On Monday, February 16, we took leave of, and were formally dismissed by, Sultan Kimwere. The old man was mortified that our rambles over his hills had not produced a plant of sovereign virtue against the last evil but one of human life. He had long expected a white Mganga, and now two had visited him, and were about to depart without an attempt to restore his youth. I felt sad to see the wistful lingering look with which he accompanied his Kua-heri—farewell (à tout jamais!) But his case was far beyond my skill.
We set out at 7 A.M. on the next day with infinite trouble. The three porters whom we had engaged had run away, characteristically futile, without even claiming their hire, and none of Sultan Kimwere’s men had the stomach to face the redoubtable Wazegura. The Baloch had gorged themselves faint with beef, and the hide, the horns, and huge collops of raw meat were added to the slaves’ loads. We descended the Pass in a Scotch mist and drizzle, veiling every object from view, and it deepened into a large-dropped shower upon the fetid lowlands. The effect of exchanging 4000 for 1000 feet was anything but pleasant, and we at once felt shorn of half our strength. That night we slept at Pasunga; the next at Msiki Mguru, and the third, after marching 17 miles, our greatest distance, at Kohode. Here the graceless Mamba allowed us to be punted over the deep sullen stream by a slave upon a bundle of cocoa fronds, to the imminent peril of our chronometers.
We now resolved to follow the river-course downwards, and to ascertain by inspection if the account of its falls and rapids had been exaggerated. At dawn Wazira came from our party, who had halted on the other side of the river, and warned us that it was time to march, yet 9 A. M. had sped before the rugged line began to stretch over the plain. Our Baloch declared the rate of walking excessive, and Hamdan, who represented ‘Master Shoetie, the great traveller,’ asserted that he had twice visited the Lake Regions of the far interior, but that he had never seen such hardships in his dreams.
The route lay along the alluvial flat before travelled over: instead, however, of turning towards the thinly-forested waste to the north, we hugged the Rufu river’s left bank, and presently we entered familiar land, broken red ground, rough with stones and thorns. Wazira declared his life forfeited if seen by a Mzegura: with some trouble, however, we coaxed him into courage, and we presently joined on the way a small party bound for Panga-ni. At 1 P.M. we halted to bathe and drink, as it would be some time before we should again sight the winding stream. During the storm of thunder and lightning which ensued, I observed that our savage companions, like the Thracians of Herodotus and the Bhils and Kulis (Coolies) of modern India, shot their iron-tipped arrows in the air. Such, perhaps, is the earliest, paratonnerre, preserved traditionally from ages long forgotten by man, until the time when Franklin taught him to disarm the artillery of heaven. Through splashing rain and gusty, numbing wind, which made the slaves whimper, we threaded by a goat-path the dripping jungle, and we found ourselves, about 4 P.M., opposite Kiranga, a large village of Wazegura, on the right bank of the river. The people turned out with bows and muskets to feast their eyes: all, however, were civil, and readily gave cocoas in exchange for tobacco.
Here the Rufu is a strong stream, flowing rapidly between high curtains of trees and underwood, and entering a rocky trough. The hill-roots projected by Mount Tongwe are cut through by the course, and the narrow ledges on both banks form the vilest footpaths. After leaving Kiranga, we found the track slippery with ooze and mire, sprinkled with troublesome thorn-trees, and overgrown with sedgy spear and tiger grass. The air was damp and oppressive, ‘heavy’ (light) with steamy moisture; the clouds seemed to settle upon earth, and the decayed vegetation exhaled a feverish fetor. As we advanced, the roar of the swollen river told of rapids, whilst an occasional glimpse through its wall of verdure showed a rufous surface flecked with white foam. Massive nimbi purpled the western skies, and we began to inquire somewhat anxiously of Wazira if any settlement was at hand.
About sunset, after marching 15 miles, we suddenly saw tall cocoas, the ‘Travellers’ Joy’ in these lands, waving their feathery crests against the blue eastern firmament. The tree inhabits chiefly the coralline lowlands along the coast, but upon the line of the Panga-ni it bears fruit at least 30 miles from the sea, and whenever it is found distant from the stream the natives determine water to be near. Presently crossing an arm of the river by a long wooden bridge made rickety for ready defence, we entered with a flock of homeward-bound goats, Kizungu,[[43]] an island-settlement of Wazegura. The Headmen assembled to receive us with some ceremony, cleared a hut of its inmates, placed cartels upon the ground outside, and seated us ringed round by a noisy crowd for the usual palaver.
This village being upon the frontier and excited by wars and rumours of wars, had a bad name, and suggested treachery to the Baloch. My companion and I fired our revolvers into tree-trunks, and ostentatiously reloaded them for the public benefit. The sensation was such that we seized the opportunity of offering money for rice and ghi: no provision, however, was procurable. Our escort went to bed supperless; Hamdan cursing this Safar Kháis, Anglicè rotten journey; pretty Rahmat weeping over his twisted mustachios, and Sha’aban smoking like the chimney of a Hammam. Murad Ali had remained at Msiki Mguru to buy a slave without our knowledge. No novice in such matters, he had yet neglected to tie the chattel’s thumbs together, and on the evening after the sale he had the exquisite misery to see his dollars bolting at a pace which baffled pursuit. We should have fared meagerly had not one of the elders brought furtively after dark a handful of red rice and an elderly hen: this provaunt was easily despatched by these hungry men, of whom one was a Portuguese ‘cook-boy.’ Then placing our weapons handy, we were soon lulled to sleep, despite smoke, wet beds, chirping crickets, and other plagues, by the blustering wind, and by the continuous pattering of rain.
FALLS OF THE PANGA-NI RIVER.
About sunrise on Friday, February 20, we were aroused by the guide, and after various delays we found ourselves ‘on the tramp’ at 7 A.M. This country traversed was the reflection of what we had passed through. Hills girt the river on both sides, with black soil in the lower and red clay in the upper levels, whilst the path was a mere line foot-worn over rolling ground and thicketty torrent-beds, and through thorny jungle and tall succulent tiger-grass.