We passed Mahuta on our march from Newala to Nchichira—the easiest march yet experienced. Had I not bestridden my well-tried old mule, I could have wished for a bicycle; even a motor could have been driven quite comfortably along this road. No steep hills and no deeply eroded gorges, but a plain with a gentle and almost imperceptible eastward slope, covered throughout with dense bush, in which the industrious Makonde have here and there cleared their little patches for cultivation, and through which run broad, well-kept roads, sometimes perfectly straight for a kilometer at a time. The Makonde have certainly not made these roads out of any personal interest in improving their means of communication. In fact, considerable pressure from Lindi was needed before they could be got to accomplish the task; but, once finished, the roads—everywhere wide enough for a column, and sometimes for a section, to march abreast—are equal to every strategic requirement. The only thing calculated to diminish the pleasures of travel is the loose, deep sand, which, however, one is thankful to find does not occur everywhere, but only in the depressions, where it has been washed down from the higher parts of the road. In these spots it seems all but bottomless.
MY ESCORT HALTED AT HENDERERA’S VILLAGE IN THE MAKONDE HIGHLANDS
But the men’s delight in change and movement would conquer greater difficulties than this trifle. The bush is green, the sun has just dispelled the mists, and now shines down victoriously on black and white alike with such cheerfulness that the carriers cannot help singing. So they strike up their fine old Nyamwezi songs which have so often helped us over the small unpleasantnesses of the march, and also some newly-composed ones, which, heard to-day for the first time, are still more pleasing than the old répertoire.
There is only one settlement of any size on the road between Newala and Mahuta. This is the village presided over by Henderera, an old club-footed Makonde headman. His ugliness seems to have impressed even my carriers; at least one of them, a few days later, brought me a sketch-book, in which the old man was most faithfully portrayed. Henderera’s village is laid out on a surprisingly large scale; the open space round which the huts are grouped is large enough for a company of German soldiers to exercise in, and my scant dozen warriors make a very poor show in it.
The boma of Mahuta is conspicuous at a great distance by its palisade and an unusually large drill-ground. In fact, all trees and bushes have been cleared away to a distance of at least a couple of hundred yards all round the fort. In front of the main entrance—a small gateway scarcely wide enough for one man to pass—I see the Wali’s whole force drawn up; five baharia, black fellows in khaki sailor-suits, who are making convulsive efforts to get into tolerable alignment. The Wali is not visible; he is at the coast, I am told. The commanding officer is just bellowing “Present arms!” when I am unkind enough to leave the road to the boma and turn to the right. A few hundred yards on one side of the boma, and behind it, I see the house which was long ago named in my honour and in which it is surely my bounden duty to take up my quarters. This is a building which Mr. Ewerbeck, in anticipation of our working together at Mahuta, caused to be erected for our common use some months ago. The architect was punctually at hand on the day fixed for the house-warming, but his guest had been grappled with hooks of steel by the ethnological interests of Chingulungulu. Half in sadness, half in vexation, Ewerbeck moved in by himself, bestowed on the house the sign of “The Professor who Never Came,” and, finally, took his own departure. Scarcely had the five sailors become aware of my intention before they were off like lightning. I rode after them at a round trot, but nevertheless the “Ready! Present arms! Eyes left!” came quite in time. I must say they are smart at their drill, these black lads!
The house at the sign of “The Professor who Never Came” has a magnificent situation. From its verandah, or from the steps leading to it, we look into a deep ravine yawning immediately at our feet. On both sides is a splendid forest of large timber trees—the Makonde avoid steep slopes in their destructive system of farming—and, in the far distance behind the spot where the ravine (which must be some twelve miles long) is closed in by two projecting spurs of the plateau, we see a pale grey strip with a silver streak in it. That is the Rovuma. Behind it again is a shining mirror—the Lidede Lake,[[66]] and behind that, in dark, dull-green contours, the level of the Mavia plateau. After the monotony of the Makonde Highlands, the scenery of Mahuta is indeed refreshing.
We continued our march on the following day. Hour after hour, the long-drawn-out line of the caravan wound its way between the green walls of the bush. The aspect of the latter had now undergone a change. It was not so high, and the place of the terrible thorns was taken by a perfect exuberance of plant-forms reminding me of our box-thorn (Lycium barbarum). As the sun rose higher, the heat in the narrow pass now forming the road became more stifling, and the sand of the soil finer and deeper. At last we reached Nchichira, which, like Masasi, Newala and Mahuta, possesses a boma—a square enclosure of about 100 yards to a side, surrounded by a palisade of stout logs. This contains the dwellings of the Akida and the other officials of a subordinate German administrative centre. In the months which have passed since we left Lindi, my men have become thoroughly proficient in pitching and breaking camp. One, two, three, and my tent is in place—and in an equally short time we have installed ourselves under the low baraza. It is no more comfortable than our previous abodes, but I prefer a strong thatched roof to the necessity of living in the hot tent, or to a freshly-built banda with its abundance of all sorts of vermin. In such structures insects incessantly rain down from the newly-cut grass on one’s head and body, and into all the plates and dishes.
The twelve days at Nchichira passed like a dream. Not that I really did any dreaming: the excessive amount of work awaiting me there prevented that. Just because I have not yet attained a clear consciousness of the impressions received—have, so to speak, not digested the abundant repast set before me—the whole time of my stay seems, on looking back, like a confused reverie. I shall not attempt to describe its details here, but only to note the most striking points.
I can find no trace of the heroic qualities alleged to be possessed by the Wangoni. These fellows do not seem to differ much, physically or mentally, from the other tribes in this region; in fact, to confess the honest truth, their physique is somewhat inferior. Moreover, many of them are diseased. I was confronted with a ghastly sight one day, when following a strange track in the sand which I took to be that of a python, I went round to the back of a hut and found seated there a living skeleton—a man without a vestige of flesh or muscle on his whole body. He had been dragged along in a sitting posture by a compassionate small boy, thus producing the track I had noticed. This disease is called ububa.