Native life in East Africa

by Karl Weule

READY FOR MARCHING (MASASI)

Oh! the beauty of these early mornings in the tropics! It is now getting on for six o’clock; the darkness of night has quickly yielded to the short twilight of dawn; the first bright rays gild the light clouds floating in the sky, and suddenly the disc of the sun rises in its wonderful majesty above the horizon. With swift, vigorous strides, and still in close order, the procession hastens through the dew-drenched bush, two soldiers in the van, as if in a military expedition; then, after an interval we Europeans, immediately followed by our personal servants with guns, travelling-flask and camp-stool. Then comes the main body of the soldiers followed by the long line of carriers and the soldiers’ boys, and, lastly, to keep the laggards up to the mark, and also to help any who have to fall out from exhaustion or illness, two soldiers bringing up the rear. An admirable figure is the mnyampara or headman. His position is in a sense purely honorary, for he receives not a farthing more wages than the lowest of his subordinates. Perhaps even this expression should not be used; he is rather primus inter pares. The mnyampara is everywhere. He is in front when the master sends for him, and he is back at the very end of the line (which becomes longer with every hour of the march) if there is a sick man needing his help. In such a case he carries the man’s load himself, as a matter of course, and brings him safely to camp. It seems to me that I have made an unusually happy choice in Pesa mbili. He is young, like the great majority of my men, probably between 23 and 25, of a deep black complexion, with markedly negroid features, and a kind of feline glitter in his eyes; he is only of medium height, but uncommonly strong and muscular; he speaks shocking Swahili—far worse than my own—and withal he is a treasure. It is not merely that he is an incomparable singer, whose pleasant baritone voice never rests whether on the march or in camp, but he thoroughly understands the organization of camp life, the distribution of tasks and the direction of his men. The demands made on such a man by the end of the day’s march are arduous enough.

The delicious coolness of the morning has long since given place to a perceptibly high temperature; the white man has exchanged his light felt hat or still lighter travelling-cap for the heavy tropical helmet, and the naked bodies of the carriers are coated with a shining polish. These, who have been longing for the day to get warm ever since they awoke shivering round the camp fire at four, have now reached the goal of their desires; they are warm—very warm—and the white man will do well to march at the head of the caravan, otherwise he will find opportunities more numerous than agreeable for studying the subject of “racial odours.” After two hours, or two hours and a half, comes the first halt. The European shouts for his camp-stool and sits watching the long string of loads coming up and being lowered to the ground. A frugal breakfast of a couple of eggs, a piece of cold meat, or a few bananas, here awaits the traveller, but the carriers, who started without a meal, steadily fast on. It seems incomprehensible that these men should be able to march for many hours with a load of sixty or seventy pounds, while practising such abstinence, but they are quite content to have it so. In the later hours of the day, it is true, they begin to flag, their steps become slower and shorter, and they lag more and more behind the personal “boys” who have no heavy loads to carry. Yet when they reach camp at last, they are as merry and cheerful as they were in the early morning. The same noise—though now with quite different words from the throats of the singers—overwhelms the European, who has long been seated at the halting-place. My company seem to be obsessed by the “Central-Magazin” at Dar es Salam, where they entered my service; they are celebrating this spacious building in the closing song of their day’s march.

CAMP AT MASASI

The duties of my followers—whether boys, askari, or porters—are by no means over when they have reached camp. By the time they come up, the leader of the expedition has looked round for a place to pitch his tent, a matter which seems to me to require special gifts. The fundamental principles to bear in mind are: that it should be within reach of good drinking water and free from noxious insects, such as ticks, mosquitoes, and jiggers. The second point, but one by no means to be overlooked, is the position of the tent-pole with regard to the course of the sun, and the next the shade of leafy trees, if that is attainable. I find it simplest to draw the outline of the tent on the sandy ground, after the spot has been carefully swept, indicating the place where I want the door to be by a break in the line. That is quite enough for my corporal in command. Scarcely have the two unfortunates, whose shoulders are weighed down by my heavy tent, come up panting and gasping for breath, when the loads are unrolled, and in a twinkling every warrior has taken up his position. “One, two, three!” and the two poles are in their places, and the next moment I hear the blows of the mallet on the tent-pegs. While this is going on, the two boys, Moritz and Kibwana, are amusing themselves with my bed. This occupation seems to represent for them the height of enjoyment, for it seems as if they would never be done. Neither scolding nor threats can avail to hasten their movements. It seems as if their usually slow brains had become absolutely torpid. Mechanically they set up the bedstead; mechanically they spread the cork mattress and the blankets over it; in the same dull, apathetic way they finally set up the framework of the mosquito-net. The soldiers have taken their departure long before my two gentlemen condescend to carry the bed into the tent.

My carriers meanwhile have found all sorts of work to do. Water has to be fetched for the whole caravan, and fires to be made, and the sanitary requirements of the camp provided for; and noon is long past by the time their turn comes and they can live their own life for an hour or two. Even now they cannot be said to revel in luxury. This southern part of the German territory is very poor in game, and in any case I have no time for shooting, so that meat is almost an unknown item in my people’s menu. Ugali, always ugali—stiff porridge of millet, maize or manioc, boiled till it has almost a vitreous consistency, and then shaped with the spoon used for stirring into a kind of pudding—forms the staple of their meals day after day.

INTERIOR OF A NATIVE HUT IN THE ROVUMA VALLEY

Here at Masasi the tables are turned; my men have a good time, while I can scarcely get a minute to myself. My escort are quite magnificently housed, they have moved into the baraza or council-house to the left of my palatial quarters and fitted it up in the native way. The negro has no love for a common apartment; he likes to make a little nest apart for himself. This is quickly done: two or three horizontal poles are placed as a scaffolding all round the projected cabin, then a thick layer of long African grass is tied to them, and a cosy place, cool by day and warm by night, is ready for each one. The carriers, on the other hand, have built themselves huts in the open space facing my abode, quite simple and neat, but, to my astonishment, quite in the Masai style—neither circular hut nor tembe. The circular hut I shall discuss in full later on, but in case anyone should not know what a tembe is like, I will here say that the best notion of it can be got by placing three or four railway carriages at right angles to one another, so that they form a square or parallelogram, with the doors inward. This tembe is found throughout most of the northern and central part of German East Africa, from Unyamwezi in the west to the coast on the east, and from the Eyasi and Manyara basin in the north to Uhehe in the south. The Masai hut, finally, can best be compared with a round-topped trunk. Though the Masai, as everyone knows, usually stand well over six feet, their huts, which (quite conformably with the owners’ mode of life as cattle-breeders par excellence) are neatly and fragrantly plastered with cowdung, are so low that even a person of normal stature cannot stand upright in them. My Wanyamwezi, however, never attempt to stand up in their huts; on the contrary, they lie about lazily all day long on their heaps of straw.