MNYASA HUNTER WITH DOG. DRAWN BY SALIM MATCLA
CHAPTER VI
NATIVE LIFE SEEN FROM THE INSIDE
Masasi, end of July, 1906.
Every normal human being is a walking demonstration of the theory of adaptation to environment. I have been in Africa barely two months, and only as yet a fraction of a month in the interior, and yet I feel quite at home already. After all, I could scarcely do otherwise. On the 21st, when we had only lived together a few days, Mr. Ewerbeck marched away before daybreak, by the light of a lantern borne before him through the darkness of the tropic night, to attend to higher duties at Lindi, viz., the reception of the eight delegates from the Reichstag, now fairly embarked on that desperate adventure which for many months past has kept our daily press busy celebrating their heroism.
Nils Knudsen remains behind as the last relic of civilization. His name alone is sufficient to indicate his Scandinavian origin, and he is, in fact, a fair-haired descendant of the Vikings. He joined the expedition so unobtrusively that at first I scarcely noticed the presence of a third European. While Ewerbeck and I marched proudly at the head of our long line of followers, Knudsen usually brought up the rear, and in camp he remained modestly in the background. Now that we have fixed our headquarters at Masasi, he has become prominent by virtue of his office; he is supposed to keep things straight here and exercise some supervision over the native local authorities. Whether this is necessary, I am at present unable to judge, having as yet no insight into the difficulties of internal administration in a large district like Lindi. However, a man who knows the country as well as Ewerbeck does, would hardly have taken such a measure without good reason. In the meantime I have persuaded Knudsen to quit his tent—which, to judge by its venerable appearance, must have been left behind as too far gone to take away, by Vasco Da Gama when he landed in this part of Africa—and come to live with me in the rest-house. Now he is installed, with his scanty possessions—two old tin trunks, which do not even appear to be full—on one side of the spacious apartment, while I with my princely outfit reside on the other. He is, however, abundantly compensated for the niggardliness with which fortune has treated him by goodness of heart and fineness of feeling. Knudsen’s life has been adventurous enough, and recalls to some extent the fate of that English sailor who was wrecked among the aborigines of South-East Australia, and had to live as a savage among savages. My fair-haired neighbour did not fare quite so badly as that; but he has had plenty of time to “go Fanti” had he been so disposed. So far as I have yet ascertained anything about his personal affairs, he started life as cabin-boy on board a merchant vessel, from which he ran away about ten years ago, when it was anchored in a harbour of Madagascar. He wandered about this island for some years, and at last found his way across to the mainland and into the hinterland of Lindi. He says that he never learnt a trade, but professes to know something of a great many, and can act on occasion as mason, builder, carpenter, and locksmith. Indeed he erected all the buildings at the Luisenfelde mines, far south near the Rovuma, which I may yet be able to visit, and was general factotum there as long as they continued working. Since then the municipality of Lindi has appointed him head instructor at the industrial school, from which post he is at present on leave of absence.
THROUGH THE BUSH ON A COLLECTING EXCURSION
Our manner of life here is, of course, essentially different from that followed on the march. Life on the march is always full of charm, more especially in a country quite new to one; and mine has so far been entirely without drawbacks. In African travel-books we find that almost every expedition begins with a thousand difficulties. The start is fixed for a certain hour, but no carriers appear, and when at last the leader of the expedition has, with infinite pains, got his men together, they have still endless affairs to settle, wives and sweethearts to take leave of, and what not, and have usually vanished from the traveller’s ken on the very first evening. In my case everything went like clockwork from the start. I can blame no one but myself for the quarter of an hour’s delay in starting from Lindi, which was caused by my being late for breakfast. On the second morning the askari could not quite get on with the folding of the tent, and Moritz with the best will in the world failed to get my travelling-lamp into its case, which was certainly a very tight fit. But with these exceptions we have all behaved as if we had been on the road for months. Anyone who wants a substantial breakfast first thing in the morning, after the English fashion, should not go travelling in Africa. I have given directions to wake me at five. Punctually to the minute, the sentinel calls softly into the tent, “Amka, bwana” (“Wake up, sir”). I throw both feet over the high edge of the trough-like camp bed, and jump into my khaki suit. The water which Kibwana, in the performance of his duties as housemaid, has thoughtfully placed at the tent door overnight, has acquired a refreshing coolness in the low temperature of a tropic night in the dry season. The shadow of the European at his toilet is sharply outlined on the canvas by the burning lamp, which, however, does not confine its illumination to its owner, but radiates a circle of light on the shining brown faces of the carriers and the askari. The former are busy tying up their loads for the march, while the soldiers are ready to rush on the tent like a tiger on his prey, so soon as the white man shall have finished dressing and come out. In the twinkling of an eye the tent is folded, without a word spoken, or a superfluous movement; it is division of labour in the best sense of the word, faultlessly carried out. Meanwhile the traveller goes to his camp-table, takes a hurried sip of tea, cocoa, or whatever his favourite beverage may be, eating at the same time a piece of bread baked by himself, and now stands ready for the march. “Tayari?” (“Ready?”) his voice rings out over the camp. “Bado” (“Not yet”) is the invariable answer. It is always the same lazy or awkward members of the party who utter this word beloved of the African servant. The beginner lets himself be misled by it at first, but in a few days he takes no more notice of the “Bado,” but fires off his “Safari!” (literally “Journey!”) or (as speedily introduced by me), “Los!”[[13]] at the band in general, flourishes his walking-stick boldly in the air, thereby indicating to the two leading askari the direction of the march, and the day’s work has begun.
I do not know how other tribes are accustomed to behave at the moment of starting, but my Wanyamwezi are certainly neither to hold nor to bind on these occasions. With evident difficulty each one has got his load lifted to head or shoulder, and stands in his place bending under the weight. At the word of command arises an uproar which baffles description. All the pent-up energy of their throats rings out into the silent forest; stout sticks rattle in a wild, irregular rhythm on the wooden cases, and, alas! also on the tin boxes, which furnish only too good a resonator. The noise is infernal, but it is a manifestation of joy and pleasure. We are off! and, once on the march, the Wanyamwezi are in their element. Before long the chaos of noise is reduced to some order; these men have an infinitely delicate sense of rhythm, and so the din gradually resolves itself into a kind of march sung to a drum accompaniment, whose charm even the legs of the askari—otherwise too dignified for such childish goings-on—cannot resist.
