This burning is, so far as I am enabled to judge, only possible where the remarkable form of vegetation prevails which characterizes the greater part of Africa, and covers the whole extent of the great plain on the west and north-west of the Makonde plateau. This is the “open bush and grass steppe” (lichte Baumgras-steppe) as it has been very appropriately named by the geologist Bornhardt. In fact, this form of vegetation is neither exclusively forest nor altogether steppe; it unites the characters of the two. Imagine a particularly neglected orchard, in some rural part of Germany (where I am sorry to say the farmers still pay far too little attention to this branch of cultivation), and fill up the spaces between the scattered apple, pear or plum trees, not with our modest German grass but with the African variety, two or three yards high and more like canes, mix this with underwood—thorny, but not very close—and finally bind together the tops of the trees (which are not very high—certainly none of them over forty feet—and all varieties having a sort of general resemblance to our maple) by means of a system of airy lianas. Having done all this, you have, without any further strain on the imagination, a fairly correct picture of what is here generally called pori, though in the North the name of “myombo forest” is more usually applied to it. During the rains, and just after them, this pori must undeniably have its charms,—in fact, Ewerbeck and his companion Knudsen are indefatigable in singing its praises as it appears in that season. Now, on the other hand, in July, it is anything but beautiful: it neither impresses us by the number and size of its trees, nor refreshes us with any shade whatever, nor presents the slightest variation in the eternal monotony which greets the traveller as soon as he leaves Nyangao and crosses to the right bank of the Lukuledi and from which he only escapes after a march of several weeks, high up on the Upper Rovuma. “So this is the exuberant fertility of the tropics, and this is what an evergreen primeval forest looks like!” I thought, after enjoying this spectacle for the space of a whole day. Just as with regard to the alleged want of appetite experienced by Europeans in the tropics, we ought to see that the general public is more correctly informed as to the supposed fertility of Equatorial Africa, and so saved from forming extravagant notions of the brilliant future in store for our colonies.
The pori becomes downright unpleasant wherever the owners of the country have just been burning it. To right and left of the road extends a thick layer of black or grey ashes, on which, here and there, lies a dead tree, steadily smouldering away. Now that there is no grass to obstruct the view, the eye ranges unhindered through what at other times is impenetrable bush. For the sportsman this state of things is a pleasure, as he can now see game at almost any distance; but for the traveller, especially if encumbered with a large caravan, it is nothing less than torture. This is not so much the case in the early morning, when the fine particles of dust are laid by the heavy dews; but, when the sun rises higher, marked differences of temperature are produced within a comparatively small area. Tramping on through the glowing heat of noon, suspecting no harm and intending none, the traveller suddenly sees something whirling in front of his feet—a black snake spinning round in a raging vortex, rises straight up, dances round him in coquettish curves, and then vanishes sideways behind the trees, with a low chuckle, as if in derision of the stranger and his immaculately clean khaki suit. The native followers have not suffered, being of the same colour as the insidious foe. But what is the aspect presented by the leader of the expedition! Though not guaranteed to wash, he presents a sufficiently close resemblance to a blackamoor, and under the circumstances, the faithful Moritz and Kibwana, as soon as we have reached camp, will have no more pressing task than to prepare the bath for their master and thoroughly soap him down from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot. And all this is the work of the pori whirlwind.
In these small distresses of life on the march, the imperturbable cheerfulness of the natives is always a comfort. Among the Wamwera on the scene of the late rising, there was little inclination for dancing and merriment—the prevailing misery was too great; but everywhere else, before our camp was even half arranged, the inhabitants of the place had assembled in crowds, and the scene which ensued was always the same in its general features, though varying in detail. The negro has to dance. As the German, whenever anything lifts him out of the dead level of the workaday mood, feels irresistibly impelled to sing, so the African misses no opportunity of assembling for a ngoma. The word ngoma, in its original signification means nothing more than a drum; in an extended sense it denotes all festivities carried on to the sound of the drum. These festivities have an indisputable advantage over ours, in that the instrumental music, dancing, and singing are all simultaneous. The band drums, but also occasionally improvises songs, the audience standing round in a circle form the chorus and at the same time march round the band to the rhythm of the song. This is the usual picture, with all its strangeness so fascinating that the oldest residents in the coast towns do not think it beneath their dignity to honour this expression of aboriginal life by attending from time to time, if only for a few minutes. Other and less sophisticated whites are regular habitués at these festivals, and never let a Saturday evening pass—this being the day when ngomas are allowed by law—without standing for hours among the panting and perspiring crowd. One of these dances, executed by the women of every place I have so far visited, on every possible occasion, is peculiarly pleasing. It is called likwata (“clapping of hands”). A number of women and girls stand in a circle, facing inwards. Suddenly arms rise into the air, mouths open, feet twitch in unison, and all goes on in exact step and time; hand-clapping, singing and dancing. With the peculiar grace which characterizes all movements of native women, the whole circle moves to the right, first one long step, then three much shorter. The hand-clapping, in time and force, accurately follows the above rhythm, as does the song, which I shall presently reproduce. Suddenly, at a certain beat, two figures step out of the line of dancers—they trip in the centre of the circle, moving round one another in definite figures, the movements in which, unfortunately, are too rapid for the eye to follow—and then return to their fixed places in the circle to make way for two more solo artists. So the game goes on, without interruption or diminution of intensity, hour after hour, regardless of the babies who, tied in the inevitable cloth on their mothers’ backs, have gone through the whole performance along with them. In this confined, hot, and often enough dirty receptacle, they sleep, wake or dream, while the mother wields the heavy pestle, pounding the maize in the mortar, or grinds the meal on the stone, while she breaks the ground for sowing, hoes up the weeds or gathers in the crops, while she carries the heavy earthen water-jar on her head from the distant spring, and while, as now, she sways to and fro in the dance. No wonder if, under such circumstances, the native baby is thoroughly familiar with the national step and rhythm even before he has left the carrying-cloth and the maternal breast. The sight of tiny shrimps of three and four moving with absolute certainty through the mazes of the grown people’s dance, would almost of itself be worth the journey to East Africa.
And now come the very profound words accompanying this dance which seems so full of meaning and poetry. The spectator standing by and watching the varied and graceful movements of the women—perhaps working the cinematograph at the same time—is apt, in spite of all previous resolutions, to pay too little heed to the words sung. When, the dance over, he arranges the performers before the phonograph, he is tempted to believe that his ears have deceived him, so utterly inane are these words. I have made records of the likwata at a number of different places, but never succeeded in getting any other result than the following—
The reader will agree that no undue amount of intellect has been lavished on this ditty, but this is a trait common to all native songs here in the South. Even those acknowledged virtuosi, my Wanyamwezi, cannot do very much better in this respect. Here we have really every right to say, “We Wazungu are better singers after all!”
MOUNTAINS NEAR MASASI. DRAWN BY SALIM MATOLA