LISAKASA (RING OF HUTS FOR THE UNYAGO) IN THE FOREST NEAR AKUNDONDE’S
It was only in part for the sake of the past that we visited Luisenfelde; we should scarcely have done so but for the fact that the road from the mouth of the Bangala to Akundonde’s runs directly past it. A march of an hour and a half or two hours up the deeply-excavated ravine of the Namaputa, and a short, steep ascent to the crest of the next ridge, brought us to Akundonde’s. We saw before us the typical native settlement of these parts, a moderate-sized, carefully-swept open space with the baraza in the middle—a roof supported on pillars, and open all round. This is surrounded by some half-dozen huts, round or square, all with heavy thatched roofs, the eaves reaching nearly to the ground, other groups of huts being scattered at long intervals all along the crest of the hill. Akundonde, though he said he had been expecting our visit, did not seem very obliging or communicative. We could scarcely attribute this to the after effects of his recent libations—his throat must be far too well seasoned for that; but thought it more probable that his bad leg made him feel indisposed for society. I had just one bottle of “jumbe cognac” left, that delectable beverage, which smells like attar of roses, but has a taste which I cannot attempt to describe, and this I bestowed on the old chief, but took no further notice of him, which I could well afford to do without endangering the success of my enterprise. The junior headman of the village,—a smart Yao, quite a dandy according to local standards, who even wore a watch on a very large chain and consequently had to look at the time every two minutes—proved a much more competent guide to the life and customs of this remote district than morose old Akundonde. The young man showed us plenty of indigenous works of art—we had only to go from house to house and look under the eaves to find the walls covered with frescoes. He also conducted us to a small burying-ground—a few Yao graves sheltered by low thatched roofs (now somewhat dilapidated) which, with the cloth fastened on the top, I now saw for the first time.
YAO GRAVES AT AKUNDONDE’S
Having previously heard that the unyago was taking place this year at Akundonde’s, we made every effort to see and hear as much as possible. The promise of a princely remuneration soon brought about the desired result, but the jumbe told me that the carriers and soldiers could not be allowed to come with me, though Moritz and Kibwana would be admitted. My two boys are by this time heartily sick of campaigning, and their sense of duty requires stimulating in the usual way; but this done, they trudge along, though reluctantly, behind us with the camera.
The headman leads us out of the village through byways, evidently desiring to escape notice, and then our party of five plunges into the silent bush, which here, with its large trees almost reminds me of our German forests; the foliage, too, is fresher and more abundant than we ever saw it on the other side of Chingulungulu. In the natural excitement of the new discoveries awaiting us, I pay no heed to place or time—I cannot tell whether we have been walking for half-an-hour or an hour, when, breaking through a thicket, we see a small hut before us and find that we have reached our goal.
Our exertions have been amply rewarded. Before I have yet had time to note the size, construction and workmanship of the hut, we are surrounded by a troop of half-grown boys. With loud cries and energetic gestures the jumbe orders them back, and I now perceive the approach of an elderly man who must have come out of the hut, for he suddenly appears as if he had risen out of the ground. This is the wa mijira,[[40]] the man who presides over all the ceremonies of the boys’ unyago. He greets us solemnly and signals with a barely perceptible motion of his eyelids to the boys. These are already drawn up in a long row: strange, slight figures in the wide grass kilts which make them look like ballet-dancers. Each one holds to his mouth a flute-like instrument from which they proceed to elicit a musical salute. Once more I have to regret my lack of musical training, for this performance is unique of its kind. After hearing the not unpleasing melody to its close, I approach near enough to make a closer inspection of the band. The instruments are nothing more than pieces of bamboo, each differing from the rest in length and diameter, but all closed-at the lower end by the natural joint of the reed, and cut off smoothly at the upper. In this way, each of the little musicians can only play one note, but each produces his own with perfect correctness and fits it so accurately into the concerted “song without words” as to form an entirely harmonious whole. Moritz has meanwhile been attending to his duties as Minister of Finance, and some of the boys have even been persuaded to retire behind the hut and show me the result of the surgical operation which they underwent about a month ago, but which in some cases is still causing suppuration. Now, however, I wish to see the inside of the hut.
NDAGALA (CIRCUMCISION-LODGE) IN THE FOREST NEAR AKUNDONDE’S
The European in Africa soon grows accustomed to do without luxuries for his own part, and would never dream of looking for them in the dwellings of the natives; but the primitive roughness of this place in which fifteen boys are expected to live for several months, baffles description. The ndagala, as the circumcision-lodge is officially called, is a good-sized building, being about thirty-two feet by thirteen, but neither the walls, constructed of crooked, knotty logs, with gaps between them affording free admission to the wind, nor the very airy and badly-kept thatch of the roof, are much protection against the cold at night. There is a doorway in the centre of each longitudinal wall, but no doors. On entering one sees in the first instance nothing but millet-straw mixed with heaps of ashes. This straw covers the floor, lies in heaps against the walls, and is spread out untidily over sixteen originally, doubtless, quite decent beds. One of these couches is appropriated to the master, the others are those on which his disciples have not only slept, but undergone the painful operation without anæsthesia or antiseptic treatment of any kind, but with set teeth and in silence. Every sign of suffering on such occasions is sternly forbidden by the Yaos, these East African Spartans. If, in spite of all his resolution, some poor little fellow, really only a child, is unable to suppress a cry of pain, he finds himself roared down by the anamungwi, his master and his companions.