One provoking trick played me by my cook was connected with my supply of coffee. I had brought two large tins with me from Dar es Salam, each holding from six to eight pounds of the best Usambara quality, one roasted, the other unroasted. According to all human calculations, one tin should have lasted, even allowing the maximum strength to my midday cup, at least several months, so that I was quite taken aback when my chef came to me in the middle of the fourth week with the laconic announcement, “Kahawa imekwisha” (“The coffee is finished”). A strict investigation followed. Omari insisted that he had used two spoonfuls a day for me. I told Moritz to open the second tin and measure out with the same spoon the quantity which, on his own showing, he should in the worst case have consumed. This was done without appreciably diminishing the quantity in the huge canister. Upon this I told him to his face that he had used part of the coffee himself, and sold part of it to his friends the soldiers. “Hapana” was his only answer. The only way to escape this systematic robbery is by daily measuring out the necessary quantity with one’s own hands, but this takes up far too much of the time so urgently required for work. This necessity for ceaseless supervision was proved to me, moreover, by another incident. Kibwana and Moritz usually take it in turns to be on the sick list, and sometimes, in fact, frequently, both are incapacitated at the same time, usually by fever. Moritz, a few days ago, declared himself about to die—but not here at Chingulungulu: dying is so much easier at Lindi. Nils Knudsen, with his soft Viking heart, compassionated the poor boy to such a degree that I was at last morally compelled to make use, although it was not regulation time, of my clinical thermometer: my model medicine chest, I may remark, only contains one of these useful instruments. The patient—at the point of death—registered normal. Moritz, this time, recovered with astonishing rapidity.
On another occasion, however, he was really ill, and I allowed him to make himself a large jug of my cocoa in the morning. Full of forebodings, I went across to the kitchen, at his breakfast-time, and not only found him revelling in comfort, but also the whole of my party being regaled by the cook in the most generous way with the contents of one out of my eight tins. Can one be expected to refrain from using the kiboko?
The local amusements not being carried on at my expense are decidedly more enjoyable than the above. The beer-drinkings here take place, not, as at Masasi, in the morning, but in the afternoon. Moritz must have a flair for festivities of this sort, since, whenever he acts as guide in my afternoon strolls in search of knowledge, we are sure to come upon a mighty company of tippling men, women, and children. The love for strong drink seems thus to be pretty strongly developed, though there is this year no special occasion to serve as an excuse for drinking at Matola’s. The most prominent of such occasions here in the south is the unyago, the ceremony of initiation into manhood and womanhood, of which I have heard again and again, from men as well as from youths, though so far I have not set eyes on the least trace of such an arrangement. At present I do not even see the possibility of personally witnessing the proceedings, which, by all one hears, seem to be extremely complicated. I am determined, however, that it shall somehow come to pass.
The reason why there is no unyago this year at Chingulungulu lies in the arrangement by which each village keeps the festival in turn—probably on account of the expense, which is no trifle. Besides the enormous quantity of pombe drunk at the many dances, huge supplies of provisions are required for the visitors who come far and near to attend the celebration; and finally, calico has to be bought at the Coast, both for the new garments in which the initiated are to appear after the ceremony, and for the fees to their instructors, male and female. I have no greater wish than to get a thorough insight into this custom of all others, since, so far as I am acquainted with the literature relating to Africa, this part of the sociological field is still almost if not entirely untilled.
Meanwhile, the men amuse themselves and me in other ways. Even before I left Masasi, I saw the people running together with the cry, “Sulila amekuja!” (“Sulila has come!”), and a great crowd collected round a man who was evidently a stranger. This man is, to begin with, remarkable for the fact that, though stone blind, he wanders all over the southern part of East Africa in perfect safety. It is true that he had a companion, but this man, so far from being his guide, walked behind him, carrying the bard’s professional paraphernalia. Sulila, who belongs to the Yao tribe, is, in fact, a professional singer. He offered of his own accord to give a performance for my benefit and had completed his preparations in a twinkling. The implements of his craft are simple enough. He has his band formed afresh on the spot when wanted: six or eight men come forward, squat down in a square, each lays down before him a log stripped of the bark and about as thick as one’s arm, takes a stick in each hand and awaits the signal to begin. The master in the meantime has adorned himself with the utmost splendour, attaching to his knees and ankles sets of rattles which consist of hard-shelled fruits as large as moderate-sized apples, strung on leather thongs. Round his waist he wears a kilt composed of whole skins and strips of skins of various wild animals—wild cats, monkeys, leopards—and, finally, his head is decorated and his face shaded by the mane of a zebra or some large kind of antelope, looking like a barbaric crown.
THE BLIND BARD SULILA OUTSIDE THE BOMA AT MASASI
Sulila has taken his place in the centre of his band, holding his stringed instrument in his left hand, and its bow in his right. This instrument is a monochord with a cylindrical resonator cut out of a solid block of wood, the string, twisted out of some hair from the tail of one of the great indigenous mammals, is fastened to a round piece of wood. Instead of rosin, he passes his tongue over the string of his bow, which he then lifts and applies to the string, bringing out a plaintive note, immediately followed by a terrible bellow from Sulila himself and an ear-splitting noise from the “xylophones” of the band. Strictly speaking, I am inclined to regret having come out on a scientific mission: there is an inexpressible delight in seeing this strange artist at work, and every diversion caused by the working of the apparatus means a loss of enjoyment. Sulila is really working hard—without intermission he coaxes out of his primitive instrument the few notes of which it is capable, and which are low, and quite pleasing. Equally incessant is his singing, which, however, is less pleasing, at least for Europeans. His native audience seem to accept it as music par excellence, for they are simply beside themselves with enthusiasm. Sulila’s voice is harsh, but powerful; it is possible that its strength to some extent depends on his blindness, as, like a deaf man, he is unable to estimate the extent of the sound-waves he produces. He takes his words at such a frantic pace that, though my ear is now somewhat accustomed to the Yao language, I can scarcely distinguish one here and there.
But the most charming of all Sulila’s accomplishments is the third, for he not only plays and sings, but dances also. His dance begins with a rhythmic swaying of the knees, keeping time to the notes of his fiddle, while, with the characteristic uncertainty of the blind his face turns from side to side. After a time the swaying becomes deeper and quicker, the dancer begins to turn, slowly at first, and then more rapidly, at last he revolves at a tearing speed on his axis. His bow tears along likewise, his voice sets the neighbouring bush vibrating, the band hammer away like madmen on their logs—it is a veritable pandemonium, and the public is in raptures.
As already stated, I could not help secretly regretting the impossibility of giving myself up unreservedly to the impression of these performances, but the duty of research must always be the predominant consideration. The hours spent over the camera, cinematograph, and phonograph, involve more hard work than amusement. This cannot be helped, but, if some of the results turn out satisfactorily, as has fortunately happened in my case, all difficulties and discomfort are abundantly compensated.