CHAPTER I
For the first time in my travels I had to be content with third-class steamship accommodation. I knew the South Sea Islands trip would shrivel my pocketbook, and would not have been disappointed had I not enough money to buy even a third-class ticket to South Africa. We took a chance on the South Sea Islands trip—and won. "Steerage," in big red type, was stamped on the steamship ticket that carried me from Melbourne to South Africa, but all passengers were on an equality, as there was but one grade of accommodation—third.
Supper was the first meal on board, but no tea or coffee was served. The absence of these "luxuries" was explained later, passengers being informed that tea or coffee was provided only once daily—at breakfast time. At the first morning meal a hubbub took place among mothers with babes. Something was wrong with the milk, and when that matter had also been explained we learned that sea water—salt water—had been used, instead of fresh water, to dilute the condensed milk.
The cabins contained from two to ten berths, and as almost every one prefers privacy a few dollars more were paid for a two-berth cabin, as little sleep could be anticipated were interests pooled with nine snoring mates. The two-berth cabin had no margin to boast of, as, in order for one to get a handkerchief from his hip pocket, it was necessary to vacate it and seek arm-turning space in the hallway. I had a good cabin mate, and we soon came to an understanding as to what time each of us would visit our quarters. Two could sleep in the cabin, but there was not room enough for two to turn in it. The pillow—we would not be so rash as to say the slip covered a chunk of cement; it may have been tan bark. The door had no lock, neither was there a button to ring up the steward.
The ship stopped at Hobart, took on 30,000 cases of apples, and headed for Albany, West Australia. The tea merchants in the Tasmania capital did a good business for the time being, as passengers who, before starting, knew nothing of the rules of the ship concerning tea and coffee allowances laid in here a good supply, together with preserves, crackers, Chinese napkins and other necessities the ship did not furnish.
Ninety dollars for eight weeks' travel is surely giving passengers a cheap journey. The vessel sailed from Sydney the first week in June, reaching her destination, London, England, about the first of August, after a voyage of 14,000 miles. Three hundred persons had booked passage on the liner, and of that number there was not one foreign-speaking passenger aboard. This will seem strange when it is borne in mind that the most cosmopolitan place in the world is a passenger steamship. Seven preachers were included, which, sea tradition says, generally augurs for bad weather; but, as there are exceptions to almost every rule, we had smooth sailing after clearing the Bight and Cape Leeuwin. The "animal" classification of the cargo included birds—canaries, magpies, parrots and cockatoos; also a joey, as a young kangaroo is called. This animal was bought at Albany by an American, the tariff on the joey to London being $10. The freight charge for a canary was 60 cents, and rates for larger birds were from 75 cents to $1.25.
Fruit—generally confined to apples or oranges—was served at supper. The apples often seemed nearly as hard as billiard balls and as tasteless as frozen turnips. A prosperous Irishman, of a ripe age, who had gone to Australia in early days, when six months' time was required to make the voyage, was, with his aged wife, returning to the Emerald Isle. One evening, when we had oranges for supper, after he had bitten into one, the Celt was observed going through a series of facial contortions, with shoulder movements—something after the fashion of an agitated Frenchman. "Are the oranges sweet to-night, Mr. O'Gorman?" he was asked. "Sweet?" whipped back the old Roman, as water dripped from the tear-ducts of his eyes and fire snapped from the corners—"Sweet? They're so sharup they'd cut your t'roat!"
Cake was served Sunday afternoons, and milk, sugar and hot water were at the pleasure of passengers, but they had to furnish their own tea or coffee. The tea and teapot, for instance, would be given to the table steward, and he would make the tea and serve it at mealtime. A piano added greatly to the entertainment of the passengers, as concerts were held twice a week. Besides, various athletic sports were indulged in.
The preachers took turns officiating at Sunday services. As there were seven of them—the voyage embracing as many Sabbaths—each one had an opportunity to keep in practice. One of their number, a Scotch Presbyterian, was on his way from Australia to his native country for a "holiday." Except at mealtime, he could generally be found sitting in a corner of the smoking saloon burning up black cigars, as he was a confirmed smoker; he was also a devotee of, and an expert at, the game of checkers, or draughts, as that amusement is termed in British territory. While no one on the ship had a chance to beat him, during the course of a game he would buoy, from time to time, the hope entertained by a presumptuous rival of lowering the parson's colors with clerical flattery—pretending that his opponent had nearly caught him napping on certain moves and that the skill of the player was worthy any foeman's steel. An Irish Presbyterian also was among the clergymen, and he sometimes sat at a table for hours with another passenger, in tomb-like stillness—playing a game of chess. Chess players, as a rule, have a poor opinion of checkers—calling it a child's game. The Irish dominie was asked if much skill was required to play checkers. "No," was the reply. "Any one can learn that game in a week." A short time later, when the Scotch preacher was engaged at checkers, and won, as usual, he congratulated his opponent on the splendid game he had played. "There's a great deal of superfluous talk about checkers—one would think that only persons of superior intellect could play that game," remarked a passenger to the Scotchman. A sneer came over the preacher's face. "I've been playing draughts for 30 years and don't know the game yet," he tartly answered. "Why," returned the passenger, "a man on this ship said there was nothing to it—that any one could learn the game in a week." "Who's the man that said he could learn the game of draughts in a week!" he exclaimed, in eloquent tones. "Who's the man! Point him out!" He lost control of a strong cigar, and every one laughed but the padre.
Durban was reached 26 days after leaving Melbourne, and here I found myself left with only $2 of the $750 with which I started for the Antipodes. (Reference to the last paragraph of Leg Two and the Itinerary printed at the end of the book will explain conditions.)
On a German ship we took final leave of Durban and South Africa, the route being along what is known as the East Coast of Africa and across the western end of the Indian Ocean, to Bombay, India. Every berth was engaged. New scenes ahead bespoke an interesting voyage. America was well represented among the passengers, as there were eight—five missionaries, two theatrical men and a printer.
A day's sail along the flat coast of Zululand and Tongaland and southern Portuguese-East Africa found us in Lourenzo Marques, the capital of Portuguese-East Africa. Seldom is the name Lourenzo Marques heard in this part of the world. "Delagoa Bay" is used 99 times out of 100 when speaking of that East Coast capital. Mention was made in the few Lisbon notes of the white and gray paving used in that city, and the same kind of pavement in Lourenzo Marques brings one's mind back to the Portuguese capital, particularly "Rolling Motion Square." The white population of Portuguese-East Africa is small considering the large territory embraced in that colony, Europeans numbering only 3,000. Public buildings do not make much of a showing, a good harbor and docks being the city's chief assets. Street car and electric light systems, a seaside resort and high prices are some of the characteristics of Lourenzo Marques. Natives are very numerous, and African fever—a notorious feature of this place—is so prevalent that all the white residents have a veiny, sickly appearance.
Fever trees, so called from their sallow appearance, grow not far from here. The leaves droop, are small, thin and lifeless, while the bark on the stunted trunks and limbs is scaly.
Lourenzo Marques, located on Delagoa Bay, is the nearest port for the Transvaal, through which most of the machinery and supplies for the great mines passed until the consolidation of the South African provinces. It was, in short, the chief Boer port of South Africa. Were the deaths that occurred while building the railroad from here to Pretoria made public it would make sad reading. During the stretch of 400 miles separating Johannesburg and Lourenzo Marques some of the territory traversed is through the worst fever zones in the world—even the trees contracting "fever."
Cruising along to the next port, Inhambane—also Portuguese territory—where the stately cocoanut palm raises its bushy head to an admiring distance from the earth, we again reach the tropics. Four of the missionaries disembarked—a bishop and his wife, and one other couple, who were located at a mission station a short distance from this port.
Three hundred whites live in this treacherous place and 30 per cent. die each year. The permanent missionary and his wife had both been fever victims, and if they fail soon to get out of the Inhambane district they will never come out alive. The husband is a powerfully built man, and his wife's skin as fair as a lily. She would be called pretty. They both had a good education, and both were hard workers. The missionary's predecessor had become "salted," but the bodies of three wives were resting under African soil. Black-water fever is nearly always certain death. Until a few years ago death was as certain after having contracted that form of fever as to one who stepped in front of a locomotive traveling at a speed of a mile a minute. All liquids drunk by a victim turn black.
A native was induced to scale a cocoanut tree and knock nuts off. Eight tumbled down, and we were charged two cents each for them. The cocoanut tree has no season—it blossoms and bears the year round.
Native women loaded and unloaded the ship, and looked stronger than the men. Sugar, copra and peanuts were put on at that port.
The anchor chain winds round the drum, and off we start on another run, bringing us to Beira, also in Portuguese territory, the port for Rhodesia. The best route to reach Salisbury or Bulawayo is from Beira. To the former place it is some 300 miles, and to Bulawayo nearly 700 miles.
Venice, Italy, is unique in canals and in the absence of vehicular traffic; and Beira may claim some resemblance to the Italian city, notably in the absence of carriages, automobiles, wagons, motorcycles and street cars. Beira is built on a sandbar, and the means of travel in that place is by vehicles called "trolleys," four-wheeled conveyances. The frame is of iron, and a foot-rest, seat, back and hood are built on this. It is a small carriage on low wheels. The track on which the trolley runs is two feet wide, and the rails are one-inch thick. Ties or sleepers support these. The "power" to move the "trolley" is two natives, who push the vehicle, and push it on the run. These natives are dressed in white cotton shirts, with short sleeves, and with a lava-lava or kilt made of calico, with big spots, which reaches to the knees. Their hat is a red fez with tassels, which suggests we have reached the influence of the Arab. The "trolley" pusher never runs between the rails—always on the one-inch rail. One would think there are grooves in his feet to fit in these. The streets are intersected by "trolley" tracks, switches being made at places, where "trolleys" branch to certain streets. On the main street are three tracks, and turntables have been built here and there on which to turn the cars around when ready for the return trip. They are comfortable to ride in, and most of them are privately owned.
With the exception of a good sea wall, there is little of the substantial about Beira—only a few frame buildings, and others of corrugated iron. Arab merchants are numerous, and where they have become established there is very little money for the white man, few modern customs being in evidence.
One of my cabin mates was a Trappist priest. Born in Ohio, he went to Africa in his early years, and had been teaching natives for a quarter of a century. He was a chaplain in the Boer War, and his intimate knowledge of that interesting country was so general as to break set rules for bedtime when listening to his experiences.
The ship's whistle blows and we are off again, traveling through what is known as the Mozambique Channel, that stretch of water separating Madagascar, a French possession, from Portuguese-East Africa. The latter country is 750 miles in length and 200 miles wide. The seashore all along is as free of ruggedness as the shores of a lake located in a level plain.
Negro melodies and popular airs were reeled off their musical instruments by the two Americans at intervals of a few nights between. We had a congenial lot of passengers, and every one was enjoying the voyage.
Three more stops were made in Portuguese-East Africa, but no enterprise was apparent. Few white people were to be seen, while Indians, Arabs and natives were as thick as flies. At Ibo, the last stop, the cargo was brought from shore to the ship in what are called dhows, with ragged sails, scaly hulks, chipped masts, frazzled ropes—the sort of vessels that have been used in Asia for 2,000 years. Rubber trees grow in that section and, together with copra, comprise the exports.