When at last the hunt has been successful and the elephant is killed, the first thing done is to cut off the tip of his trunk, which is immediately buried. It is believed that this is the most dangerous part of an elephant and lives on long after the animal has been killed. It is buried so that it may not see what is done next. The hunters dance round the fallen colossus, firing off their guns over and over again in token of rejoicing; then they seek for medicinal roots, with which they rub their bodies as a protection against the elephant’s revengeful spirit. This done, they are at leisure to cut out the tusks, cut up the carcase, consume enormous quantities of the fresh meat, and dry the rest for carrying away. This is done in the same manner in which fish are dried on the Rovuma, that is, over a fire, on a stage about two feet high. Others prefer to cut it into strips and let it dry in the sun. There is probably not much left to be treated in this way; the native, like a vulture, scents any bit of meat which might break the monotony of his porridge diet, even though it should be miles away; and so, in an incredibly short time, hundreds of guests see that none of the joint is wasted.
FISH-DRYING ON THE ROVUMA
CHAPTER XI
TO THE ROVUMA
Newala, beginning of September, 1906.
For the last few days I have been living in a different world, and nearer heaven, for I am here at a height of more than 3,000 feet above the level of the Indian Ocean, and look down on the vast greyish-green plain in the west from an altitude of over 1,600 feet. This view over the plain is wonderful, extending, on the south-west across the broad channel of the Rovuma, which just now, it is true, holds very little water, and on the north-west to the distant Masasi range; while it also embraces the numerous insular peaks appearing at various distances in the south, west, and north-west. I can only enjoy this view, however, by walking back westward for about half-a-mile from my present position, for Newala is not on the precipitous edge of the plateau, but lies about a thousand yards away from it. And the climate here! What a contrast to the Inferno of Chingulungulu and the Purgatory of Akundonde’s! Here it is cool as on the crest of the Thüringer Wald, and we Europeans had to get out our warmest clothes immediately on arriving. Double blankets at night and a thick waistcoat in the morning and evening are not enough, and we have both had to take to overcoats.
But again I am anticipating! Between our departure from Chingulungulu and our arrival at Newala only eleven days intervened. But how many, or to be more accurate, what varied experiences were crowded into this interval! Never before had my carriers been so noisy with sheer high spirits as on the morning which put an end to their long inactivity at Matola’s. Wanyamwezi porters cannot endure sitting still, they want to be always on the move, always seeing something new; and in the end, if kept too long inactive in one place away from home, they realise the proverb about the sailor with a wife at every port. I had the greatest trouble to steer my twenty-four men (I had already, with no regret whatever, discharged the Lindi Rugaruga at Masasi), through the dangers of this Capua; they became violent, committed assaults on women and girls, and gave other cause for complaint as well. I did all I could to keep them out of mischief, as, for instance, employing them to make long tables for the baraza out of halved bamboos; but all to no purpose. On the morning of our departure, however, they skipped along like young calves, in spite of their loads of sixty or seventy pounds, as we marched along to the Rovuma. How cheerily we all marched! We had soon left the shadeless bush of Chingulungulu far behind. A sharp turn of the road from west to south, and a short steep declivity brought us to the Nasomba, which had a small thread of water at the bottom of its deep gorge. On we went, over extensive stubble-fields of maize and millet, between beds of beans and splendid plantations of tobacco. High ant-heaps showed the fertility of the soil; little watch-huts fixed on high poles told how the crops were endangered by wild pigs, monkeys, and other foes belonging to the animal world. Knudsen was able to indulge his love of the chase on this trip, and from time to time, one of his venerable shooting-irons lifted up its voice over hill and valley. Meanwhile I had passed the Lichehe Lake, a sheet of water almost choked with reeds, which according to the map ought to be close to the Rovuma. The vegetation, too, indicated a greater abundance of water than hitherto; we passed enormous baobabs, forced our way through low palm-thickets and heard the leaves of stately fan-palms rustling far above our heads. Just as I was about to push through another clump of bushes, the strong hand of my new corporal, Hemedi Maranga, dragged me back. “Mto hapa, Bwana”—(“There is the river, sir”). One step more, and I should have fallen down the steep bank, some sixteen or eighteen feet in height, at the foot of which I now see the gleam of those broad reaches which Nils Knudsen has so often described to me, and which have not failed to impress men so free from enthusiasm as Ewerbeck. Having so often heard the word hapana, which is really beginning to get on my nerves, the corporal’s hapa was a pleasant surprise, and it is no wonder that I felt inclined to bless him. What shall I say of the five or six pleasant days passed on the banks and islands of this river, consecrated by the memory of Livingstone?[[38]] The ethnographer finds little to do there at the present day. Forty years ago, when Livingstone ascended it, its banks were covered with settlements of the Wamatambwe, its current carried a thousand canoes of that energetic fishing tribe, and a busy, cheerful life prevailed everywhere. But here, too, the Wangoni came down, like frost on a spring night, and of the once numerous and flourishing Matambwe only scanty remnants are to be found, irregularly scattered along the immense Rovuma valley, or absorbed into the Makua, Yao and Makonde. The traveller is lucky—as, by the way, I usually am—if he sees a few individuals of this lost tribe.
TWO MATAMBWE MOTHERS FROM THE ROVUMA
We made our first camp close to the river. My tent, as usual, was pitched furthest to windward, and next to the water, Knudsen’s being next to it; while the carriers had to seek shelter more to leeward, under an overhanging bank. Steep banks like this are very common here. During the rains the river carries down an immense volume of water to the sea, and piles up masses of alluvial drift to a greater height every year, but in the dry season, as now, its bed, nearly a mile wide, is almost dry, consisting of a vast expanse of sand and gravel banks. Between these the river takes a somewhat uncertain course, sometimes in a single channel about as wide as the Elbe at Dresden, but usually divided into two or three easily-forded arms. Yet, in spite of its powerlessness, the river is aggressive, and constantly washes away its banks at the bends, so that we frequently come upon trees lying in the stream which have been undermined and fallen. Its bed is, therefore, continually changing, as is the case with the Zambezi and Shire, and, in fact, most rivers of tropical Africa.