Doro, brewed from rapoko (a red millet), is drunk very extensively by the Makalanga in this district, seeing that this part of the country yields grain in such enormous quantities. But the natives do not regard doro as a mere beverage. At new and full moons, or at the rising or setting of the Pleiades, which determine the sowing and harvesting seasons, doro is provided by the native farmers in lieu of wages, and on these occasions it is drunk most extensively by people of all ages. The men delight in gulping it down in quantities with the avowed and deliberate intention of getting drunk as soon as possible. The state of stupefaction induced by doro is one of their most exquisite delights. On Saturday mornings the one topic of conversation of the gang is as to how much beer they will drink on I’zhuba Kuru (Sunday), how soon they will get drunk, and what they will do when they are drunk. On Mondays, in spite of their “large heads” and sodden appearance, discussions take place as to who were the most drunk. The one who lost most control of himself is considered a hero. In their opinion the man who was most intoxicated honours himself, and can afford to boast.
Even those who are in many other respects the most hopeful young men equally delight in getting absolutely intoxicated. The lads from eight years of age imbibe doro most copiously, while boys of twelve get as drunk as their seniors. The brains of the natives are so small that the doro acts upon them speedily, and two hours’ drinking will undo all the benefit of two years’ contact with civilisation. Then all their innate savage nature reasserts itself in every violent form, and their swaggering insolence, inspired by doro, is intolerable. But the evils of I’daha smoking and doro drinking are not of modern origin, but are ingrained in their blood and bone by many past centuries of devotion to these practices.
The rarefied air of these highlands conducts sound over long distances, and triangular conversations are constantly in progress between the villagers at Mogabe’s kraal, our boys at the camp, and those working on the Hill Ruins, though each point is at least a third of a mile distant from the others. These conversations are carried on without the slightest straining of the voice or even shouting, the secret apparently being the slight raising of the voice and speaking very distinctly and very slowly. From their vantage position on the hill the boys are always on the look-out for natives passing and repassing between the villages. While the passing natives are, as one would believe, outside the hearing limit a conversation with the boys has for some time been in progress. Our boys will give the usual salutation, and if this be replied to all well and good. But should it not be replied to, or not promptly, the boys will at once start in chorus to slang the passer-by and all his relatives, commencing with his mother. So long as the passer-by is within earshot, so long do these slanging matches continue. Each boy endeavours to cap each previous remark with something more pungent, and as he succeeds the rest cheer him. Natives state that the sound of their voices travels quickest and furthest in the early mornings.
THE CAMP MESSENGER, ZIMBABWE
LABOURERS AT THE ELLIPTICAL TEMPLE, ZIMBABWE
The visits of marungu to the ruins are highly interesting occasions for the natives. The news of any approaching arrival is shouted down from Mogabe’s kraal a third of a mile away, for from Mogabe’s Kopje there is a four miles’ view of the road from Victoria. Long before the Cape-cart or horsemen can enter our valley from over the ridge between Rusivanga and Mogabe’s kopjes it is known where we are working, how many visitors are arriving, the description of vehicle, and if there is a lady in the party. Arrivals always attract a score or more naked picaninnies, who accompany the conveyance from the ridge at the foot of the Rusivanga down to the camp. But such visits are infrequent, and three weeks or a month pass without a white man arriving at Zimbabwe, and when, after such intervals, they do arrive, their faces look strange because they are white, while the sound of the English language is strikingly odd. On some rare occasions as many as three camps of visitors have been fixed up on the outspan. A patrol of the British South Africa Police calls about once a month, and the troopers generally introduce themselves with some such salutation as “Well, still alive? Not murdered yet?”
Humorous incidents are not absent in the work of excavation in the ruins. For instance, after working for some hours in a trench near the Sacred Enclosure, and passing all soil over boards and through fingers in the search for relics, a common clay pipe of English make was found intact at a depth of over 3 ft. At another spot, after hours of careful but unrewarded work in a trench, at a similar depth a very late brand of soda-water bottle was found. Both these finds delighted the boys infinitely more than had they unearthed a cartload of phalli or other prehistoric relics of value. In some respects the boys are extremely practical. The question “aliquid novi ex Zimbabwe?” can in two senses be answered in the affirmative. Such modern articles found “at depth” afford only another proof that the soil in the interior of the temple, as stated elsewhere, has been turned over and over again by archæologists, and also by unauthorised prospectors, for ancient gold and other relics.
After tjiya, when the day’s work is done, there is still an hour or so of daylight left, and this is usually occupied in wandering among the kopjes or along sequestered valleys, keeping an eye open for fresh traces of the ancients, or in examining and measuring some one of the minor ruins which stud the valley, or in calling at a village to arrange for labour, or in looking out for buck and guinea-fowl for the pot.