We pitched our tents upon a terrace which overhangs the stream: the men lit their fires, ten in number, on the sandy bed, where they resolved to sleep. And it added to the charm of our position, that as the moon rose full behind us the whole body of our bearers gathered together for evening prayers: sang with spirit their plaintive Malagasy hymns, said a hearty Amen to the words of the 91st Psalm: and cast themselves on the protection of that Saviour, to whom (they said explicitly) they have found it good to pray. Let none say that in this prosaic age, the days of romance have passed away. To me the simple realities of life often bring scenes as romantic as any which fiction can pourtray.
The following morning while the baggage was being packed, we breakfasted by the light of a brilliant moon, and recommenced our march. The men were in good spirits, though stiff after their al-fresco sleep. We soon traversed a natural park, full of beauty, spread out for miles, and waiting for a master. We again followed for a space the rocky valley of the Andranobe: and just at sunrise came upon the most charming scene which we had beheld in all our journey. We had reached the bottom of the hill country: and the plain of Ménaváva lay stretched before us away to the distant horizon. The River Ikopa was turning toward us from round a rocky hill four hundred yards broad, its bed for miles very rocky, a hundred green islands rising from its bosom, clothed with wood, while the rushing water fell in cataracts of foam over a reef of rocks which completely covered the stream. The cataracts reminded me of those of the River Máveligunga in the middle of the island of Ceylon. The islands, rocks and rapids were our companions for several miles, to Nosifito, where “seven islands” form a striking group in the river.
We now turned a little inland; crossed a small stream, the Andranobe-vava, and came upon a region of wild disorder. The gneiss strata were tilted perpendicular. Hills of quartz, gneiss, and clay were thrown up, made of broken fragments of primitive rock. The boulders were countless: the country was covered with them, and many were of enormous size. They were rounded, ground, water-worn: multitudes were half-buried in the clay. The reason was simple. We were travelling over the surface of the drift and debris of the higher districts. The present Ikopa indicates the line of valley down which for many ages the drainage of Imerina has poured; and we had reached the point at the bottom of the hills at which the material brought down by the waters has been deposited upon the plains. It was not the fact of that deposit which surprised us. It was the extent to which it had been carried. We saw that mighty forces had been at work; we saw the results of enormous floods, of the rending of barriers and outpouring of lakes, everywhere stamped upon this wide-spread scene of ruin. We were nearly four hours traversing it, in a hot sun: not a stream crossed our path, and our men suffered much from thirst.
At last we reached a beautiful glen, on the north edge of the drift, down which was flowing a stream of the purest water. The men were wild with delight; they just flung down their burdens; rushed pell-mell into the stream; and drank and bathed and revelled in the water. The fires were soon blazing and the cooking-pots well occupied. We did not need to hurry them, as we were near our destination: and a short run of five miles brought us to the town of Mevatanána, which we reached safe and well.
With Mevatanána, we were in the Sakalava country, and continued through it to the sea. This was the third principal section of our journey. We found it well-defined; the granite hills and their long spurs forming an inner boundary to its broad and fertile plains. It was everywhere beautifully green. Warm in climate, it gave us back the fan-palm, the tamarind, the mangoe and the plantain as strong, beautiful and fruitful trees. The grass was rich for the many herds of cattle: the enclosed basins and undulating plains seemed capable of producing roots, vegetables, rice and fruit. But the population is thin and scattered: the Sakalava villages consist of ten, fifteen, twenty houses; and they are few and far between. We found that there are twelve churches in the district; the six most important of these are in six towns, garrisoned by Hovas, all of which we visited except one. Only in one of these churches are there Sakalavas. That people have as yet scarcely been touched by the gospel: it is to the Hovas and their surroundings it is almost entirely confined. Everywhere we were heartily welcomed. The people had heard of our coming and had looked for us long. Presents were showered upon us, including oxen, turkeys, geese, fowls, eggs and milk: our congregations were very large: our men were happy.
GATEWAY OF POLES—MEVATANANA.
Mevatanana justifies its name which means “an excellent site for a city.” It stands on a spur of that inner ridge of clay through which the Ikopa has cut its way: and has deep ravines on three sides. The town is 240 feet above the sea level: the river is 150 feet. The town contains 168 houses, of which 80 are within the stockade. The governor’s house is in a broad open square: close to which are the principal shops for cloth, meat, vegetables and fruit. The town occupies an admirable position in relation to the country generally. It stands on the edge of the hill districts and of the fertile plains: it is two miles from the east bank of the river: it is the point up to which the river is navigable by canoes. It is a good stopping station for all travellers from the coast; and the first resting-place to others journeying from the Capital. It is also the edge of the population. To the east and south the country is empty. Across the river to the west the district contains a few Sakaláva villages of three, five, seven houses at long intervals. On the north at moderate intervals are the six garrison towns in line, which end with the port and harbour of Mojangá. A considerable number of the inhabitants of the town are the Hova garrison from Imerina.
The people gave us a hearty welcome. We occupied the chapel, outside the stockade, on the edge of the ravine: and weary with our wilderness journey were glad to secure a long and refreshing sleep. Surveying, photographing, looking round, talking with the shopkeepers, talking with the Governor of the town and the pastor of the church, writing journals, making sketch-maps, and idling generally, made up a quiet, pleasant Saturday: though our wild friend, the south-east wind, did not forget us, but blew hard all day, raised great clouds of dust, drove away plenty of malaria, and made himself generally disagreeable.
In the evening we dined with the Governor. He is an old gentleman, who ought long since to have been put on pension. But he and his nice, old wife, were hospitable and kind. The feast was simple and truly primitive. Roast fowls, boiled rice, abundance of gravy and bowls of milk are no bad provision for hungry men. The Governor and his lady sat at table with us, as did three of his officers. We brought our knives and spoons with us: but the three officers ate out of a common plate with a horn spoon each. Three other officers sat on the ground and against the wall: while the cook, who superintended the primitive light, and evidently had great faith in the usefulness of his fingers, freely joined in the conversation and gave his opinion upon various matters without the slightest hesitation. Amongst other questions discussed, was the important topic of our journey onward. Was it better to go by water or by land: if the latter, was the journey long or difficult: if the former, could we get canoes here? We had tried in vain to get clear light upon these points, from the captains of our baggage, during the day: so we asked the opinion of our friends to-night. After serious discussion among themselves, the Governor and his officers delivered the following judgment. “If you take boats, that is good. If you go by land, that is good; because you prefer it. What you like, we like. What pleases you, satisfies us.”