THE BALCONY, EASTERN TEMPLE, ACROPOLIS
THE PARAPET IS BUILT UPON THE SUSPENDED BOULDER
For fully another hour the silence was unbroken. At last the desultory beating of a village drum at Mogabe’s kraal was heard. Later a drum was sounded at Chenga’s kraal, and another at Bingura’s kraal. The villagers were waking up for the feast. One of our labourers sat up, stretched himself and yawned, and commenced shaking his sleeping comrades. Within a few minutes Havilah Camp was all life. One native reached for his leggings of large nuts with dried kernels inside, others a horn, flute, piano, or harp, but all took two knobkerries, some having assegais. Those who possessed strings of wild-cat tails tied them round their waists. The early hours of evening had been devoted to greasing their bodies and limbs, and in the light of the moon their skins shone like burnished metal. Then began a general practising of dance steps, leapings, war-cries, and most hideous howlings. Meanwhile quite a dozen drums were being sounded up on Mogabe’s Kopje, and these were answered by similar numbers at Chenga’s and the other kraals. Horns were blown, parties of Makalanga, singing and shouting, were passing along the native tracks in front of our camp, each party going to its own kraal. Soon our labourers left in gangs for their respective villages and disappeared in the long mist-covered grass. Being all young men with a superabundant fund of spirits, they made a most fearful din in the course of their progress homewards. By this time the Zimbabwe kopjes resounded with singing, especially of girls’ singing, for the women-folk started the festivities with screams and yells, and the loud beatings in three-two time of innumerable drums. The great full moon was now fast approaching its zenith. Our camp, save for the watch-men, the kya (hut) boy, and the picaninni, once more became still and lifeless.
Theodore Bent saw in these new and full-moon feasts some connection with the cult of Nature Worship of the ancient Semites, who are believed to have built these ruins and to have mined for gold in Southern Rhodesia, as it is conjectured, some three thousand years ago. The women, who at this moment are dancing in the villages, have on their bare stomachs, worked into the skin, a “breast and furrow pattern,” identical to that found on many of the oldest of the prehistoric relics discovered in our ancient ruins, an undoubted emblem, Bent contended, of the ancient conception of Fertility. The men who will be dancing have worked in their skins, mainly in bands round their waists, the three radiating bars, similar in form to the Welsh bardic emblem of the Origin of Life. The articles they will wield in their dancing are carved with chevron pattern, one of the most ancient of all emblems of Fertility. But although the flesh decorations are now merely luck signs, neither man nor woman would on any account be without them. With these signs they say they will not be sick, will have plenty of wives and boys to work for them, and many girls on account of whom to receive lobola (marriage present to the father—practically purchase money). Anon, in the pauses of the dance, they will drink beer from pots with herring-bone pattern encircling the lips, a beer made of red millet, prepared, says Bent, in the same way and known by the same name as the beer prepared in Arabia to-day, where its methods of preparation and its name have been handed down from immemorial age.
But to-night will be the finest opportunity for the next twelve months of seeing the Elliptical Temple by moonlight. Sleep this hot, close night is impossible, especially with the sounds of noisy revelry proceeding simultaneously from all points of the compass. My native boy is disinclined to follow me to the temple, but after bargaining with him for an Isi-hle (present), he at last grudgingly consents. He mutters something about the place being bewitched, that there are many horrid things there, and alludes to the M’uali, the chief spirit of Makalanga awe and dread; but as within the two years’ residence at Zimbabwe I have only discovered two natives, and these elderly men, who would willingly go into any of the ruins, especially the temple, after darkness had settled down, I am not at all surprised at his reluctance to follow me there. However, he is mindful to take his stoutest knobkerries with him.
Looking back at the Acropolis Hill, and at its long line of precipice, one sees the ancient walls on the summit gleaming white in the moonlight, while the tall monoliths stand clear against the sky. In the passages on the hill one might almost expect on such a night to come face to face with Rider Haggard’s She at any corner, or to see her draped form issuing from one of the numerous caves which still pierce the cliffs. But we must turn our backs on the Acropolis Hill, and make for the Elliptical Temple, passing the little graveyard where the remains of Major Alan Wilson and his Shangani heroes rest in their granite tomb in the grove of euphorbia trees, whose branches cast black, sharp-cut shadows on the ground. Then across an open granite space, and up the long parallel passage on the east side of Ridge Ruins, out through its intricate southern entrance, and on to the level ground which runs up to the foot of the temple walls. The clumps of tall, old-world-looking aloes and euphorbia trees lining the walls of No. 1 Ruins on the left of our path appear strange even by daylight, but in the midnight radiance of the full moon they assume intensely weird and fantastic forms thoroughly in harmony with the outlines of the ancient buildings. The lonely grave of Thomas Bailey, an Australian gold prospector, lies close to the right-hand side of the path. He died in 1893 while searching for relics within the temple.
The temple walls covered with white lichen appear to have been whitewashed for centuries, and these gleam brightly with light in distinct contrast to the dark veld and bush from which they rise; and so white are they that at a fair distance one can see every course, block, and joint in their dry masonry. The broad bases of the walls in comparison with the widths of their summits—though a full-sized wagon and a team of sixteen oxen could stand upon the top of the more substantial portion of the walls—their sloping sides, and the utter absence of any feature of any style of architecture known in Western Europe, lend a strikingly Eastern appearance to the building, which is sufficient in itself to forcibly take one’s mind back some two or three thousand years. Meanwhile the noise of village drums, the blowing of horns, and the deep wild choruses of crowds of men, mingled with the voices of women and girls, were waxing louder and more incessant as midnight approached.
Standing in No. 5 Enclosure, just within the west entrance, the interior of the temple is seen to be full of light and shadow. But all is serenely calm and still as if possessed by the silence of the grave. The high, massive walls encircling the temple deaden to faintness the voices of the villagers. The close air, heavy with the scent of verbena wafted in from the veld, is oppressive in the extreme. An inexplicable sensation of trespassing in forbidden precincts possesses one. The native looks scared. Midnight visits to ruins are not his particular fancy.
Certainly the many visitors who travel hundreds, if not thousands, of miles to view these ruins, and who only see them by the glare of day, miss nine-tenths of the charm, fascination, and inspiration which the walls of the temple at Zimbabwe have in store for those who walk its courts in the stillness of the night when the midsummer moon is at the full. This is the time to see Zimbabwe aright, for Zimbabwe by day and Zimbabwe by night presents two entirely different aspects.
Trees throw gigantic shadows on the walls and darken the inner courts, and the floors are chequered by moonbeams shining through the foliage overhead. One somehow becomes possessed with the idea that these walls are peopled with the spirits of prehistoric age, who are moving, as of old, about the temple floors and passages, still performing their ancient priestly offices. The movement of every shadow against the walls suggests the passing from point to point of some three-millenniumed spectral form, too engrossed in its sacred avocations to heed the mortal presence of two strangers of the twentieth century after Christ. Would that these hoary-aged walls could speak and tell us of the scenes which took place here when the Great Zimbabwe was in all its glory! Assuredly a midnight hour spent in this ancient temple overwhelms one with most novel sensations, some slightly queer and shivery, others awe-inspiring and soul-stirring.