“BUSH SCHOOL” IN THE PORI, NEAR CHINGULUNGULU
At last the hunter changes his tactics. The dancer is, in fact, a hunter, and not only that, but a very successful elephant-hunter; and having just killed a large elephant, he is celebrating this deed of prowess before the assembled inhabitants of his native village, just as he does after his return from the actual hunt. Here, too, the people have collected from far and near to see this celebrity, and to admire his skill in the dance. His performance becomes more and more vivacious—he no longer remains on one spot but trips forward, first in a straight line, then in a zig-zag. At last he revolves in a circle, moving round with short, cautious jumps, and all the time keeping up the movements of his arms and hips without a moment’s intermission. After one more rapid trip round the circle and a frantic vibration of the whole body, the dancer stands still, breathing deeply.
This kind of dance is too peculiar, too divergent from all European standards for us to judge of it critically according to the rules of art. I had expected a pantomimic representation of an elephant-hunt, or at least of the stalking and killing of the game, and I must confess that I can find nothing in the performance which seems to have any such reference, and must confine myself to admiring the incredible dexterity shown by this acrobat in setting all his muscles a-quiver. I have no sooner got a fresh film ready, than a second dancer has appeared on the scene, whose action is still more curious and perplexing. At first one sees nothing but a confused mass of green leaves rolling and writhing on the ground in convulsive motions. After a while, this resolves itself into a man much like the previous one, except that his costume is much more voluminous. He quivers in a masterly manner and shows as much staying power as his predecessor; but his chief strength lies in his legs, whose suppleness and power of assuming the most grotesque attitudes are nothing short of marvellous. When he has exhausted his repertoire and made way for a third performer, we at last get the expected pantomime. Stooping as if for a spring, the hunter creeps up, noiselessly, making use of every bit of cover, to stalk the elephant, whose scent is exceedingly keen. At last the goal is reached—swiftly, but as noiselessly as the hunter, the quarry, represented by another man, has slipped into the arena, and squatted down, and the hunter circles round him in diminishing spirals. We expect the deadly shot, but it does not come off, and the third dancer, quite regardless of the elephant he is supposed to represent, begins to “triumph” in precisely the same way as the two others, practising highly artistic short steps, swaying his hips and flourishing his arms. “Bassi”—(finished,) I exclaim, as the last of my three films whizzes off the reel.
A YAO DRESSED FOR THE MASEWE DANCE
Quite in contrast to these are the typical unyago dances of the Wayao. There seems to be a great variety of these; but so far I have only seen two at Chingulungulu, a masewe, so called from the rattles worn, as already mentioned, on the legs and feet, and a luwanja. Both are essentially the same in character. The primitive xylophone of the Makua hunting-dance is here replaced by a complete band of drums, of the most various shapes and sizes. A certain musical faculty inherent in the race is evidenced by the fact that the musicians take care to tune up before the dance begins. Each beats his own drum, listening carefully to hear whether it is in tune with the rest, and if not, hurries away to the nearest hut and comes back with a brand from the hearth and a large bundle of dry grass. The grass is heaped on the ground and set on fire, and then every drum is held with the open end over it, for a longer or shorter time—some for a few seconds only, some for half a minute or more—the pitch being tested by striking from time to time. At last all the skins are sufficiently tense and the drumming begins.
MASEWE DANCE OF THE YAOS AT MTUA
At the same moment a dense cloud of dust is seen approaching with lightning speed, and discloses a seemingly endless procession of men, youths and boys, all decked in bundles of masewe at the ankle and above the knee, and a kilt of leaves and strips of skin round the waist. They take their places in the arena in front of the band, and immediately fall into position and trot along in Indian file, till the line closes up into a circle and moves round to the left, then round to the right, and so on. It is astonishing how uniformly and accurately the movements are executed by every individual performer, even the youngest boys. There is nothing very exciting about this dance; in fact, I find all native dances monotonous, perhaps owing to the prevailing character of the continent, which is very uninteresting, except in a few favoured spots. Perhaps a native critic, however, might object that there is no great variety in our waltzes or polkas. Just as these reflections were passing through my mind, the scene changed, somewhat to its advantage, and the circle broke up into groups which vied with each other in the most remarkable leg-movements. These, in fact, seem to be the strong point of all these dancers. One group floated along on tip-toe, another imitated the dignified gait of some kind of wading-bird, yet another swayed merrily in and out between the rest, and a fourth stalked along with legs held perfectly stiff. Long after my last film was finished the company were still disporting themselves, unable to leave off, but at last this “turn,” too, came to an end; the band produced only horrible discords; I was tired out with standing; Knudsen complained of the first symptoms of fever, and the function was over.