The difficult work of the translator is always in this country accompanied by that of the commentator, so that it does not take long to arrive at the fact that this sentence might be regarded as a free version of “Gather ye roses while ye may,” or “A living dog is better than a dead lion.” I, too, turning to Matola and Daudi, say solemnly, “Chikalakasa goje kung’anda, kung’anda yekwete umbo” and then call out to Moritz, “Bilauri nne za pombe” (“A glass of beer for each of us”).
The drab liquor is already bubbling in our drinking vessels—two glasses and two tin mugs. “Skål, Mr. Knudsen”; “Prosit, Professor”—the two natives silently bow their heads. With heartfelt delight we let the cool fluid run down our thirsty throats. “Kung’anda yekwete umbo” (“They only play who have hair on their heads”).... Silently and almost imperceptibly the dark figures of the women have slipped away, with a “Kwa heri, Bwana!” Matola and Daudi are gone too, and I remain alone with Knudsen.
Our manuals of ethnology give a terrible picture of the lot of woman among primitive peoples. “Beast of burden” and “slave” are the epithets continually applied to her. Happily the state of things is not so bad as we might suppose from this; and, if we were to take the tribes of Eastern Equatorial Africa as a sample of primitive peoples in general, the picture would not, indeed, be reversed, but very considerably modified. The fact is that the women are in no danger of killing themselves with hard work—no one ever saw a native woman walking quickly, and even the indispensable work of the home is done in such a leisurely and easy-going way that many a German housewife might well envy them the time they have to spare. Among the inland tribes, indeed, the women have a somewhat harder time: the luxuries of the coast are not to be had; children are more numerous and give more trouble; and—greatest difference of all—there are no bazaars or shops like those of the Indians, where one can buy everything as easily as in Europe. So there is no help for it; wives and daughters must get to work by sunrise at the mortar, the winnowing-basket, or the grinding-stones.
At six in the morning the European was tossing restlessly in his narrow bed—tossing is perhaps scarcely the right expression, for in a narrow trough like this such freedom of movement is only possible when broad awake and to a person possessing some skill in gymnastics. The night had brought scant refreshment. In the first place a small conflagration took place just as I was going to bed. Kibwana, the stupid, clumsy fellow, has broken off a good half of my last lamp-glass in cleaning it. It will still burn, thanks to the brass screen which protects it from the wind, but it gives out a tremendous heat. It must have been due to this accident that at the moment when I had just slightly lifted the mosquito-net to slip under it like lightning and cheat the unceasing vigilance of the mosquitoes, I suddenly saw a bright light above and behind me. I turned and succeeded in beating out the flames in about three seconds, but this was long enough to burn a hole a foot square in the front of the net. Kibwana will have to sew it up with a piece of sanda, and in the meantime it can be closed with a couple of pins.
Tired out at last I sank on my bed, and dropped into an uneasy slumber. It was perhaps two o’clock when I started up, confused and dazed with a noise which made me wonder if the Indian Ocean had left its bed to flood this plain as of old. The tent shook and the poles threatened to break; all nature was in an uproar, and presently new sounds were heard through the roaring of the storm—a many-voiced bellowing from the back of the tent—shouts, cries and scolding from the direction of the prison, where my soldiers were now awake and stumbling helplessly hither and thither in the pitchy darkness round the baraza. A terrific roar arose close beside my tent-wall. Had the plague of lions followed us here from Masasi? Quick as thought I slipped out from under the curtain and felt in the accustomed place for my match-box. It was not there, nor was it to be found elsewhere in the tent. Giving up the search, I threw myself into my khaki suit, shouting at the same time for the sentinel and thus adding to the noise. But no sentinel appeared. I stepped out and, by the light of the firebrands wielded by the soldiers, saw them engaged in a struggle with a dense mass of great black beasts. These, however, proved to be no lions, but Matola’s peaceful cattle. A calf had been taken away from its mother two days before; she had kept up a most piteous lowing ever since, and finally, during the uproar of the storm, broke out of the kraal, the whole herd following her. The two bulls glared with wildly-rolling eyes at the torches brandished in their faces, while the younger animals bellowed in terror. At last we drove them back, and with infinite trouble shut them once more into the kraal.
The white man in the tent has fallen asleep once more, and is dreaming. The nocturnal skirmish with the cattle has suggested another sort of fight with powder and shot against Songea’s hostile Wangoni. The shots ring out on both sides at strangely regular intervals; suddenly they cease. What does this mean? Is the enemy planning a flanking movement to circumvent my small force? or is he creeping up noiselessly through the high grass? I give the word of command, and spring forward, running my nose against tin box No. 3, which serves as my war chest and therefore has its abode inside the tent opposite my bed. My leap has unconsciously delivered me from all imaginary dangers and brought me back to reality. The platoon fire begins again—bang! bang! bang!—and in spite of the confused state in which the events of the night have left my head, I am forced to laugh aloud. The regular rifle-fire is the rhythmic pounding of the pestles wielded by two Yao women in Matola’s compound, who are preparing the daily supply of maize and millet meal for the chief’s household.
I have often seen women and girls at this work, but to-day I feel as if I ought to give special attention to these particular nymphs, having already established a psychical rapport with them. It does not take long to dress, nor, when that is finished, to drink a huge cup of cocoa and eat the usual omelette with bananas, and then, without loss of time I make for the group of women, followed by my immediate bodyguard carrying the camera and the cinematograph.
WOMAN POUNDING AT THE MORTAR. DRAWN BY SALIM MATOLA
I find there are four women—two of them imperturbably pounding away with the long, heavy pestle, which, however, no longer resembles cannon or rifle fire, but makes more of a clapping sound. Matola explains that there is now maize in the mortars, while in the early morning they had been pounding mtama and making the thundering noise which disturbed my repose. This grain is husked dry, then winnowed, afterwards washed and finally placed in a flat basket to dry in the sun for an hour and a half. Not till this has been done can it be ground on the stone into flour. Maize, on the other hand, is first husked by pounding in a wet mortar, and then left to soak in water for three days. It is then washed and pounded. The flour will keep if dried.