Zululand was next visited. During the reign of their kings Zulus controlled their own internal affairs—made their own laws, apportioned the land, chastised their subjects, conferred with British officials concerning border line rules—were, in fact, in every sense, a distinct, unfettered race of people. Zululand was Zululand then. War after war, with gatling guns and modern fighting implements pitted against their mediæval arms—the assegai, or spear—naturally made the tribe submissive and wiped out their border line. So long as they had a king there was always danger of trouble from Zululand. Dinizulu, the last ruler, was taken prisoner, and was "boarded" in a Transvaal penitentiary until a few years ago, when he died. The border line between Natal and Zululand passed away, and the interests of the Zulus and the affairs of Zululand are now looked after and administered by officials of the Province of Natal.
The train, passing through cuts and grades, is half embowered with flowering trees, growing on the banks. The giant bamboo, in obedience to a summery wind, was gracefully swaying to and fro; the aloe, with its flowery top, sixteen feet above the ground, sentinel-like, contributed its share to the floral ensemble, and, together with an almost endless tract of soft, light green sugar-cane growing on each side of the railroad track, offered a mellow landscape found in but few parts of the world.
A depressing contrast to nature—the Indian coolie scourge—is witnessed at every stopping place in this part. We were in the sugar growing section of Natal, and, as mentioned previously, Indian coolies are employed entirely in this industry. There they were by hundreds, most of them of objectionable appearance, and a dirty, almost naked, baby astraddle every woman's hip, the Hindu mother's custom of carrying her child.
We reached the Tugela River, the border line between Natal and Zululand, and, thirty miles further, the train stopped at Ginginhlovu, our destination. Ginginhlovu (elephant, in Zulu) was 93 miles from where we started, and the train was seven hours running that distance, running to schedule, too. Indian shanty stores were pleasantly absent, as none but white traders are allowed to do business in Zululand.
The post cart is the stage coach of South Africa. Strongly built, it is covered with canvas, has two wide wheels and contains two seats. A seat will accommodate three persons in a pinch—the maximum capacity of the coach being five passengers and the driver—but as the latter usually takes up two-thirds of the front seat to handle the large team required to draw the coach, the ordinary capacity of the cart is four passengers, three occupying the rear and one the front seat. A frame at the back serves for luggage, and small hand baggage may be put under the seats. Four or six mules comprise a cart team, the charge being ten cents a mile.
We left the railroad, and our mode of travel into the interior of Zululand was by cart, wagon—a conveyance drawn by beasts. Five passengers, the maximum number, squeezed themselves into the cart. The next trip inland was on the following day, for which we would have to wait, the station-master had informed us, "unless there was a transport going to Eshowe." Eventually a transport—a truck 18 feet long—was found, the driver of which said he thought he had room for another passenger. The transport, ridged with bags of cornmeal five feet high, was drawn by four teams of mules.
"Climb on," said the driver to a group of six; "we'll be starting in a few minutes." Three women, two men and a boy began to scale the transport up to the top of the load. "Get up," said the driver to the mules, when a start was made for the interior of Zululand, the passengers sitting on the top tier of cornmeal bags of the loaded African transport.
We traveled slowly seventeen miles over a good macadam road. "That's the home of Dinizulu, the Zulu king," said the boy passenger, as we passed a frame building close to the road. We reached our destination just at sundown—Eshowe, the old capital of Zululand, and one of the prettiest places visited in South Africa.
Shade trees, flowers, comfortable homes built in spacious yards; small, but substantial, public buildings; a good library, a wooded glen just away from the town, in which had been built a splendid cement swimming pool, give an insight into what the old Zulu capital looks like now. The comfortable appearance of Eshowe has been made by the European. English and native weekly papers are printed here, and the quality of the work is good.
A European boy volunteered to show me about town. He had taken me to the swimming pool, and as we were passing through a timbered portion of this natural park he suddenly shouted, "Look out!" He then pointed to a big fly that had just passed between us. "If that fly had struck you the bitten part would swell up as large as a hen's egg. Often the effects of the bite will assume the nature of an ulcer," he added. A great number of flies in South Africa draw blood when they strike a victim, whether man or beast.