CHAPTER XXI
THE SOUTH-EASTERN PEOPLES
ON the Saturday afternoon we reached Ambàhy, a large village not far from the sea, with a ladoàna or custom-house. Here a detachment of military awaited our arrival—viz. four officers and two soldiers, but outside and inside the stockade rather more than the usual amount of tedious ceremony was gone through, which was, however, amusing as well, from the absurd costume of many of the performers.
On the Sunday, as my companion was still unwell, I took the services entirely. The church was in the village on the other side of the water, and in going over to service I had a sail for the first time in a native-made built boat. These boats are here called sàry, and are about thirty feet long by eight feet beam, and easily carry fifty people. I examined with interest the construction of the craft, for the planks, about eight inches broad, were tied, not nailed together, by twisted cord of anìvona palm fibre, one of the toughest known vegetable substances, the holes being plugged with hard wood. The seat boards came right through the sides, so as to stiffen the whole, for there were no ribs or framework. The seams were caulked with strips of bamboo, loops of which also formed the rowlocks for large oars of European shape. The ends of the boat curved upwards considerably, and from its appearance it seemed likely to stand a heavy sea with perfect safety. These boats are made for going out to the shipping, for no dug-out canoe could live in the great waves constantly rolling along these shores.
From Ambàhy northwards there stretches a coral reef at a mile or two’s distance from the beach, a white line of surf constantly breaking over it. Along this part of the coast the vegetation of pandanus is varied by a number of the tall graceful filào-trees (casuarina), so common south of Tamatave. It was dusk before all the baggage and our men were ferried over a small river, and as I was the last I had a most unpleasant hour and a half in the dark, floundering about in rice-fields and water, for our guides lost their way, so that I thought we should have to take shelter under some bush for the night. But at last we reached a good-sized village; two of our men, however, got hopelessly astray and had to lie out all night in the open. In the dark we several times thought we saw a lantern coming to our aid, but it was only the beautiful little fireflies dancing up and down in the bushes, a “will-o’-the-wisp” which deceived us again and again. These flies do not give a continuous light, but one which—like some lighthouses—is quenched every second or two, the interval of darkness being longer than the time when the light is visible.[30]
CANOE CHANTS
We were delayed on our journey one day by having to return and search for a man who had been missing for a day or more. Leaving our stopping-place before six in the morning, I took sixteen men, who were divided into three parties to go in different directions. We did not find him, but discovered where he was, and left him in charge of some Hova officers to be sent on after us. I had two voyages over the Màtitànana that day; the morning’s sail was delightful, the water smooth as a mirror, and with a very large canoe and eight or ten paddles we moved rapidly over the glassy surface. My men began and sustained for some time several of their musical and often amusing canoe chants, in which one man keeps up a recitative, usually an improvised strain, often bringing in circumstances recently happening, while the rest chime in with a chorus at regular intervals, a favourite one being, “E, misy và?” (“Oh, is there any?”). This question refers to various good things they hope to get at the end of the day’s journey, such as plenty of rice, beef, sweet potatoes, etc., these articles of food being mentioned one after another by the leader of the song. A little delicate flattery of their employer, the Englishman they are rowing, is often introduced, and praises of his hoped-for generosity in providing these luxuries for them, something in this style:
and so on, ad libitum.
In another song sung by men on this voyage, the chorus was, Mandàny vàtsy, Toamasina malaza é!—i.e. “Consumes provisions for the way, famous Tamatave O!”—while the recitative brought in all the different villages on the journey from Tamatave to the capital, ending with Avàra-dròva, the northern entrance to the palace yard. Our return voyage was a rough one; there was a considerable swell, for the sea breeze had set in very strongly, as is generally the case in the afternoon along the east coast; and had I not had an unusually large and good canoe, I dared not have ventured across the broad expanse of water near the mouth of the river.
