Native life in East Africa

by Karl Weule

YAO WOMEN WITH NOSE-STUDS

Not only our halt at this place, but the preceding march through the bush gave me the opportunity for one or two interesting observations. We had halted for breakfast at a comparatively green spot in the bush—my caravan lying on the ground in picturesque confusion, Knudsen and I seated somewhat apart, as my olfactory nerves were at this stage of the fever more sensitive than usual. Suddenly I heard shouts whose import resembled the coarse witticisms uttered by our soldiers at home when any being of the female sex passes within earshot of a company. In fact, when I looked, I saw a young woman trying to avoid the group of strangers by making a circuit of twenty or thirty yards. This in itself was nothing particularly exciting, but suddenly my men, who have long ago discovered what interests me, shouted all together, “Kipini, bwana!” (“The nose-pin, sir!”) In another second, some of them had brought the fair one before me. She had, in fact, an exceptionally fine specimen of an ebony stud in her left nostril, inlaid with tin if possible still more prettily and gracefully than usual. At first she flatly refused all offers to purchase, but in the end the fear of so many strange men, wild-looking ones, too, seemed to be more effectual than even the lustre of a quarter-rupee. Hesitatingly she put her left hand to her nose, the right following almost instantaneously. She must have taken out the kipini with a dexterous pressure of the former, for the next moment she was already handing over the ornament, while all the time, with an inexplicable shyness and persistency, she kept her nose covered so that the process of extraction was quite invisible. Even long after receiving her piece of silver, she still held her hand to her face, in spite of a renewed fire of jokes from my men. Undoubtedly the removal of the kipini is felt to be a breach of modesty, hence the instinctive concealment of the exposed spot.

Such a displacement, as we may call it, of the sense of modesty is nothing rare in ethnography. It is a never-failing delight to me to re-read the passage in what I may call my Bible, viz., Peschel’s Völkerkunde, where the author describes the feelings of a pious Muslim from Ferghana if he were to be present at a European ball. Peschel thinks that the bare shoulders of our wives and daughters, the quasi-embraces of our round dances, would fill him with silent wonder at the long-suffering of Allah, who has not yet rained down fire and brimstone on this sinful and shameless generation. It is quite consistent with the same views that the Arab woman should bare her foot, leg or bosom without embarrassment, while to let anyone see the back of the head is supposed to be still more indecent than the exposure of the face, carefully as the latter is hidden. Still more divergent from our ideas are those of the Chinese, who would think it the height of immodesty for a woman to show a man her deformed foot, of which, in fact, it is improper even to speak. If we were in this way to make a survey of the whole world, we should encounter an immeasurable mass of the most various and, according to our ideas, the strangest notions, as to what is proper and improper. Our own views on this point are only a single item in a long series, and they have no better foundation than any of the rest; for all these opinions have this in common as regards their origin, that nothing appears reprehensible or objectionable a priori. Only after a definite view has been formed as to which parts of the body are to be covered and which left uncovered, a breach of the rule becomes an act to be reprobated—not before.

INFANT’S GRAVE (MAKUA)

The other observation is of a more serious nature. While riding through the pori, half dozing in the heat, I suddenly found myself nearly thrown out of the saddle, and saw, on recovering my balance, that my mule had shied at a mysterious object rising obliquely from the ground. This on closer inspection resolved itself into a bark cylinder half buried in the earth. The thing is about half-a-yard in length and closed at the uncovered upper end with two or three slabs of bark stuck into the ground in front of the opening. None of our men knew what to make of this, but some local natives happening to come along at the time, explained that it was the grave of a still-born child. The Makua, it appears, always bury them in this fashion.

After a short rest at Zuza’s, we started once more in order to reach Chingulungulu the same day. On the march, Knudsen and I were again attacked by fever. I could only maintain myself in the saddle by convulsively clinging on, and Knudsen had the greatest difficulty in keeping on his feet. We could see no end to the deadly monotony of the open scrub gliding past us, tree after tree. I had lost all feeling in my legs; the incessant throbbing and hammering in my skull amounted to torture; and the misery of our progress lengthened out the hours seemingly to infinity, so that I caught myself looking at my watch every few minutes.

At length there appears a fixed point in the boundless ocean of trees; a fallen giant blocks our path. The Norwegian sinks down on it like a log, and only by long-continued persuasion can I induce him to make a fresh start. We struggle on once more, till suddenly a confused murmur of voices breaks on the ear. As if through a haze I recognize Matola, whom I have already met at Masasi, surrounded by a number of men dressed in white; they keep on bowing solemnly, while I smile and wave my hand. We come to a house with many pillars. I dismount with infinite trouble, my teeth chattering in spite of the almost vertical sun. With a pleasant smile, Matola places his pillared mansion at my disposal and offers me a jug of deliciously cool milk. My thoughts are not fixed on material enjoyments—I want nothing but rest and darkness. My eye seeks Knudsen and finds him just as he vanishes staggering into the tent the men have hastily set up. Two minutes later I, too, am wrapped in a couple of warm camel’s hair blankets, to my inexpressible comfort! And now here goes for my first fever.

Note.—It is a little surprising to find Dr. Weule complaining (see p. [108]) that he should have been unable, in a stay of less than a fortnight, to get at the psychology of the native. His disappointment at Matola’s, in the next chapter, (p. [139]) seems even less reasonable, and it seems strange that he should have expected to get information on subjects of which natives are never very eager to talk, by means of direct leading questions. This, quite apart from the fact that, by his own admission, his methods were not always conciliatory.—[Tr.]