The uses of a coffee machine are various. My cook, Omari, having from the beginning refused to employ mine for its legitimate purpose, it came in very handy for the construction of a filter. Charcoal is always to be had; and it is easy to pound it into small pieces and put a deep layer into the tin funnel, which with its two fine strainers thus makes an excellent filter, simple, portable, and easily repaired. It gives Moritz and Kibwana far more to do than the lazy rascals like. Having formerly studied the problem of sedimentary deposit in different kinds of water, I know that salts hasten the precipitation of all solid matter. Alum is the clarifier indicated for this expedition. A moderately large tin is easily procured from any Indian trader, and the carriers have soon deposited, in the shade of the baraza, a long row of jars and calabashes hastily borrowed from the inhabitants. “Dawa ya Ulaya!” I call out to Kibwana, meaning this time the alum-tin. Dawa is anything producing an effect which the native fails to understand, and Ulaya is every country outside his own—usually Europe, and sometimes Germany in particular; but even American petroleum, for him, comes from Ulaya. A pinch of the salt is dropped into every jar, which, when stirred round, shows an alarming degree of thickness and impurity. All the same, Moritz considers this broth “maji mazuri” (“beautiful water”), a designation which only fits it, in my opinion, after the lapse of several hours. Then, indeed, it is clear as crystal. After carefully pouring it off, the boys strain it twice, thrice, or even four times through the charcoal filter. Omari boils it for ten minutes, under threats of the severest punishment in case of failure. It is left to cool overnight, and in the morning it is a drink for the gods—though only rendered so first by the water-cooler and then by the addition of fruit-syrup from Lübeck. My Berlin outfit, of course, included the usual large aluminium flask carried by expeditions, but I never dream of using it. Instead, we carry an Indian water-cooler of porous, unglazed earthenware, which I bought at Lindi, by Captain Seyfried’s advice, for a rupee, and which is closely netted round with cocoa-nut rope for protection on the journey, and carried by Kofia tule with more dignity than grace on his woolly head. It amuses me, by the bye, to find that Knudsen will not hear of treating his drinking-water with alum. He is quite of the same mind as his native friends and thinks there is something uncanny about the dawa ya Ulaya, preferring the muddy brew as it comes from the well. Well—habeat sibi! In our enthusiasm for seltzer—prepared on my sparklet apparatus—with fruit-syrup in it, we are cordially agreed. It is better than the finest quality of pombe produced at the celebrated breweries of Chingulungulu.
CHAPTER IX
AMONG THE YAOS
Chingulungulu, August 20, 1906.
The greatest service Matola has hitherto rendered me is the arrangement of a few evening meetings with the women of his village, whom he has at last succeeded in inducing to venture into the lion’s den. Knudsen and I have just finished our frugal evening meal, and Knudsen is as usual chatting with his friend Daudi (David), the native preacher, while I am seated at my table, working up my notes for the day. Daudi belongs to the Universities’ Mission, was educated at Zanzibar, and prefers speaking English to me. There is not much to be got of him from my point of view, as his ideas have been greatly modified by Christianity. To-night the east wind, which on other occasions has threatened, in spite of all precautions, to put out our lamp, is not blowing, for a wonder; and the “Tippelskirch” sheds its rays undisturbed on our novel surroundings. My cigar, also, has an excellent flavour; and everything breathes comfort and satisfaction, when, approaching almost inaudibly over the loose sandy soil on which even our thick European boots make little or no noise, Matola appears and takes his seat on his accustomed box. He is followed by some thirty women and girls, most of them with babies on their backs, the majority of whom are peacefully asleep, though some keep gasping and groaning, within the supporting cloth. The whole company squats down on the floor between us, closely huddled together. I get Knudsen, who speaks Yao fluently though not grammatically, to explain what I want, viz., songs and stories—and then wait to see what will happen. For some time nothing happens—except that a half-grown boy, who has slipped in with the rest, begins to relate a long fable; but he speaks so quickly that it is impossible to follow him. Of course he cannot dictate his story slowly enough for me to take it down. This is a very common experience—the people sing and speak into the phonograph with enviable readiness, but are helplessly perplexed when asked to dictate the words slowly. Indeed this could hardly be expected of them. We decide to reserve the boy for another opportunity and once more there is silence. Then arises, first very shyly, but soon gaining confidence and volume, a woman’s clear voice. Presently the chorus joins in, and alternates with the solo in regular turns for a considerable time:—
Chakalakāle, mwāna jua Kundúngu, mwắnja kwa tāti, “Anānyile litála kwa tati Kunampūye.” Nikwā́ola ku litīmbe, kuwalimāgắ Chenampūye. Newáije ku mūsi kwa atati wao. Nigómbaga uti nekugawíraga musi. Nekutamăgá.[[26]]
The meaning of this is:—
“Chakalakale, a child of God, went away to his father. Show me the way to my father’s—to Kunampuye. He went to the river-bed where Chenampuye was hoeing. He came to the village to his father. Then there were guns fired and a village was assigned him to live in. And he lived at home.”
So far all has gone smoothly ... the song has come to an end. Matola, Daudi, Knudsen and I have with no little trouble established the authentic text, and the translation has been satisfactorily accomplished; but unfortunately I have to relinquish the idea of getting a phonographic record of the not unpleasing air. After my last failures at Lindi, due to the heat, which softened the recording cylinders, I tried my luck later on at Masasi, but the results there were with hardly any exceptions quite unsatisfactory. The softness of the cylinder is no disadvantage in recording, on the contrary, it enables the needle to make a deeper impression, but the impossibility of reproduction makes it difficult to check the text when afterwards dictated.
There is not much to remark about the foregoing song. I was at first doubtful of the rendering given of mwana jua kundungu, but Matola and Daudi both insisted on explaining it as “a child of God.” What is understood by that expression here it is impossible to say; perhaps it denotes a rebel, as further north, in Usagara and Ukami, and on the Rufiji, the leaders of the Majimaji have in fact assumed a title of somewhat the same import. The prefix ku in the name Kunampuye is the same as che—both are about equivalent to “Mr.” or “Mrs.”
