OLD MEDULA LIGHTING HIS PIPE

I expected more satisfactory results from Medula; but the medicines were the first point to be attended to. We haggled with him like Armenians, but he would concede nothing, finally showing us one or two of the usual calabashes with their questionable contents, but demanding so exorbitant a price that it was my turn to say, as I had great satisfaction in doing, “Hapana rafiki” (“It won’t do, my friend”). Medula is a philosopher in his way—“Well, if it won’t, it won’t,” appeared to be his reflection, as he turned the conversation to the subject of his name, then tried to pronounce mine, and gradually passed over to the second part of our programme. All this time I was on the watch with my camera, like the reporter of some detestable illustrated weekly. Medula was seated in an unfavourable position: bright light outside—deep shadow within his cool hut. I requested him to change his seat—he declined. My entreaties and flatteries had no other result than to make him grin, deliberately get out his pipe, light it with a burning coal, and puff away without moving. Trusting to my Voigtländer’s lens, I at last let him alone, as things had come to a standstill, and I wanted to see the loom and its use. Medula said that he must first make the thread. I submitted; the old man put a leisurely hand into a basket, deliberately took out a handful of cotton-seeds, husked them secundum artem and began beating the flaky white mass with a little stick. In a surprisingly short time a fairly large quantity of cotton was reduced to the proper consistency; Medula seized it in his left hand and began to pull out the thread with his right. So far the process looked familiar; the people who came over every winter during my boyhood from Eichsfeld to our Hanoverian village, to spin the farmers’ wool for them, always began in the same way. The parallel, however, ceased with the next step, and the procedure became entirely prehistoric. The new thread was knotted on to the end of that on the distaff, the latter drawn through a cleft which takes the place of the eye on our spinning-wheel, the spindle whirled in the right hand, the left being extended as far as possible—and then both arms moved downward; the spindle was quickly rolled round on the upper part of the thigh, and the thread was ready for winding. Medula contrived to weary us out with this performance, but never produced his loom, in whose existence I have entirely ceased to believe. He promised at our parting—which was marked by a decided coolness—to bring the implement with him to Newala; but not even the most stupid of my men gave any credit to his assurance.

CHAPTER XII
UNYAGO EVERYWHERE

Newala, middle of September, 1906.

The charming festival recently witnessed at Achikomu’s seems to have broken the spell which debarred me, just when the season was at its height, from gaining an insight into this most important and interesting subject. In the short period since my arrival at Newala, I have been present at no less than two typical celebrations, both of them girls’ unyagos. This I owe to the kindness of the Akida Sefu.

Sefu bin Mwanyi is an Arab—apparently of unmixed blood—from Sudi. He is a tall, light-complexioned man, with finely-cut features. He knows a number of languages, excelling even Knudsen in this respect, and I cannot say enough of the obliging way in which he has endeavoured to further my plans ever since my arrival.

After a fatiguing climb up the edge of the cliff bordering the plateau, which just at Newala is particularly steep, and a short rest, we made hasty arrangements for encamping in the baraza—open as usual to the dreaded evening wind—within the boma or palisade of stakes. The cold that night was almost Arctic, and we wrapped ourselves in all the blankets we could find. In the early dawn, the zealous akida came in a great hurry, to conduct us to the Makua village of Niuchi, where the concluding ceremony of the girls’ unyago was fixed for that day, and where I was sure to see and hear much that was new. An hour later, our party, this time including my mule, had already wound its way through a long stretch of primæval Makonde bush. It proved impossible to ride, however—the path, bordered by thick, thorny scrub, being never two feet wide in the most frequented parts. We suddenly walked out of the thickest bush on to a small open space surrounded by houses, and perceived with some astonishment a large crowd of strange-looking female figures, who were staring at us, struck dumb with terror. I saw at once that, here, too, it would be well to keep as much as possible in the background, and disappeared with my men and all the apparatus behind the nearest hut. From this coign of vantage, I was able to watch undisturbed a whole series of performances which few if any travellers, probably, have seen in exactly the form they here assumed.

OUR CAMP AT NEWALA

It is eight in the morning; the Makonde bush, which almost closes over our heads, is clad in the freshest green, one large tree in the middle of the bwalo[[42]] and a few others of equal proportions rise above the general level of the pori, and the low Makonde huts stand out sharply in the clear morning air. The few women whom on our arrival we found sweeping the bwalo with bunches of green twigs, have vanished like lightning in the crowd surrounding five other figures dressed in gaudy cloths. These are squatting in the shadow of a hut, covering their eyes and temples with their hands, and staring fixedly at the ground through their fingers. Then a shrill sound is heard, and five or six women are seen hurrying with grotesque jumps across the open space. As they raise the traditional cry of rejoicing,[[43]] the pelele, here of truly fabulous dimensions, stands up straight in the air, while the tongue, stretched out under it, vibrates rapidly to and fro in the manner indispensable to the correct production of the sound. The first six are soon followed by a dozen other women, among whom one voice sings:—“Anamanduta, anamanduta, mwan-angu mwanagwe” (“They go away, they go away, my dear child,”)—the rest repeating the line in chorus. The song is accompanied by accurately-rhythmical hand-clapping, as the dancers move in short tripping steps backward and forward. “Surely a barbaric lament over a parting,” I reflect, on hearing Sefu’s rapid translation, but already a new song is heard:—