“Unyamwezi is a romantic name. It is ‘Land of the Moon’ rendered into English—as romantic and sweet in Kinyamwezi as any that Stamboul or Ispahan can boast is to a Turk or a Persian. The attraction, however, to a European lies only in the name. There is nothing of the mystic, nothing of the poetical, nothing of the romantic, in the country of Unyamwezi. If I look abroad over the country I see the most inane and the most prosaic country one could ever imagine. It is the most unlikely country to a European for settlement; it is so repulsive owing to the notoriety it has gained for its fevers. A white missionary would shrink back with horror at the thought of settling in it. An agriculturist might be tempted, but then there are so many better countries where he could do so much better he would be a madman if he ignored those to settle in this. To know the general outline and physical features of Unyamwezi you must take a look around from one of the noble coigns of vantage offered by any of those hills of syenite, in the debatable ground of Mgunda Makali, in Uyanzi. From the summit of one of those natural fortresses, if you look west, you will see Unyamwezi recede into the far, blue, mysterious distance in a succession of blue waves of noble forest, rising and subsiding like the blue waters of an ocean. Such a view of Unyamwezi is inspiring; and, were it possible for you to wing yourself westward on to another vantage coign, again and again the land undulates after the same fashion, and still afar off is the same azure, mystic horizon. As you approach Unyanyembe the scene is slightly changed. Hills of syenite are seen dotting the vast prospect, like islands in a sea, presenting in their external appearance, to an imaginative eye, rude imitations of castellated fortresses and embattled towers. A nearer view of these hills discloses the denuded rock, disintegrated masses standing on end, boulder resting upon boulder, or an immense towering rock, tinted with the sombre color age paints in these lands. Around these rocky hills stretch the cultivated fields of the Wanyamwezi—fields of tall maize, of holcus sorghum, of millet, of vetches, &c.—among which you may discern the patches devoted to the cultivation of sweet potatoes and manioc, and pasture lands where browse the hump-shouldered cattle of Africa, flocks of goats and sheep. This is the scene which attracts the eye, and is accepted as promising relief after the wearisome marching through the thorny jungle plains of Ugogo, the primeval forests of Uyanzi, the dim plains of Tura and Rubuga, and when we have emerged from the twilight shades of Kigwa. No caravan or expedition views it unwelcomed by song and tumultuous chorus, for rest is at hand. It is only after a long halt that one begins to weary of Unyanyembe, the principal district of Unyamwezi. It is only when one has been stricken down almost to the grave by the fatal chilly winds which blow from the heights of the mountains of Usagara, that one begins to criticize the beauty which at first captivated. It is found, then, that though the land is fair to look upon; that though we rejoiced at the sight of its grand plains, at its fertile and glowing fields, at sight of the roving herds, which promised us abundance of milk and cream—that it is one of the most deadly countries in Africa; that its fevers, remittent and intermittent, are unequalled in their severity.
“Unyamwezi, or the Land of the Moon—from U (country) nya (of the) mwezi (moon)—extends over three degrees of latitude in length and about two and a half degrees of longitude in breadth. Its principal districts are Unyanyembe, Ugunda, Ugara, Tura, Rubuga, Kigwa, Usagazi and Uyoweh. Each district has its own chief prince, king, or mtemt, as he is called in Kinyamwezi. Unyanyembe, however is the principal district, and its king, Mkasiwa, is generally considered to be the most important person in Unyamwezi. The other kings often go to war against him, and Mkasiwa often gets the worst of it; as, for instance, in the present war between the King of Uyoweh (Mirambo) and Mkasiwa.
“All this vast country is drained by two rivers—the Northern and Southern Gombe, which empty into the Malagarazi River, and thence into Lake Tanganyika. On the east Unyamwezi is bounded by the wilderness of Mgunda Makali and Ukmibu, on the south by Urori and Ukonongo, on the west by Ukawendi and Uvniza, on the north by several small countries and the Ukereweh Lake. Were one to ascend by a balloon and scan the whole of Unyamwezi he would have a view of one great forest, broken here and there by the little clearings around the villages, especially in and around Unyanyembe.”
On account of troubles in the country, the Search Expedition was detained some three months in Kwihara. Mr. Stanley lived in quite a large, strong house for that country, consisting of a main room and bathroom, built of mud about three feet thick. He thus describes “the daily round”:
“In the early morning, generally about half-past five or six o’clock, I begin to stir the soldiers up sometimes with a long bamboo, for you know they are such hard sleepers they require a good deal of poking. Bombay has his orders given him, and Feragji, the cook, who, long ago warned by the noise I make when I rouse up, is told in unmistakable tones to bring ‘chai’ (tea), for I am like an old woman, I love tea very much, and can take a quart and a half without any inconvenience. Kalulu, a boy of seven all the way from Cazembe’s country, is my waiter and chief butler. He understands my ways and mode of life exactly. Some weeks ago he ousted Selim from the post of chief butler by sheer diligence and smartness. Selim, the Arab boy, cannot wait at table. Kalulu—young antelope—is frisky. I have but to express a wish and it is gratified. He is a perfect Mercury, though a marvellously black one. Tea over, Kalulu clears the dishes and retires under the kitchen shed, where, if I have a curiosity to know what he is doing, he may be seen with his tongue in the tea cup licking up the sugar that was left in it and looking very much as if he would like to eat the cup for the sake of the divine element it has so often contained. If I have any calls to make this is generally the hour; if there are none to make I go on the piazza and subside quietly on my bearskin to dream may be, of that far off land I call my own, or to gaze towards Tabora, the Kaze of Burton and Speke, though why they should have called it Kaze as yet I have not been able to find out; or to look towards lofty Zimbili and wonder why the Arabs, at such a crisis as the present, do not remove their goods and chattels to the summit of that natural fortress. But dreaming and wondering and thinking and marvelling are too hard for me; so I make some ethnological notes and polish up a little my geographical knowledge of Central Africa.
“I have to greet about four hundred and ninety-nine people of all sorts with the salutation ‘Yambo.’ This ‘Yambo’ is a great word. It may mean ‘How do you do?’ ‘How are you?’ ‘Thy health?’ The answer to it is ‘Yambo!’ or ‘Yambo Sana!’ (How are you; quite well?) The Kinyamwezi—the language of the Wanyamwezi—of it is ‘Moholo’ and the answer is ‘Moholo.’ The Arabs, when they call, if they do not give the Arabic ‘Spal-kher,’ give you the greeting ‘Yambo;’ and I have to say ‘Yambo.’ And, in order to show my gratitude to them, I emphasize it with ‘Yambo Sana! Sana! Sana?’ (Are you well? Quite well, quite, quite well?) And if they repeat the words I am more than doubly grateful, and invite them to a seat on the bearskin. This bearskin of mine is the evidence of my respectability, and if we are short of common-place topics we invariably refer to the bearskin, where there is room for much discussion.
THE ATTACK ON MIRAMBO.
“Having disposed of my usual number of ‘Yambos’ for the morning I begin to feel ‘peckish,’ as the sea skipper says, and Feragji, the cook, and youthful Kalulu, the chief butler, are again called and told to bring ‘chukula’—food. This is the breakfast put down on the table at the hour of ten punctually every morning:—Tea (ugali) a native porridge made out of the flour of dourra, holcus sorghum, or matama, as it is called here; a dish of rice and curry. Unyanyembe is famous for its rice, fried goat’s meat, stewed goat’s meat, roast goat’s meat, a dish of sweet potatoes, a few ‘slapjacks’ or specimens of the abortive efforts of Feragji to make dampers or pancakes, to be eaten with honey. But neither Feragji’s culinary skill nor Kalulu’s readiness to wait on me can tempt me to eat. I have long ago eschewed food, and only drink tea, milk and yaourt—Turkish word for ‘clabber’ or clotted milk.
“After breakfast the soldiers are called, and together we begin to pack the bales of cloth, string beads and apportion the several loads which the escort must carry to Ujiji some way or another. Carriers come to test the weight of the loads and to inquire about the inducements offered by the ‘Muzungu.’ The inducements are in the shape of so many pieces of cloth, four yards long, and I offered double what any Arab ever offered. Some are engaged at once, others say they will call again, but they never do, and it is of no use to expect them when there is war, for they are the cowardliest people under the sun.