The fates of these pastoral people and of their property (the countless herds of cattle) were so closely bound together, and these warlike herdsmen had become so dependent on their droves of cattle, that once these were ruined they could not survive, but died in a few days of famine.
In the lapse of little more than a year the cattle plague and the Black Death had swept over the Masai uplands. Hungry vultures hovered over scenes of horror. The herds of cattle fell under the strange pestilence. Agonised by slow starvation, the herdsmen followed them to death. I have often found lying together, in one narrow space, the countless white bleached bones of the cattle and the skull of their former owner. It would be an old camping-ground, with its fence of thorns (zereba) long rotted away, and it was now a strangely impressive Golgotha. These heaps of bones, still to be seen in 1897, were soon after dissolved in dust and scattered by the winds.
Where are the Masai of those days?
Suddenly they stand boldly before me, as if they had sprung up out of the ground! It is no illusion. But why do my bearers show no fear? Why does no uproar break out in the camp?
C. G. Schillings, phot.
MASAI HERDSMEN.
It is plain enough that no one troubles himself about the appearance of these figures, for they come, not threatening and demanding tribute, but conscious of the overpowering might of the European. True, a few months ago, not so far from my camp, their warriors surprised and destroyed a caravan of nearly a thousand coast folk. But, generally speaking, they do not care to have to reckon with the superior weapons of Europe. They even accept some food from me. And in this matter they are not so dainty as they used to be in former times, when the warriors—obedient to strict dietary laws—lived only on the meat and milk of their herds. Of course, here we have to deal with only a small number of them. Yonder, on the wild uplands, there still live a not inconsiderable number of Masai, who having saved their herds, or got them together again, keep as far away as may be from the Europeans and their uncanny weapons.
The Masai warriors, with their wives, children, and herds, seem to me to be fit accessories for this desert landscape. In the evening, dances amuse us till late in the night, and many a wordy skirmish breaks out as some of my bearers who, thanks to former journeys, have some knowledge of the Masai tongue, gossip with these nomads of the wilderness. The coast folk think themselves high as the heavens above the “savage” Masai. The Masai warriors, in return, despise the burden-bearing coast folk, count them as “barbarians,” and scornfully call them “il’meek.”
But the times have changed, and so it comes to pass that my people too join in the dance, which lasts late into the night: that songs of the warriors and the women—“‘Singolioitin loo-‘l-muran” and “Loo-‘ngoroyok”—ring out through the darkness, the chorus finding a manifold echo with its oft-repeated “Ho! He! Ho! Na! He! Hoo!” It is a “Leather Stocking” kind of poetry, and indeed the redskins of the New World and the Masai here in Dark Africa seem to me alike. The former had to yield to civilisation, the same fate awaits the latter.