of our
policy whether the numerical increase and physical improvement of the
native are to our interest or not. Some primitive peoples have almost or
entirely disappeared under the influence of civilization; the Tasmanians
belong to history; the Maoris of New Zealand and the Kanakas of Hawaii
are rapidly diminishing, and we have lately heard of the last Vedda in
Ceylon. The negro race does not belong to these candidates for
extinction; on the contrary, wherever it has come in contact with the
white, it has grown stronger in every respect; there is therefore no
fear of its dying out. But shall we go further and, by artificial
selection, deliberately raise their coefficient of multiplication?
Certainly we ought to do so, for a numerous resident population is under
all circumstances a benefit to us. It solves the labour problem for the
planter, and, on the other hand, the European manufacturer and merchant
will, of course, prefer a large number of customers to a small one. How
is this improvement to be initiated? I have nothing further to add to
the remarks which, _à propos_ of the various diseases and other scourges
of this continent, occur in the preceding pages.
In Europe some people are stupid, others of moderate capacity, and yet
others decidedly clever. The huge lip-ornaments of the Makonde and Makua
women sometimes produce the impression of a simian type of face, and
small boys occasionally suggest by their features a not remote kinship
with the missing link, but this exhausts the list of excuses I could
have alleged for looking down from a superior height on the people in
question. In all the months spent among the natives of the Rovuma
Valley, I never discovered any reason why we should, as we are so fond
of doing, associate the idea of absurdity with the African. On the
contrary, the behaviour, not only of the elders, but of the liveliest of
the young people in their intercourse with Knudsen and myself, was
characterized by a quiet dignity which might well have served as an
example to many a European of similar social position. My personal
experiences will not allow me to believe in the dogma of the negro’s
incapacity for development. It cannot be denied that he has achieved a
certain intellectual progress, even in North America, though the
obstacles there are greater than the facilities. Why, therefore, should
he not rise, as soon as the opportunity is offered to him in such a way
that he can take advantage of it? Only we must not expect this advance
to take place overnight, any more than we can expect a rapidity of
economic progress at variance with every law of historical probability.
It is now quite dark; the boat must have changed her course, for the
gale no longer meets us in front, but comes from the port side, so that
no doubt we are approaching Crete. To-morrow, or the day after, we shall
pass the coast of Greece. I must confess that I am looking forward to a
sight of this country, though I do not regard its classic age with the
same unbounded and uncritical enthusiasm as many of our countrymen, to
whom the ancient Greek is the embodiment of all historical and cultural
virtues. One thing only even the blackest envy cannot deny to the
Hellenes of old—a courage in colonial enterprise which we should do well
to imitate both now and in the future.
This future is still shrouded in mystery. Will our East African colony
become a second India? I do not doubt for a moment that it will, and my
mind’s eye sees the whole country traversed by railway lines. One of
these follows the old caravan road from the coast to Tanganyika. The
iron horse has superseded the old carrier-transport, and the clattering
train now bears the carriers themselves, as well as bulky goods which
could never have been put on the market under the old system. One line
runs to the Victoria Nyanza and another to distant Nyasa; we are able to
link up with the British network of railways in South Africa, with the
communications of the Congo State, with the Nile Valley. Thirty years
ago Stanley’s march to the Lake Region and his boat-voyage down the
Congo were epoch-making achievements. We of to-day may perhaps live to
make the trip by _train de luxe_ from the Cape to Cairo, and from Dar es
Salam to Kamerun.
INDEX
Abdallah bin Malim, Wali of Mahuta, 352 _et seq._;
his noisy devotions, 399–400
Achmed bar Shemba, song by, 31
Adams, Pater, on the Makonde, 259–60
African continent, conformation of in relation to Colonization, 415
race, original home, question of, 12
African Fund, the, 9, 10
Age-classes, 304
Akundonde, Yao chief, information from, 140, 184
settlement of, 212,
visit to, 213 _et seq._
Alum, as water-clarifier, 153–4
Ancestor-worship, 326
Antelope-hunting, 200–1
Anthropology, difficulties of, in G.E. Africa, 53
Artistic aptitudes of Natives (_see also_ Drawings), 36
Asiatic origin of African races, discussed, 12, 13
Assuan dam, the, lessons from for Germany, 413–5
Astronomical beliefs and customs, Yao, 184–5
Atlantic Ocean, historical density, 6
Axes, etc., bewitched, 210–12
Babies, _see_ Children & Infants
Bagamoyo roadstead, 2
Bakeri of Zanzibar, 140, 142–3
Bangala river, Camp at mouth of, 208
Bantu imitation of the Masai, 118
origin, tribes of, 12, 53, 139
_Baraza_, the, 65,
described, 135
Bards, 170, 175
Bark-cloth, ceremonial uses of, 276–7, 313
manufacture of, 274 _et seq._
Barnabas as artist, 367–8
Birth customs
Makonde, 281, 283
Yao (as to twins), 283
Black race, distribution of, explanation of, 13
Boots, question of, 71
Bornhardt on the geology of German East Africa, 66, 67–8
Botanical features (_see_ also Bush), Masasi region, 69
Bows and arrows, 74
methods of using, 75–6
as toys, 285
Boys’ initiation ceremonies, _see_ Lupanda, _and_ Unyago
Brass-founding, native, 267–70
British Colonial Empire, comments on, 417
Burial customs,
Makua, 132
Yao, 194 & _note_
Bush and Scrub vegetation, 51, 52, 60
Bush-burning, 58–61, 255, 257
_Bwalo_, the, 231 & _note_
Calico, as dower, 306
over graves, 194, 214
Camp life, 83–4
sleeping discomforts, 119, 163, 164
Cape Banura, 24, 25
Guardafui, 14, 15
“Cape rubies,” 209, 210
Carnon, Archdeacon of Masasi, 45
hospitality of, 74
Carriers, _see also_ Wanyamwezi,
difficulties with, 393
paying off of, and farewell to, 393–4, 400, 405–7
Cattle, Matola’s, 138,
stampede by, 164
Central Lukuledi Valley, lions in, 245
Chain-gangs, 28, 44,
native drawing of, 371
Charms (_Dawa_), 129;
used in _Majimaji_ rebellion, 51
“Cherchez la femme!” 397–9
Child-life, native, G.E. Africa, 157–8 & _note_, 284 _et seq._
Children, native, characteristics of, and aspect, 148
Chingulungulu, author’s stay at, 104 _et seq._
description of, 134 _et seq._
diseases noted at, 192
meaning of name, 104 _note_
native amusements at, 169
characteristics, 106
route to, from Mkululu, 126–7
water-supply at, 150–2
Chipini, the, _see_ Nose-pin
_Chiputu_ or girls’ initiation or Unyago ceremonies, 218, 219, 230 _et
seq._,
dances at, 220, 223,
songs at, 232–4,
maskers at, 235–7,
stilt-dancers at, 236–7
Matambwe form, 239 _et seq._
nature of, 304–5
witnessed by author, 299
Chironji, insular mountain of, 69
Chiwata, Nakaam, chief of, 108
Christianity, _versus_ Islam for Natives, 70
Chronology, native, 145, 146
Cinematograph work, 27, 34, 177, 218, 237, 356
Clan names, and Clan system, 279, 310, 312 _et seq._
Climate and appetite, 43
Cloth, _see_ Bark-cloth & Calico
Colonial Congress, the First, 10
Colonization in Eastern Equatorial Africa, 4, 45
Collecting methods and collections, 362 _et seq._, 386
Collins’ dynamometer
tests of Europeans, 8
tests of Natives, 39
Colonists, industry essential in, 416
Combs, native, 124
Corn-grinding by women, 163,
methods of, 165–6
Cotton cultivation at Saadani, 415
Couch of native chief, 129
Crocodiles, Rovuma river, 346, 347
Crops, prevalent near Masasi, 92
Currency, G.E. Africa, 101–3
Dances, native, child-performers of, 284–5 & _note_
at _Chiputu_ ceremonies, 220, 223
at Dar es Salam, 26
_Masewe_, 296
_Ngoma_, 62
Pantomimic, at Mahuta, 354
Stilt, 176
by Sulila, the bard, 172
at _Unyago_ ceremonies, 181 _et seq._, 296
Women’s (_see also_ Chiputa _supra_), 62, 64
Yao, 177
Dar es Salam, harbour and bay, 1, 2 & _note_
life at, 26 _et seq._
Mangoes at, 409
Daudi, native preacher, 155, 250
Dawa, _see_ Charms
Death, omens of, 210, 212, 273
Death and Burial customs
Makonde, 259
Yao, 396 & _note_
Dernburg, Herr, 418
Diabolo playing, native, 379–80 & _note_
Doherr, Captain, 411
Domestic animals and Birds at Matola’s, 137–8
Pigeons, 91
Doors, and fastenings, Makonde, 262
Dove-cotes, native, 91
Drawing, native powers of, 36–9, 72–3, 99–101, 168, 366 _et seq._
Dress of Matola, 147
of Nakaam, 146–7
Dress and clothing, native past and present, 274
Yao women, 49
Drinking customs, 170, 186
Drums, 62, 241
at _Chiputu_ ceremonies, 241
toy, of children, 290
tuning of, by fire-heat, 222
of _Unyago_ dances, 181
various ways of playing, 222–3
Drummers, sacred, 301
Dwellings, _see_ Huts and Dwellings
Ear-discs or Studs, 56, 219, 260
East Africa, _see also_ German East Africa
Coast harbours on, geological origin of, 25
Orography of, 66–9
Equatorial, Colonization in, history of, 4
Eclipses, Yao beliefs and customs concerning, 184
Egg, use of at _Chiputu_ ceremonies, 233
Elephants near the Rovuma, 209, 345, 350–1
Endurance, native, 40
Europeans in the tropics, characteristics of, 41, 42
Food-consumption by, 43
Ewerbeck, Herr Commissioner, 26, 44, 46, 48, 58, 73, 140, 335, 409
Exogamy in East Africa, 189, 282
Fashion, African and European, 57–8
Farming, native, 415, 419–20
Festivities, native, at Mahuta, 376
Fever, curious form of, 252–3
Feet, effect on, of Jigger, 251–2
Filter, an improvised, 152
Fish-drying stages, Rovuma river, 202
Finger-nails, brittleness of, at Newala, 251, 254
loss of, by Knudsen, 254–5
Fire, in Unyago ceremonies, 300, 302
Fire-arms, use of, by natives, 198
Fire-production, and maintenance, 195–8
Flies, torment from, 147–8, 246
Flutes, _ipivi_, 291
Floors, earthen, in native huts, 65, 135
Food, native staple, 84
Foresight of Natives, 89–91, 94–5
Gama, Vasco da, and East Africa, 4
Games and toys, 284 _et seq._
Garnet-mine at Luisenfelde, 78, 209
Geographical Exploration of the German Colonies, Committee for, 10
Geology and Anthropology in study of Race-development, 13–14
German East Africa
considerations affecting succession, 415 _et seq._
cotton cultivation in, 415
soil of, and agricultural possibilities, 415–6
musical backwardness of tribes in, 174
rivers of, 414–5
south-east corner of, 46
water-supply questions in, 414–5
German Imperial Post in East Africa, 111
Germans, the, characteristics of, 8, 24
colonial, social difficulties of, 41
Gestures indicative of
Age, 146
Time, 145, 246
Ghost stories, 327–8
Girls, attitude to, of parents, 281–2
puberty of, customs at, 315
seclusion of, 292
Go-betweens, matrimonial, 306
Grain-storage, 89–91, 136–7
Graves, native, 53, 54, 132, 183, 194 & _note_
of Makua chief, 264
trees at, 326–7
Yao, features of, 214
Guillain, Admiral, book by, on African History, etc., 3
Haber, Geheimrat, Acting Governor, 17
Hair, arrangement of, various tribes, 260 _note_
Hamitic races, original home of, 12;
tribes descended from, 11
Hanno, and the grass-burning, 58
“Hapana” and “bado,” 123
Hatia I, grave of, 194
Hatia III, Sultan, grave of, 53, 54
Hatia IV, “Sultan” of the Makua, 53,
wife carried off by lion, 54
Hearths, 129, 136
Hemedi Maranga, Corporal, 245
Henderera’s village, 334
Head-shaving, Makonde, reason for, 259, 260 & _note_
Historic sense, the, 417
Hunting, native interest in, 198
Hunting-dances, Makua tribe, 177–81
Huts over graves, 194 & _note_
used in initiation ceremonies, 215–7, 218, 219, 240, 296
Huts and Dwellings
at Mahuta, 352
Makonde, 231, 262
painted, 366
Makua, 261, 264
Masai, 86
windowless, 88–9
subdivision of interiors, 84
_Tembes_, 86
Wamwera, 55
Wangoni, 338, 349
Yao, 65, 134 _et seq._, 261–2
_Ikoma_ dance, 223
Indian Ocean, historical importance of, 6, 7
Infant life, native, 63, 157–8 & _note_, 281–4, 351
mortality, 88
Infants, still-born, Makua graves of, 132
Initiation ceremonies, _see_ Chiputu, Lupanda, _and_ Unyago
Interiors, visits to, 88 _et seq._
Ironworking, native, 26
Island camp, Rovuma, river, 207–8
“Island” mountains, East Africa, 66–9
Islam, _versus_ Christianity for Natives, 70
Italy, disafforestation in, 5, 6
Jäger, Dr., 10,
geographical tasks of, 11
Jigger, havoc wrought by, 87–8, 251–2
Justice, trials, punishments, etc., 27, 28, 121–3, 135
Juma, drawing by, 168
Jumbe Chauro, Makonde huts and fastenings at, 261–3 & _note_
Kazi Ulaya, kerosene and fatalism, 86, 87
_Kakale_ sticks, uses of, 291, 297
Keloid patterns (scars), 56–7, 223, 260, 356, 359 _et seq._
Kibwana, author’s “boy,” 20, 167
Kiheru river, 401
Kilwa, _pori_ beyond, 46
Kilwa Kisiwani, associations of, 23
Kitulo heights, 404,
view from, 44
Kitututu, insular mountain of, 69
Knots, as calendar, 328–9
as records, 330
tying of, Akundonde on, 186
Knudsen, Nils, 61
hunting of, 392
accident to, 394 _et seq._
official duties of, 77–8
services secured, 190, 191
superstitions of, 397–9
Yao wife of, 307
on the Wangoni, 333
Kofia tule, a quaint name, 110
Kondoa-Irangi expedition abandoned, 17
Labrets, 219
Lake Eyasi, peoples near, 11
Manyara, peoples near, 11
Langheld, Captain, and the Wangoni, 339
Last, J. T., on the Makua lip ornament, 56
Laughter under difficulties (pelele-wearers), 219
Lepers in German East Africa, 107, 192
Lichehe Lake, 204
Lidede Lake, the, 335–6
Likoswe, Che, “Mr. Rat,” a bard
dress of, 176
name of, 280
songs by, 176–7
_Likwata_, women’s dance, 62–3,
words and music, 64
Linder, Herr, welcome from, at Lindi, 402–4
song on, 176–7
Lindi Bay, geology, etc., of, 25
District, rebellion in, 51
Town, 25
attractions of, 28
boom at, 393
execution at, 27
social conditions at, 41
and its hinterland, journey to, 17 _et seq._
Linguistic notes on
difficulties of the student, 345
interchange of “l” and “r,” 373
Makonde language, 382 _et seq._
pitch of voice, 119
prefixes, 156–7, 175 & _note_, 259 & _note_, 313
Wasandawi, 11
Wataturu, 12
Lions, boldness of, 54
distribution of, 209, 245
a fastidious, 209
song in praise of, 159
_Lisakasa_, or _Unyago_ huts (_q. v._), 296
Litotwe (rat) in carvings, 364
Liver, the, in “medicine,” 200
Livingstone, Dr., in Africa, 116 & _note_, 204 & _note_
Locks and keys, 263 & _note_, 264
Luagala, 401
_Lugombo_, the, musical instrument, 288–90
Luisenfelde mine, 78
visit to, 209–10
Lujende river, coal measures, 142
Lukuledi river, 25, 402
leper hospital at estuary of, 192
Valley, 48, 50
_Lupanda_, or initiation of Boys, 299
emblem of, 217
Yao form of, 300
Machemba, noted Yao chief, 239, 401
Mafia island, 23
Mafiti people, 341,
raids of, 248
Magic, native, 186, 324
Mahichiro’s grave at Witi, 194
Mahuta, original home of the Makonde, 259
huts of, 352
importance of, 332
scenery of, 335–6
Majaliwa, Wangoni chief, 340
forestry of, 348
new palace of, 349
Majeje country, “insular mountains” in, 67
_Majimaji_ rebellion, the, 31, 51
Makachu, Wangoni chief, 337, 341
Mkomahindo, “insular mountain” of, 69
Makonde beds, the, 248
masks, 235
Plateau, 48, 66, 342–3
bush growth on, 60, 239, 255, 256, 257
configuration, area and surface of, 255
geological formation, 256
lack of water on, 248
natives on, characteristic features of, 265
distribution of, 248
industries of, 266–7 _et seq._
rivers and streams of, 151
timber on, 348
view from, 255
Makonde tribe
ancestral traditions of, 258–9
death and burial customs, 259
huts, 231, 261–2
occupations of, 248–50
language, 382–3
marriage customs, 307
name of, explained, 259 & _note_
stilt-dancers, 236–7
Makua tribe
clans and clan names among, 313
dances of, 177 _et seq._
death and burial customs, 132
hunters and hoe-tillers, 97
huts of, 261, 264
marriage customs, 307, 314
migrations, 118
mouth-stones of girls, 322–3 & _note_
traps of, 97–8
women’s initiation ceremonies, 218 _et seq._, 230 _et seq._
Malay fire-pump, 197
Mamba, Seliman, rebel leader, 29
Mambo, 339
Mangupa village, Matambwe _Chiputu_ at, 239, 240 _et seq._
Manhood and womanhood initiation ceremonies, 170
Maps drawn by natives, 373 _et seq._
Marching, life during, 78 _et seq._
Marriage customs, native, G. East Africa, 189, 282, 305, 30, 314, _et
seq._
Marquardt, Herr, of Luisenfelde Mine, 209;
death of his child, 210, 373
Masai race, origin of, 12
characteristics of, 70 _et seq._
huts of, 86, 88–9
_Masange_ marriage, 305 & _note_
Masasi district, area of, 66
Mountains, 248
botanical interest of, 69
geology, etc., of, 66–9
(place), missionaries at, 45 & _note_
Masasi races, tribal affinities of, 69, 70
Masasi-Rovuma plain, tribes upon, 139
Masekera Matola, chief and his family, 103
_Masewe_ dance, 181–3, 296
Masks and masked dances, 235–7, 304, 363–4
Matambwe tribe, _Chiputu_ among, 239 _et seq._
past and present condition, 205
Matola (the elder), 142 & _note_, 143, 333
Matola (the younger) Yao chief of Chingulungulu, 108
dress of, 147
hospitality of, 132–3
house, etc., described, 134 _et seq._
and sick child, 292–5
on Bakiri of Zanzibar, etc., 142–3
Matola Salim, _see_ Salim
Matriarchy in G.E. Africa, 189, 307, 314
laws of inheritance under, 309
Mavia Plateau, 343
Mavia tribe, 261
Mazitu (_see also_ Wangoni), inroads, 116 & _note_, 117
Mchauru, interests at, 224–5
Mchinga Bay, 24
Medical demands on travellers, 86 _et seq._
“Medicines,” hunting, 199–201
for illness, 323
at Unyago of women, 233
Medula, the magician, 225 _et seq._
Meyer, Prof. Hans, 10
Merker, Captain, on the origin of the Masai, 12
Meteorites, Yao belief as to, 184
_Mgoromondo_, _see_ Xylophone
Migrations of native races, 48, 118, 139 _et seq._
Mikindani, and its hinterland, journey to, 17 _et seq._
Mikindani beds, the, 248
Mimicry among natives, 116, 118
Mixed races, how accounted for, 13
Mirambo of Unyanyembe, 401
Mitete (boxes) carven, 364–5
Mkwera, “insular mountains,” 68
Mkululu, 126
Mlipa, deceased chief, grave of, 264
Modesty, evolution of, and variants in, 131
Mombasa, importance of, 3
Moon, the, Yao beliefs and customs as to, 184–5
Moritz, author’s “boy,” 20, 167–9
Mothers-in-law, native, position of, 282, 307–8
Mosquitoes on the Rufiji river, 22
Mouth and lip-ornaments, various tribes (_see also_ Labrets _and_
Pelele), 55, 56 & _note_
Mouth-stones, of Makua girls, 322
_Msolo_ tree, sacred in Makonde, 326
Mtandi Mt., an insular peak, 6, 9
ascent and aspect of, 71
Mtarika, Yao chief, death omen of, 212
Mtua, Yao natives at, 48, 49
Music, _see_ Songs
Musical Instruments
names of, 215, 288–9, 291, 391
as toys, 289
Yao, 171
Mwiti, home of Nakaam, 113
Mwiti river, 113
_Myombo_ forest, _see_ _Pori_
Nakaam of Chiwata, importance of, 108
at home, 113 _et seq._
dress of, 146–7
interest of in foreign affairs, etc., 125–6
true origin of, 115–9
on the mixed character of the Yaos, 146
Namaputa ravine, 212
Names, native, clan, enquiries on, 312,
meanings and origins of, 310
Names, personal, 279
clan names, _ib._
meanings, 279, 280 & _note_
new, assumed on initiation, 280
Namuki, insurgents, 31
Namwera women, dress of, arrangement of, 57
Native characteristics and habits, 52, 94, 120, 123, 144, 147, 152,
202, 246–7, 395,
summary of, 418–21
clothing, indigenous and imported, 274
cultivation, methods of, 257–8
eloquence, 143
estimate of time, 144–5, 246
handicrafts, 124
historical knowledge, 144
intellectual potentialities, 421
interest of, in European matters, 125
powers of resisting climate, etc., 88
teeth, premature decay of, 143–4
utilization of, 420
_Natura_, friction-drum, 290
“Nature-peoples,” the, some errors concerning, 90 _et seq._ & _note_
Naunge camp, 207
Navigation, of African natives, 21
Nchichira, 333,
author’s stay at, 336
Newala, climatic troubles at, 243 _et seq._
diseases met with at, 323
grave at, of Matola I, 143
lack of water at, 250
life at, 243 _et seq._
missionaries’ arrival at, 142 _note_
position of, view from, and climate at, 203
revisited, 230
old towns so-called, 250
_Ngoma_ dances, 26, 62
Ngurumahamba, 48
Ningachi, the teacher, 366,
methods of, 381–2
Niuchi, Makua village, women’s initiation ceremonies at, 230 _et seq._
Nkunya, famous _shauri_ of, 142, 143
Nose-pins, or studs, 49, 130–1, 219, 341
Nyangao, Benedictine Mission at, ruined, 50
Oehler, Herr Eduard, 10,
geographical tasks of, 11
Omari, author’s cook, 20, 208, 387
as artist, 371
characteristics, 167–9
escape of, from lion, 209
Omens of evil, 210, 212, 373
Ornaments and ornamentation, personal, of Natives
Bangles, 222
Ear-discs, 56
Keloids (scars), 57, 223
Labrets, 219
Nail in lower lip, 56 & _note_
_Nigutila_, or lip-pin, 56
Nose-pins, 49, 130–1
Pelele (q. v.), 55–6, 219
Owl as omen of Death, 210, 373
Pacific Ocean, historical importance of, 6
Parents, native respect for, 188, 189, 282
_Pelele_, the, 232, 240, 260
effect of, on articulation, 383
laughter by wearers, effect of, 219
at Mahuta, 306 _et seq._
of Makonde women, 56
of Wamwera women, 55–6
_Personnel_ of author’s expedition, 20
Pesa Mbili, caravan leader, 30, 31
as artist, 370
duties of, 81, 82
Phonograph experiences, 26, 30, 34, 148, 155 _et seq._, 172–?
magic ascribed to, 320–1
native enjoyment of, 34–6
results, 385
Photographic experiences, 34, 95, 284, 320, 356,
and results, 384
Pigeon-trap, 96
Pigeons, kept by natives, 91
Pigs, Matola’s, 137–8
Pile-dwellings Rovuma valley, 319
_Pombe_, native beer, 93–4
_Pori_, the, 46
definition of, 60–1
lions on, boldness of, 55
Porter, Canon, of Masasi, 46
Portuguese, the, in East Africa, 4
Pottery-making, native, 270 _et seq._
“Problem play,” native, 378
Race-development, problem of, discussed, 13
Rage, fits of, in white men in Africa, 41
Rainfall, G.E. Africa, 415
Rat trap, native, 98
Recurrent Fever Tick, the, 106–7
Red sea, the, 7
Results of author’s Expedition, 384 _et seq._
Rhythm, assistance of, to work, 389–90
Riddles, Yao, 160 & _note_, _et seq._
Rivers, G.E. Africa, drawbacks of, 414, 415
Roads in G.E. Africa, excellence of, 239, 333–4, 404
Roads, 333–4
Rondo Plateau, 50
Roofs, Makonde, 262,
and Yao, 65
Rovuma river, crocodiles in, 206, 346–7
delights of, 204 _et seq._
fertile valley of, 260;
beauties of, 342–4
game in, 260
march to, 203–4
native farming along, 419
region of, past and present condition, 116
shifting course of, 206
wild animals near, 20, 209, 344, 350
_Rovuma_, steamer, 20
Rufiji river, mouths of, 21
_Rufiji_, steamer, 18,
voyage in, 19 _et seq._
Saadani, cotton cultivation at, 415
Saidi Kapote, village, 402
Saleh, author’s erstwhile Corporal, 245
_Sarcopsylla penetrans_, _see_ Jigger
Seats, superior, at Sefu’s, 238
Secret societies, 304
Sefu bin Mwanyi, Akida, 230, 238
Serpents and snakes, native tales about, 51
Seyfried, Captain, 44,
culinary skill of, 43
Shabruma, Wangoni rebel leader, 111
Shemba, Achmed bar, _Sol_, march sung by, 31–4
Shume forest, 349
Simba Uranga estuary, Rufiji river, 21
Sketching, value of skill in, 98–100
Skin-colour, various tribes, 52–3
Slaves, freed, _see_ Wanyasa
Sling, the, 286–7
Smells, African, 82, 147, 223, 240, 246
Snake, crowing, “songo” song, etc., about, 159–60 & _note_
Soldiers, native, 386
Somali wreckers, 15
Songs, words and music, native, 264–5, 328
at _Chiputu_ ceremonies, 232 _et seq._ 240
at Dar es Salam, 26–7
March sung by Sudanese soldiers, 31–4
by Sulila, 172, 173–4
Wanyamwezi carriers’, 30, 31, 389–92
Yao, 156, 159
Souls, departed, dwellings of, 324, 326, 327
Spiegel, Lieutenant, 401
Spinning, by Medula, the magician, 225, 228–9
Stilts, dancing on, 176, 376
Stamburi as artist, 368
Strandes, Justus, book by, on history of E. Africa, 4
Strength, physical, European and native dynamometer tests, 40
Stuhlmann, Dr. Franz, culinary, skill of, 42
Sudanese soldiers, march of, music and words, 31–4
Sulila, the bard, 170 _et seq._
_Swastika_, the, at Nakaam’s house, 114
Tails of animals, in magic, 215 _note_
Tanga, port, 2
importance of, 411–12
native education at, and music, 412
Telephone, an African, 290–1 & _note_
_Tembes_, described, 86
Throwing-sticks, 286–7
Tick, the, of Recurrent Fever, 106–7
Timber of Makonde Plateau, 348
of the Rufiji delta, 21, 22
Time, native means of reckoning, 145, 246, 328–9
Tobacco, chewing and snuffing of, at Chingulungulu, 147
Toothbrush, native, 404
Tops, various kinds of, 287–8 & _note_
Totemism, defined, 312
traces of, in G.E. Africa, 313
Traps, native, for various animals, 96–8
Trees at graves, 326–7
Tree-worship, 324 _et seq._
Troops, disposal of, 28
Trunk of elephant, tip buried by hunters, 201
Tsetse-disease in cattle, Chingulungulu, 138
Tsetse-fly areas, 419
Twins, native views on, 283
_Ugali_ porridge, native staple food, 84,
how prepared, 166
Uganda Railway, and Mombasa, 3
_Ulimba_, musical instrument, 288
Umbekuru, river, 46
basin of, projected railway across, 69
Unguruwe Mountain, 53
Hatia I’s grave on, 194
_Unyago_ or initiation ceremony, 170
after customs, 304
arrangements for, and course of, 295 _et seq._
author’s presence at, 214 _et seq._
bark-cloth, used in, 277
dances during, 181 _et seq._
initiation seats, 183
instruction given during, 187–9
value of author’s notes on, 386
_Upupu_ plant, 239,
delights of, 240 & _note_
Usambara railway, 411
Usanye (millet), the weeping, omen of Death, 212
Vohsen, Herr, of Luisenfelde Mine, 209
Waburunge tribe, origin of, 11
Wafiomi tribe, origin of, 11
Wairaku tribe, origin of, 11
Wairangi tribe, origin of, 12
Wakindiga tribe, racial affinities of, 11
Walking-powers of natives, 125
Wamatambwe tribe, famous swimmers, 346
Wambugwe tribe, origin of, 12
Wamburu tribe, origin of, 11
Wamwera tribe, 48
characteristics, 62
huts of, 50
location and condition of, 50
rebellion of and consequences, 17, 53, 383
skin-colour of, 52
Wanduwandu, Knudsen’s boy, 392,
fate of and funeral, 395,
his grave, 397
Wanege tribe, racial affinities of, 11
Wangindo tribe, 139
Wangoni enclave, 332–3
natives of, observations on, 336 _et seq._
Wangoni tribe, immigration of, 116 & _note_, 117–8
huts, 338
language and history, 339 _et seq._
rebels, 111,
raids of, 118
true origin of, 341
Wanyamwezi tribe, carriers of, characteristics (_see also_ Songs), 20,
23, 29, 80, 203, 418–9
Wanyasa, the, of Masasi, 70
Wanyaturu tribe, origin of, 12
Wasandawi tribe, language of, 11
Wawasi tribe, origin of, 11
Wataturu or Tatoga tribe, origin, and language, 12
Water, neighbourhood, why avoided by Makonde, 259–61
Water-supply, author’s precautions, 153–4
G.E. Africa, difficulties with, 150, 250–1
Weddings, native, 307–8
Weule, Dr., _passim_, ethnographical and ethnological tasks of, 11
Werther, Captain, view by of the Wakindiga, 11
Whirlwinds on the _pori_, etc., 61, 62, 149, 150, 217
charms against, 129–30
Winds, evening, 119, 126–7, 209, 247, 402
Wood-carving, native, 363–5
Words of dances, _see_ Songs
Woman, primitive, debt of civilization to, 271–3
Women (_see also_ Girls, Marriage, Married Life) native, Eastern
Equatorial Africa and inland, position of and duties, 162–3 _et
seq._
cry of, 231–2 & _note_, 297–8, 317
of Mahuta, 355 _et seq._
Makua, ornaments of, 219, 222, 223
nose-pins, 130–1
Wamwera, ornaments of, 55–7
Wooden figures of, 260
Yao, dress and ornaments of, 49, 219
Wonder-tales, native, 210, 212
Wooden figures of women, 260
Xylophone, native, 288, 319
Yao tribe, clan divisions, names of, 311 _et seq._
dances of, 177
dandy of, 213
death and burial customs of, 194 _et seq._
drinking customs, 186
huts of, 65, 128–9, 261–2
_Lupanda_ among, 300
migrations of, 48, 49, 118, 139, 140 _et seq._
origin and racial affinities of, 139
mixed character of, 146
predominant at Chingulungulu, 139
treatment of lepers, 192
wooing, 305–6
Zanzibar, Sultans of, and Dar es Salam harbour, 2
Zanzibar treaty, the, 9
Zulu kingdoms, origins of, 117
Zuza, Yao chief, house of, 128 _et seq._
THE END.
_Printed by Sir Isaac Pitman & Sons, Ltd., Bath._
[Illustration: LONDON: SIR ISAAC PITMAN & SONS L^{TD}]
-----
Footnote 1:
It must also be added that the text has been handled somewhat freely,
and many passages eliminated, not because they were in themselves
objectionable, but because they added nothing important to the
narrative, and fell intolerably flat in translation.
Footnote 2:
The first to recognise the importance of Dar es Salam harbour was
Sayyid Majid, Sultan of Zanzibar, who determined to erect a residence
there and divert the trade of the interior to it. The town was laid
out on a large scale, and buildings begun, when the Sultan’s death in
1870 put an end to the operations. His successor, Sayyid Barghash,
disliked the place, and the unfinished town was allowed to fall into
ruins.—See the description in Thomson, _To the Central African Lakes
and Back_, vol. i, pp. 71–75.—[TR.]
Footnote 3:
Published in English as _The World’s History_ (4 vols., London, 1901)
with introduction by Professor Bryce.
Footnote 4:
This song is a mixture of Nyamwezi, Swahili and corrupt Arabic; the
last three words being intended for _Bismillahi yu_ (= he is) _akbar_.
Footnote 5:
“Discussion”—but it is an elastic term, corresponding in most if not
all, of its many meanings to the Chinyanja _mlandu_, the Zulu _indaba_
and the “palaver” of the West Coast.—[TR.]
Footnote 6:
The U.M.C.A. (Universities’ Mission to Central Africa). Masasi Station
was founded in 1876 by Bishop Steere and the Rev. W. P. Johnson (now
Archdeacon of Nyasa).—[TR.]
Footnote 7:
Canon Porter went out to Africa in 1880.
Footnote 8:
This is more intelligible if we remember the shape of the native
razor, which is usually about five or six inches long, with the
cutting end like a spatula and tapering back into a stalk-like handle,
the end of which could easily be sharpened as an awl.
Footnote 9:
Mr. J. T. Last says that some of the Makua women, “in addition to the
_pelele_, wear a brass or iron nail from four to seven inches in
length ... passed through a hole in the lower lip and left hanging in
front of the chin. When a lady cannot afford a metal ornament of the
sort, she utilizes a piece of stick which she covers with beads.”
Footnote 10:
This is not pure D natural, but a sound between D sharp and D natural,
though nearer the latter.
Footnote 11:
_Zur Oberflächengestaltung und Geologie Deutsch-Ostafrikas_, Berlin,
1900.
Footnote 12:
_Ancient and Modern Methods of Arrow Release._
Footnote 13:
“Off you go!”
Footnote 14:
Dr. Weule translates this as “He works for the European,” but it is
more accurately rendered “Foreign work,” or “work in” (or “of”)
“Europe”—or foreign countries generally.
Footnote 15:
This expression (_Naturvölker_) was adopted by F. Ratzel in preference
to the vague and misleading term “savages.” It rests on the definition
of civilization as a process whereby man renders himself, in an
ever-increasing degree, independent of nature. The usual English
equivalent, “primitive peoples,” is somewhat lacking in
precision.—[TR.]
Footnote 16:
100 to the rupee.
Footnote 17:
Chingulungulu is a Yao word, meaning the turquoise blue beads which
have always been a staple article of trade since the days of the
ancient Egyptians.
Footnote 18:
The “phenomenon” can scarcely be considered surprising, in view of Dr.
Weule’s previous remarks (see p. 52), and his subsequent confession of
the difficulty he experienced in keeping his carriers out of mischief
at Chingulungulu. It is not apparent from the narrative whether it
occurred to him to inquire into their behaviour at Masasi. They need
not be set down as reprobates beyond all other _wapagazi_. The carrier
expects to work hard on the march, and to rest and enjoy himself with
his family about him in his own village, also to have some sort of a
spree, in reason, when paid off on the Coast, in the interval between
two journeys. But a lengthened period of inaction, in the middle of a
_safari_, and in a strange country, is something quite outside his
scheme of life, and it is no wonder if he gets demoralized.
Footnote 19:
“Bad insects!”
Footnote 20:
A species of alcohol expressly designed for native consumption, and
more especially as a present to chiefs and headmen. Dr. Weule refers
to it again later on, but gives no particulars as to its chemical
constitution.—[TR.]
Footnote 21:
This is surely a mistake, unless the word “blush” is only to be used
of turning _red_. Natives certainly change colour under stress of
emotion.—[TR.]
Footnote 22:
This must be taken with some reservations. Even in 1862, when
Livingstone ascended the Rovuma for the first time, he repeatedly
found villages deserted for fear of the slavers, whose main route from
Kilwa to Nyasa crossed the Rovuma above Kichokomane. Matters seem to
have become worse in this respect by 1866. See Livingstone’s _Last
Journals_, Vol. I, pp. 24, 37, 39, 41 and elsewhere. The Mazitu
(Wangoni) had already become a terror by the latter date. _Ib._, p.
43, etc.—[TR.]
Footnote 23:
Joseph Thomson made the same remark with regard to the Mahenge
somewhat further north.—See _To the Central African Lakes and Back_,
Vol. I, p. 188.—[TR.]
Footnote 24:
A well-known German humorist, one of the principal contributors to
_Fliegende Blätter_.
Footnote 25:
This is the Matola who welcomed the U.M.C.A. missionaries to Newala,
in 1877, and of whom the late Bishop Maples said: “He is without
exception the most intelligent and the most pleasing African I know.
He has many excellent qualities, and withal an amount of energy that
is rare in that part of the world. He has a fund of information about
the people, the country, and the languages, of which he can speak
six.” Matola died at Newala in October, 1895.—[TR.]
Footnote 26:
The accents are reproduced from Dr. Weule’s transcript. The accent
never in Yao falls on the last syllable but sometimes, in singing, the
accent appears to be displaced, or possibly the rising intonation has
been confused with the accent.—[TR.]
Footnote 27:
A subsequent passage in which almost the same description is given
must be taken with the above as somewhat qualifying it. It must be
admitted that Dr. Weule’s statements, as they stand here, are
certainly misleading, and convey an exaggerated impression of
universal neglect and misery among African babies. It is true that
there is much to be done, by women missionaries and others, in the way
of inculcating sound hygienic principles (though not more, perhaps,
than in London!)—but the appalling state of things described is by no
means universal, and it must be remembered that the tribes of the
Makonde plateau had been harassed by slavers and hunted from place to
place even beyond the wont of Africans in general.—[TR.]
Footnote 28:
This crowing serpent is well known by hearsay throughout Nyasaland. It
is said to have a red crest and to have “killed very many people in
the Angoni country” (Scott’s _Dictionary_, s.v., _Kasongo_). The
natives who told me about it had never seen it themselves, but had
heard about it from hunters; they described its habit of darting down
from trees, and added that the said hunters circumvented it by making
the foremost man of the party carry a pot full of fire (others say
very hot gruel or scalding bran-mash) on his head, into which the
snake descends and perishes. The Anyanja say _ingolira koh_—“It cries
_koh!_” (they render the sound of a cock’s crow as _kokololiko_). Mr.
Richard Crawshay assured me that the _songo_ was a real and not a
mythical snake; he had killed one—but it had no red crest, and he had
not heard its voice. The late Bishop Maples, however, did, on one
occasion, hear a “large snake with a serrated comb” crow like a cock
while travelling between Masasi and the Rovuma in 1877.—[TR.]
Footnote 29:
Apparently the same word as the Chinyanja _chindapi_, meaning either a
proverb, a short story, or a riddle. The Rev. H. B. Barnes says that
in a “riddle contest” the propounder of the enigma says “_Chindapi!_”
and the rest of the company “_Chijija_” (let it come!) Similar
formulas appear to be in use throughout Bantu Africa.—[TR.]
Footnote 30:
Both words mean “this,” but are of different classes. “_Ichi, ichi_”
(this, this), is a similar riddle recorded at Blantyre, to which the
answer is “a shadow.” In fact, I am indebted to Dr. Weule for the
explanation, having (no doubt through failing to notice the
accompanying gestures) abandoned it as a hopeless puzzle.—[TR.]
Footnote 31:
This riddle also I obtained at Blantyre, in the Chinyanja language,
but from a Yao girl, thus: “_Ambuye naona alikwenda m’njira natenga
ufa_” (“I saw my master walking on the road and he was carrying
flour”).—[TR.]
Footnote 32:
This is given, in a slightly different form, in Bishop Steere’s
_Collections for a Handbook of the Yao language_ (p. 105): “_Apitako
tusimanako_” (“Where they pass, where we meet”).—[TR.]
Footnote 32a:
This form shows that the name is really Nsulila, though the _n_ is
often not heard, and may be really dropped, in speaking.—[TR.]
Footnote 33:
This is not necessarily implied by the use of _Che_ or _Ku_. Every Yao
uses these prefixes of himself and his neighbours; even small children
are Kuluponje or Chendilijika, etc.—[TR.]
Footnote 34:
One would expect _chilwele chachijinji_, but possibly there is some
mistake in transcription.—[TR.]
Footnote 35:
The old custom of the Yaos (at any rate in the case of a chief) is to
bury the dead man inside his hut (or where he has several, in that of
his principal wife), which is then closed, and allowed to decay.
Lengths of calico (the quantity being proportioned to the wealth of
the deceased) are draped over the roof and left there. Perhaps the
building of a house over the grave, which appears to be done sometimes
near Lake Nyasa, is a later modification of this custom.—[TR.]
Footnote 36:
_Die Herabkunft des Feuers und des Göttertrankes. Ein Beitrag zur
vergleichenden Mythologie der Indo-Germanen._ Berlin, 1859.
Footnote 37:
To prevent complications, this prohibition applies to friendly tribes
as well as to the late rebels.
Footnote 38:
See _Last Journals_, vol. i, chapters i-iii.—[TR.]
Footnote 39:
Query “a hoe”? The shovel is not a native implement.—[TR.]
Footnote 40:
More correctly in Yao, _Jua Michila_ = “(he) of the tails.” The Rev.
Duff Macdonald says that he is called “the rattler of the tails,”
_juakuchimula michila_. Tails of animals are supposed to have great
efficacy in magic, and usually belong to a witch-doctor’s outfit,
either forming part of his costume or carried in his hand.—[TR.]
Footnote 41:
The Makua word corresponding to _ngoma_.—[TR.]
Footnote 42:
This Nyanja word, here used for convenience sake, means the “village
green,” or “forum,” where the affairs of the community are discussed,
and all public transactions take place.—[TR.]
Footnote 43:
This action is called _ku luluta_ both in Yao and in Nyanja. The Rev.
H. B. Barnes explains the word, in the latter language, as “to say
_lu-lu-lu-lu_ indefinitely. The women do this as a sign of rejoicing;
the sound is produced by moving the tongue quickly from side to side
with the mouth a little open, and very often the hand is alternately
clapped to the lips and taken away rapidly.” The cry itself is called
in Nyanja _ntungululu_. It seems to be universal (under various names)
among African women.—[TR.]
Footnote 44:
Surely this name, if not the figure itself, must be of Muslim
origin?—[TR.]
Footnote 45:
Called in Chinganja _chitedzi_; it is the plant known as
“cowage.”—[TR.]
Footnote 46:
These are a small kind of turnip, the size of a large radish, grown at
and near Teltow, a Prussian town on the line between Berlin and
Potsdam.—[TR.]
Footnote 47:
The Persians who had settled at Lamu in the tenth century.—[TR.]
Footnote 48:
It has sometimes been thought that the _Ma_ in “Makua” and “Makonde”
is a prefix, as in “Matabele,” “Mashona,” etc. It appears, however, to
be an integral part of the word, and the correct plural is therefore
_Wamakua_, _Wamakonde_.—[TR.]
Footnote 49:
The author seems to have overlooked the fact that the “short, woolly
crop” is the result of regular shaving. The shock heads of, _e.g._,
the Alolo (Alomwe) or other “bush people” strike the eye at once among
the Yaos or Anyanja, and these people (who are a branch of the Makua)
frequently wear the hair twisted into long strings. The sentence about
washing, as it stands, is somewhat too sweeping. It only applies to
districts where water is scarce—as, indeed, appears from other
passages in the book.—[TR.]
Footnote 50:
“This kind of lock and key,” says the late Rev. D. C. Scott
(_Cyclopædic Dictionary of the Mang’anja Language_, s.v., _mfungulo_),
“is common among the Ambo branch of the Mang’anja” (living between the
Ruo junction and the sea), “and is a wooden key about a foot long,
with three teeth; it is passed in between the wall-post and upright
door-stick (_kapambi_) inside, and the teeth fit into notches and lift
the bolts; only the Ambo can make them and they lock their door thus
behind them, carrying the key with them when they go to any short
distance from their house.” (See also svv. _Funga_ and _Mtengo_:
“_mitengo ya Ambo_, the Ambos’ stick keys.”) The ordinary method of
fastening the door (_chitseko_) is by cross-bars, slipped in between
the door and the side posts. The following passage from Mr. Charles
Doughty’s _Travels in Arabia Deserta_ seems to show that this Ambo
form of lock and key must have been borrowed, directly or indirectly,
from the Arab settlers on the coast—doubtless at a remote period, as
it seems to be no longer in use among the latter. “The fastening, as
in all Arabic places, is a wooden lock; the bolt is detained by little
pegs falling from above into apposite holes, the key is a wooden
stele, some have them of metal, with teeth to match the holes of the
lock, the key put in under, you strike up the pegs and the slot may be
withdrawn” (Vol. I, p. 143).—[TR.]
Footnote 51:
Both Yaos and Anyanja carry sheath-knives, either stuck in the
waist-cloth or hung to a cross-belt passing over the right shoulder,
or (if of small size) on a string round the neck or left arm.—[TR.]
Footnote 52:
The reference is to p. 315 where the _chimbandi_ ceremony (observed
when a young wife is expecting her first child) is described. Dr.
Weule does not mention the fact of bark-cloth being worn by the girls
at the _unyago_ mysteries he has previously described—indeed, he says
expressly that, at Nuchi (p. 231, and apparently also at Akuchikomu’s,
p. 222) they were dressed in new, bright-coloured calicoes. But he
appears to have witnessed only the closing ceremony. Usually, if not
always, bark-cloth is worn during the weeks spent in the bush. This
was certainly the case among the Yaos of the Shire Highlands, fourteen
or fifteen years ago, and probably is so still. “The _unyago_ [at one
of the Ndirande villages near Blantyre] was just over, and [two of the
missionaries] met the girls coming away from it all freshly anointed
and dripping with oil. They found the _masasa_ (booths or huts) built
round three sides of a square, divided into little compartments, where
the girls sleep. They are not allowed outside the place till the thing
is over, and they wear bark-cloth. In the middle of the square were
traces of pots having been made, and _ufa_ (flour) pounded.... The
girls go through symbolic performances of all their married
duties,—pretend to sow maize, hoe it, gather it, bring it home,
etc.—pounding, sweeping, fetching water, cooking, making pots, etc.,
are all gone through.”—(MS. note, September 26th and 27th,
1894.)—[TR.]
Footnote 53:
A native is not likely to tell a stranger, above all a European, the
names by which he is known at home. The name by which he is known to
his employer is therefore most probably a nickname, or one assumed by
himself for the occasion.—[TR.]
Footnote 54:
It is not always easy to draw the line between games and dances; but
there is certainly no lack of the former. Particulars of games played
by a number of children are given in Scott, _Cyclopædic Dictionary of
the Mang’anja Language_, s.vv. _Masewero_ and _Sewera_.—[TR.]
Footnote 55:
In Chinyanja, _Nguli_ or _Nanguli_.—[TR.]
Footnote 56:
This is evidently the one called _Nsikwa_ in Chinyanja. See Scott,
_Cyclopædic Dictionary of the Mang’anja Language_, p. 465: “A small
top made of a round piece of gourd-shell with a spindle of cane
through the middle.” A game is played with the _Nsikwa_ in which the
players take sides, and spin their tops so as to knock down bits of
maize-cob set up by their adversaries.—[TR.]
Footnote 57:
The articles figured look like bull-roarers, which no doubt might be
put to the use indicated, by a native who had seen the telephone at
Lindi. But we take leave to doubt their being originally made for such
a purpose.—TR.
Footnote 58:
The Rev. Dr. Hetherwick says that _masange_ is “a game played by
children in which they build mimic houses and act as grown-up people.”
[TR.]
Footnote 59:
The author seems to be mistaken in the distinction drawn between the
_ngosyo_ and the “groups.” See note at end of chapter. [TR.]
Footnote 60:
_Miraji_, plural of _mlaji_, a form interchangeable with _mlasi_.
[TR.]
Footnote 61:
Rice in Makua is _mvuka_ or _moka_; the word in the text may be a
corrupt form intermediate between this and the Yao _mpunga_.
Footnote 62:
See, _inter alia_, Mr. R. T. Dennett’s _At the Back of the Black Man’s
Mind_, pp. 38, 68–70. [TR.]
Footnote 63:
The same thing is done by Mang’anja girls on the Shire, in order to
make them articulate clearly. The pebbles used for the purpose are
taken from the stomachs of crocodiles, which sometimes contain enough
to fill a bucket. (MS. note made at Blantyre, August 30th,
1894.)—[TR.]
Footnote 64:
See note at end of chapter.—[TR.]
Footnote 65:
The latter spelling is intended to represent the Makua version of the
English pronunciation of Anastasius.—[TR.]
Footnote 66:
Discovered by Consul O’Neill in 1882.—[TR.]
Footnote 67:
The late Dr. Elmslie computed that this crossing must have taken place
in 1825, as Ngoni tradition states that an eclipse (during which the
chief Mombera, who died in 1892, was prematurely born) occurred at the
time.—[TR.]
Footnote 68:
This may be a mistake for _chikolongwe_, which is the correct form of
the word in Yao—or it may be a Makonde word. _Chitopole_, in Yao (see
Dr. Hetherwick’s _Handbook_) means “the crescent-shaped tribal mark of
the Walomwe” (a division of the Makua). This is quite sufficiently
like the curved spring of the trap in the illustration on p. 98, if
the latter were turned round with the opening downwards. Probably the
Yaos only know the word as applied to the keloid pattern, having
learned it from the Makua, in whose language no doubt it originally
had the sense attributed to it by Dr. Weule.—[TR.]
Footnote 69:
We cannot help thinking that Dr. Weule must be mistaken in supposing
this game to be borrowed from a European source. The late Commander
Cameron, at Kasongo in 1874, saw a slave of the Arab, Juma Merikani,
“exhibiting tricks ... with a piece of heavy, hard wood shaped like an
hour-glass, and two sticks each a foot in length. Taking a stick in
each hand, he could make the wood rotate rapidly and run backwards and
forwards ... between the sticks, on a piece of string attached to
their ends; then, by a peculiar jerk, he would send the wood flying up
into the air, higher than a cricket-ball could be thrown, and catching
it on the string, would again set it rolling” (_Across Africa_, II,
91). At this time, diabolo, of course, was quite unknown in Europe,
though it had been a fashionable game in the early part of last
century. A writer in the _Bulletin de la Société Belge des Etudes
Coloniales_ (December, 1908), in a notice of Dr. Weule’s book, after
quoting the above passage from Cameron, refers to a description of the
game (under the name of _Le Diable_), from a work entitled _Les
Amusements de la Campagne_ (Paris, 1826). It was believed to have
originated in China.—[TR.]
Footnote 70:
This was probably not accidental, as the Wayao always bury their dead
with the knees drawn up. See Macdonald, _Africana_, i, 103.—[TR.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
3. Re-indexed footnotes using numbers and collected together at the end
of the last chapter.
4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
5. Denoted superscripts by a caret before a single superscript
character or a series of superscripted characters enclosed in
curly braces, e.g. M^r. or M^{ister}.
6. The music files are the music transcriber’s interpretation of the
printed notation and are placed in the public domain.
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