As we were threatened with want of water on the way, I prepared for that difficulty by packing a box with empty bottles, which, when occasion required, might be filled at the springs. The zemzemiyah, or travelling canteen of the East African, was everywhere a long-necked gourd, slung to the shoulder by a string. But it became offensive after some use, and could never be entrusted to a servant for a mile before its contents were exhausted.
We left Hanga, my companion being now better, on October 13th. Seven short marches between that place and Tura occupied fifteen days, a serious waste of time, caused by the craving of the porters for their homes.
The stages now appeared shorter, the sun cooler, the breeze warmer, for, after fourteen months of incessant fevers, we had become tolerably acclimatised; we were now loud in praise, as we had been in censure, of the water and air. Before re-entering the Fiery Field the hire for carrying hammocks became so exorbitant that I dismissed the bearers, drew on my jackboots, mounted the Zanzibar ass, and appeared once more as the mtongi of a caravan. My companion was also now able to ride.
At Eastern Tura, where we arrived on October 28th,
a halt was occasioned by the necessity of providing and preparing food for the week’s march through the Fiery Field. The caravan was then mustered, and it completed altogether a party of one hundred and fifty-two souls.
On November 3rd the caravan, issuing from Tura, plunged manfully into the Fiery Field, and after seven marches in as many days—we halted for breath and forage at the Round Stone—Jiwe la Mkoa. Here we procured a few rations, and resumed our way on November 12th, and in two days exchanged, with a sensible pleasure, the dull expanse of dry brown bush and brushwood for the fertile red plain of Mdaburn. At that point began our re-transit of Ugogo, where I had been taught to expect accidents; they resolved themselves into nothing more than the disappearance of cloth and beads in inordinate quantities. The Wanyamwezi porters seemed even more timid on the down journey than on the up march. They slank about like curs, and the fierce look of a Mgogo boy was enough to strike terror into their hearts. One of them would frequently indulge me in a dialogue like the following, which may serve as a specimen of our conversation in East Africa:—
“The state, Mdula?” (i.e., Abdullah, a word unpronounceable to negroid organs).
“The state is very! (well), and thy state?”
“The state is very! (well), and the state of Spikka?” (my companion).
“The state of Spikka is very! (well).”