Chapter XVI: Gonǰa to London

Leaving this settlement of Gonǰa we walked through a beautiful and well-forested plain, brimming over with fertility, although little cultivated. We camped at Kihuṅgwe’s, another Zegūha chief of Semboǰa’s family, who has made a settlement on the banks of the Mkomazi river, and attracted to his precincts vagabonds and fugitives from all adjacent countries. We were now at the northern entrance of a broad and level plain which stretches between the mountains of Pare and Usambara and slopes very gently to the River Ruvu. It is perhaps forty miles in width, uninhabited save by a few harmless bands of Masai, whose spirit has been broken by repeated defeats received from the Wa-sambara and the Wa-pare, and who are now too meek to demand tribute from passing caravans. I met some of these people on the road, and stopped to chat with them and glean some more notes about their language. We also encountered some of the Wa-mbugu, a curious race of cattle-keepers dwelling at the foot of the Usambara hills.

This plain is covered with thin shrubs and stunted trees, with occasional patches of emerald-green grass. It is the resort of immense quantities of game, which here finds cover, sustenance, and water, for the Mkomazi flows through the centre.

We found the recent spoor of elephants, and saw at different times giraffes, elands, gnus, and cobus antelopes. I shot a cow eland, but she managed to get away into the dense bush, and we had not time to follow her trail. Baboons were singularly abundant in the big trees, and as for the guinea-fowls!—I never saw the like in any part of Africa. Altogether this Mkomazi valley teemed with life, and would doubtless prove as fine a hunting-ground as Ṅguruṅgani, or the vicinity of Lake ǰipé.

As we approached Mazindi, the capital of King Semboǰa, the forest trees grew loftier and richer in foliage, and the ground began to change from the flat plain to a succession of ridges and low hills. We were, indeed, approaching the verge of Usambara; in fact a kind of “undercliff,” lying at the foot of those extraordinary mountains which towered from 4000 to 7000 feet above the plain. In all my varied African experiences, in the Atlas Mountains of Algeria, in the Chella range of Southern Angola, on Kilima-njaro, or elsewhere, I have never seen anything so unique and strangely imposing as the western aspect of Usambara. Imagine giant cliffs of granite and limestone rising nearly like a sheer wall 4000 feet and more from the plain. The ascent _looks_ impossible, and one imagines a descent might only be performed by lowering oneself from the top with several thousand feet of rope. At the back of this giant barrier of granite there lies a lovely land of forests, streams, and mountain meadows, wherein reside—strange as it seems to us who wander in this savage wilderness!—Englishmen, labouring hard to spread all that is best in religion and civilization among the docile inhabitants. Scarcely more than forty miles in a direct line from where we are gazing over Usambara, are European houses, churches, schools, dispensaries, and, I dare say, tennis-courts and cricket-grounds.

The thought that civilization was so near us rendered me impatient with the wilderness which, for a wonder, began to lose its potent charm. I hurried along the red track, and gazed so fixedly towards our goal, a distant clump of huts and stone walls, which is called Mazindi, that I bestowed but little observation on the surrounding landscape. Nevertheless I could not but notice the numbers and numbers of handsome hyphœne[32] palms that lined the way. We walked through a stately grove, which, but for the different species of palm, reminded me of Elche in South-Eastern Spain. My men could not resist stopping to gnaw the gingerbread-like fruit of the hyphœne, and so I got far ahead of them and arrived alone at the gate of Mazindi.

Women were returning from the river with their filled pitchers gracefully poised on the head. Their faces were pleasing, and their complexions a clear olive—I was just going to write “evidently from Arab intermixture,” but I hesitate. The subject of the origin of these Usambara people is rather a complicated one, and their lightness of complexion seems to be due to some other cause than a strain of Arab blood. I cited this as the reason why the Wa-zegūha of Gonǰa were so different to the negro type, but I did so in despair of any other solution, and because I knew that the Wa-zegūha on the coast had for centuries come into contact with the Arabs; but with the Wa-sambara, whom I first met here in Mazindi it is different. The Arabs had penetrated very little into the hills and valleys of Usambara, so difficult of entry in the opposition of a sturdy people, and therefore a theoretical cross with them would not satisfactorily account for the yellow skins and fine features of _some_ of the Wa-sambara. Possibly the aboriginal mountaineers, who preceded the Bantu invasion, were allied to the Galla or Masai in race, and have largely transmitted their characteristics to the modern inhabitants.

There are, as it were, two towns of Mazindi: one, built on the steep rise of the undercliff, and simply the residence and court of Semboǰa, the chief; and the other a regular rambling African village in the plain below, surrounded by banana groves and a dense euphorbia hedge. There are besides many gipsy-like encampments of Masai, and even temporary “towns” of those cattle-keeping rovers, who have, after years of border warfare, made friends with Semboǰa, and are gradually changing in character from restless thievish nomads to honest settled agriculturists—in short, here you may see Masai in the process of becoming “Wa-kwavi,” as the Swahili traders call them. Far too much has been made of this slight distinction. One man has written a vocabulary of “Kwavi,” and another of “Masai,” and each ignored the fact that they were independently treating one identical tongue. Of course other grammarians and generalizers followed suit like parrots, and so you see the Masai family of languages solemnly divided into two main branches:—

(_a_) Masai,

(_b_) Kwavi;

which would be as silly as announcing that the English “languages” offered two distinct groups—

(_a_) Cockney,

(_b_) Provincial.

Though the nomad Masai and the agricultural Masai (Wa-kwavi) differ so much in habits they do not differ at all in language, other than where they may border on Bantu settlements and borrow a few Bantu words. If you ask the “Wa-kwavi” of Mazindi what they are, they will reply at once, “Masai.” And if you ask a nomad Masai of the Ruvu, or elsewhere, what he calls his congeners of Mazindi—who, perhaps, a generation ago were fighting in the same clan—he will answer contemptuously, “Em-barawuio,” a feminine word of not very pleasant signification.[33] “Kwavi” is supposed to be a corrupted version of “El-oigob,” “the people of the soil.” This is a term used in common by Masai and Kwavi, but is more especially affected by the latter, as it implies a settled residence.

Though the Masai of Mazindi and the Mkomazi valley speak their language with purity, whether agriculturists or rovers, yet in race they certainly alike betray a mingling with alien people. In their midst are still residing helot tribes, of undecided relationships, who may represent the remnant of conquered and partially absorbed races, previously owners of the land.

High above Semboǰa’s citadel waves the bloodred Arab-flag of Zanzibar. Semboǰa is eager to own himself a vassal of Sayyid Barghash. When I went to see him on the morning of my arrival I found myself ushered into an African imitation of the Oriental “divan,” a low-pitched, thatched building, in the interior of which a low wooden seat bordered three sides of the oblong room, the fourth side being a half-open verandah. Many Swahili and Arab traders and courtiers were seated there, squatting on their haunches, and imperturbably smoking. A few lazy greetings were muttered, but I thought their tone rather insolent, and very coldly replied. At the end of the bench, near the verandah, was a gorgeous silk cushion and a Persian carpet. I was about to seat myself thereon, imagining it was the guest’s place, when the Sultan, Semboǰa, suddenly entered and shouldered me out, taking me by the arm and forcing me down beside him. I was rather hurt at this cavalier proceeding, but soon recovered my good humour when I found no offence was intended. Semboǰa was a little Arab-like, wizen old man, with a very quizzical expression. Two bright eyes sparkled amid his crow’s feet and wrinkles. He had villainous teeth, stumpy, and red with much chewing of betel-nut. His costume was quite Arab in style, and in perfect taste. His well-trimmed, elegant feet were shod in inlaid sandals. On a finger of his right hand was a fine signet ring, which he turned round and round as he spoke. The most elegant Swahili came from his lips, intermingled with Arab terms and phrases, much as, some years ago, English people had the questionable taste to interlard their conversation with scraps of French. Semboǰa was evidently quite a cultured man—a more civilized Mandara. At the time I visited him he was much concerned about German aggression, rumours of which had just begun to get abroad. He therefore repeatedly announced himself a faithful vassal of Sayyid Barghash. When I presented to him the letter of recommendation which the Sultan of Zanzibar had kindly given me at the outset of my journey, he kissed the seal reverentially, and listened attentively while it was read aloud by his scribe. At the conclusion he turned to me and said, “All my possessions are yours. Take what you will. What do you want?” I replied, laughing, “Nothing but your good will, and a little fresh milk.” But Kiongwe, who was more practical, said to Semboǰa, with a deprecatory cough and a grin, “The white man is very fond of the flesh of sheep and oxen.” “Good,” exclaimed Semboǰa; “in the things of Europe I am a poor man, but of cattle, sheep, and milk I have plenty, and will not let my guest go lacking.” Accordingly, soon after we returned to camp, some soldiers of Semboǰa arrived with a fine fat bullock, two goats, and a sheep, and the women of his household sent us gourds of both fresh and fermented milk, the latter being most esteemed by Africans. As a return for this hospitality I gave Semboǰa a 12-bore fowling-piece and 100 cartridges, some coloured pictures which he much desired, a suit of pyjamas, and quantities of gaudy handkerchiefs and clothes for his wives.

Mutually pleased, we parted with many effusive compliments, and, refreshed by my short rest at Mazindi, I pursued my course to the borders of the Ruvu. On reaching this turbulent stream we walked along its banks with little incident as far as a point about fifteen miles from the coast, called the “Mašamba,” or “plantations” of Pangani. Here, with a few of my men, I took to a canoe and descended the river to its mouth. After rather a dangerous voyage in this rickety “dug-out,” we fortunately reached the beach of Pangani without a catastrophe. It was a pitch-dark night when I landed on this unfamiliar shore, and I felt more strange and friendless than I had ever done in the wilderness. Where should I find a decent shelter for the night in this dirty Arab town? As I wandered up into the bazaar I sought in vain for the face of some one to assist me. At length I entered a better street and paused before the stately dwelling of a rich Hindu. I entered the hall and inquired for the master. A portly, yellow-faced man, in richly embroidered garments, came forward. “Can you tell me,” I asked him, “where I can obtain houseroom for the night? I have just come from the interior.” “I suppose you had better go to the Mission,” he said curtly, and turned away. “What Mission?” I inquired of my men. I did not know there was an English Mission in Pangani. I knew the Universities’ Mission had stations on other parts of the coast and in Usambara, but I had never heard of one in Pangani. As a matter of fact they really only possessed a house there as a _pied à terre_ used in passing to and fro between Usambara and Zanzibar.

I went back into the dark, dirty street, and clutched the first boy I saw. “Now,” I said, “I will give you a rupee if you will lead me to the English Mission.” “Orright,” he replied delightedly in broken English, “cum ’long!” A few turns and twists in the labyrinth of sordid streets brought us to a more open space, and we were suddenly conducted into the courtyard of a large house. Here our guide pulled a loud, clanging bell, screamed out something in Swahili, and left us. Immediately a pleasant-looking man and woman came out of a side door opening on to the yard, and giving a respectful salutation, invited us to ascend a broad ladder which led to a terrace and some upper apartments. The woman carried a lamp, and the man a bunch of keys. Without another word the man opened the door of a spacious, well-lit room, and the woman placed the lamp on the table within. “What shall I get you?” she asked. “Will you have some _chai_ (tea)?” I said gratefully I would, and secretly wondered all the time where were the white occupants of the house. Why were they not made aware of my coming? Presently the woman returned, and began to make the bed. Then she pointed to a large chest, and said, “You must open that; only white men know how.” I looked at the box, and saw a word in Greek letters printed on it. It was a letter lock, and I comprehended the woman’s meaning. The key-word was printed in Greek, so that the mission servants, I suppose, who could read English, should not understand the mode of opening the lock, and make too free with the contents of the chest, which, on opening, I ascertained to be all the necessaries for the table—cruets, knives, forks, cloths, napkins, glasses, and plates. I opened another box, and found therein well-chosen books, reviews, and newspapers, food for the mind. And yet no host to greet me! Really, this was like some fairy tale, where you enter an enchanted castle whose owner has been turned into a cat, or a monkey, or a marble statue, and find no responsible master to bid you welcome, but yet a mute hospitality on every hand, and all your wants forestalled and provided for.

“Where are the Wa-zungu (white men) who live in this house?” I asked the housekeeper as she brought my supper. “They left in the steamer two days ago.” “Did you expect me?” I continued. “No.” “Then perhaps I am taking someone else’s room.” “No,” she said, “there are other chambers if others come, and all white men who come to Pangani lodge here.”

In the best sense of the word the Universities’ Mission keeps open house at Pangani. I did not need much pressing to make this residence my headquarters during my short stay in the town.

The proud Hindu whom I had met on first landing cashed my note of hand for a large amount of rupees, and I was thus enabled to pay off my caravan men at Pangani. They nearly all of them received presents on account of their good conduct and fidelity. It was with some display of feeling on both sides that I parted with my Zanzibari servitors, especially with those who had borne all the anxieties and dangers of our stay in Čaga, and we could only console ourselves by supposing that our journeyings and companionship would soon be renewed. Indeed I trusted to be back in Pangani in another fortnight, ready to return to Kilima-njaro.

Hiring a dirty, evil-smelling Arab dau (all were dirty and evil-smelling, so I had little choice, except as to the particular kind of dirt and variety of odour), I set out with a few followers and my luggage for Zanzibar. The vessel was so leaky and old, that I am sure we should have gone to the bottom in the least bit of a gale. Fortunately the sea was like oil, or glass, or a millpond, or whatever simile best produces to your imagination absolute unruffled stillness. Yet this safe extreme of calm had its disadvantages. In vain our Swahili captain whistled, and cried “Njōō Kazkazi!” (Come, north wind!); not a breeze would fill our drooping sail. The men rowed with long oars, and I suppose that had some effect; at any rate, whether it was current, wind, or oars, we must have had some motive-power, because at four o’clock we were off the island of Zanzibar, and by seven in the evening we had reached the town and harbour of that name. I left my servants on board to guard the luggage, and went alone into the lamp-lit streets. I could hardly walk soberly, nor keep my lips from parting in exultant smiles when I thought how I was going to take Sir John Kirk by surprise. Here he was, if he thought about me at all, imagining that I must be still living with Mandara on Kilima-njaro, and yet I was within but a few strides of his house. I pictured my entry—I would hastily explain to the servant, and run upstairs unannounced, and knock at Sir John’s door as he was dressing for dinner. What astonishment, what laughing explanations there would be! How we would sit and talk half the night over our coffee and grog in the pretty drawing-room, hung with Oriental porcelain! Thus musing, I reached the Consulate and knocked at the outer door, which I was surprised to see closed. After a long delay, bolts and bars were withdrawn, and a sleepy janitor looked out. “Don’t you remember me?” I asked anxiously, “the Bwana mdogo that went to Kilima-njaro?” “Ah, yes,” he replied, his face growing friendly with recognition, “to be sure! but,” shaking his head sadly, “the Bwana mkubwa (the great master) is not here.” “Not here?” I exclaimed, sick with disappointment, “then where is he?” “Gone to Kilwa in the steamer—won’t return till steamer does.” I turned away sadly, and thought I might just as well have slept the night on board the smelly dau. Then I remembered the Judge of the Consular Court lived hard by. I went to him, and he gave me a capital dinner, told me all the news, and alleviated my disappointment. The doctor,[34] who was dining with him, offered me a bed, and so I was spared the fleaey quarters of a Zanzibar hotel. The next day, whether it was the disappointment of missing Sir John Kirk, or the sudden change to the relaxing climate of Zanzibar, I fell ill with a feverish languor, and lost interest and appetite. I could not even stir myself to read my letters, except so far as to ascertain that there were no fresh funds forthcoming with which to continue the expedition. My collections were already packed, and I had nothing to do but to await the arrival of the homeward-bound steamer. Fortunately, in this despondent condition, Captain Dowding, of H.M.S. _Osprey_, then stationed at Zanzibar, ran across me and carried me off to his pretty ship. Here, in the soothing cleanliness and comfort of a man-of-war, I recovered my health and spirits, and waited resignedly the steamer’s coming. Sir John Kirk just returned in time to welcome me back and see me off, and then, regretfully, I put away Kilima-njaro, Taveita, Kitimbiriu from my memory, and tried to look forward with pleasure to a return to Europe.

Our voyage from Zanzibar to Aden was a slow agony of nearly a fortnight’s duration. The monsoon was dead against us, and the ship was—well, not worthy of the company that owned her. The days dragged by like continual repetition of an uneasy dream. If was too rough to write, I had nothing to read, and even the last resource of the weary voyager—an interest in his meals—failed me. From what I remember of the bill of fare, tinned salmon and currant buns were the standing dishes at every repast. I was so far fortunate in having fellow-sufferers of an agreeable disposition, and in mutual sympathy we derived the means of alleviating our discomforts and awaited patiently our release at Aden.

After a few days at this unjustly vilified spot, where, perhaps, the kind hospitality of General and Mrs. Blair caused me to view everything too much—not _couleur de rose_, that would be out of place in Aden, where a hot red tint preponderates—but _couleur de verdure_, I set out for Suez, and had an exceedingly rapid passage, in the British India S.S. _Dacca_, of under five days. Owing to the quarantine, however, this advantage was neutralized, as I just missed the overland mail, and had to resign myself to a week in Egypt, which was not unpleasantly spent in looking up old friends and revisiting old haunts.

Then travelling _viâ_ Brindisi and Calais, I reached London on the 31st of December, 1884; in spite of all delays, not much more than six weeks after I last saw the snow-peaks of Kilima-njaro from the reedy shores of Lake ǰipé.

Thus ends the history of my expedition to the snow mountain of Eastern Equatorial Africa.

A sketch of the results of my researches and observations in Natural History, Anthropology, Languages, &c., will be given in the following chapters.