The hut resembled that of a simple cultivator; possibly it was as good as the palace of wicker-wattles occupied by Henry II. at Dublin. It was redolent of high dignitaries, dirty as their prince, some fanning him, others chatting, and all puffing from long-stemmed pipes with small ebony bowls the Abnús, which, according to the Baloch, is found growing all over the country. Our errand was inquired, and we were duly welcomed to Fuga: as the two Wasawahili secretaries had long ago been dismissed, and none could read the Sayyid of Zanzibar’s introductory letter, I was compelled to act clerk. The centagenarian had heard that we were accustomed to scrutinize trees and stones as well as stars: he therefore decided that we really were European Waganga, or medicine-men, and he directed us at once to compound a draught which would restore him that evening to health and strength. I objected that all our drugs had been left behind at Panga-ni: by no means satisfied with the excuse, he signified that we might wander about the hills, and seek the plants required.
After half an hour’s conversation, Hamdan being our interpreter, we were dismissed with a renewal of welcome. On our return to the ‘Traveller’s Bungalow,’ the present was forwarded to the Sultan with the usual ceremony, and we found awaiting us a fine bullock, a basket full of Sima—young Indian corn pounded and boiled to a hard, thick paste—and balls of unripe bananas, peeled and mashed up with sour milk, thus converting the fruit to a vegetable. Our Baloch at once addressed themselves to the manufacturing of beef, and they devoured their steaks with such a will that unpleasant symptoms presently declared themselves in camp.
That day we had covered 10 miles, equal, perhaps, to 30 on a decent road in a temperate clime. The angry blast, the dashing rain, and the groaning trees, formed a concert which, heard from within a warm hut, affected us pleasurably: I would not have exchanged it for the music of Verdi. We slept sweetly, as only travellers can sleep.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE MARCH BACK. THE HIPPOPOTAMUS’ HUNT.
THE RETURN TO ZANZIBAR.
‘Wasteful, forth
Walks the dire Power of pestilent disease.
A thousand hideous fiends her course attend,
Sick nature blasting, and to heartless woe
And feeble desolation, casting down
The towering hopes and all the pride of man.’