Every normal human being is a walking demonstration of the theory of adaptation to environment. I have been in Africa barely two months, and only as yet a fraction of a month in the interior, and yet I feel quite at home already. After all, I could scarcely do otherwise. On the 21st, when we had only lived together a few days, Mr. Ewerbeck marched away before daybreak, by the light of a lantern borne before him through the darkness of the tropic night, to attend to higher duties at Lindi, viz., the reception of the eight delegates from the Reichstag, now fairly embarked on that desperate adventure which for many months past has kept our daily press busy celebrating their heroism.

Nils Knudsen remains behind as the last relic of civilization. His name alone is sufficient to indicate his Scandinavian origin, and he is, in fact, a fair-haired descendant of the Vikings. He joined the expedition so unobtrusively that at first I scarcely noticed the presence of a third European. While Ewerbeck and I marched proudly at the head of our long line of followers, Knudsen usually brought up the rear, and in camp he remained modestly in the background. Now that we have fixed our headquarters at Masasi, he has become prominent by virtue of his office; he is supposed to keep things straight here and exercise some supervision over the native local authorities. Whether this is necessary, I am at present unable to judge, having as yet no insight into the difficulties of internal administration in a large district like Lindi. However, a man who knows the country as well as Ewerbeck does, would hardly have taken such a measure without good reason. In the meantime I have persuaded Knudsen to quit his tent—which, to judge by its venerable appearance, must have been left behind as too far gone to take away, by Vasco Da Gama when he landed in this part of Africa—and come to live with me in the rest-house. Now he is installed, with his scanty possessions—two old tin trunks, which do not even appear to be full—on one side of the spacious apartment, while I with my princely outfit reside on the other. He is, however, abundantly compensated for the niggardliness with which fortune has treated him by goodness of heart and fineness of feeling. Knudsen’s life has been adventurous enough, and recalls to some extent the fate of that English sailor who was wrecked among the aborigines of South-East Australia, and had to live as a savage among savages. My fair-haired neighbour did not fare quite so badly as that; but he has had plenty of time to “go Fanti” had he been so disposed. So far as I have yet ascertained anything about his personal affairs, he started life as cabin-boy on board a merchant vessel, from which he ran away about ten years ago, when it was anchored in a harbour of Madagascar. He wandered about this island for some years, and at last found his way across to the mainland and into the hinterland of Lindi. He says that he never learnt a trade, but professes to know something of a great many, and can act on occasion as mason, builder, carpenter, and locksmith. Indeed he erected all the buildings at the Luisenfelde mines, far south near the Rovuma, which I may yet be able to visit, and was general factotum there as long as they continued working. Since then the municipality of Lindi has appointed him head instructor at the industrial school, from which post he is at present on leave of absence.

Our manner of life here is, of course, essentially different from that followed on the march. Life on the march is always full of charm, more especially in a country quite new to one; and mine has so far been entirely without drawbacks. In African travel-books we find that almost every expedition begins with a thousand difficulties. The start is fixed for a certain hour, but no carriers appear, and when at last the leader of the expedition has, with infinite pains, got his men together, they have still endless affairs to settle, wives and sweethearts to take leave of, and what not, and have usually vanished from the traveller’s ken on the very first evening. In my case everything went like clockwork from the start. I can blame no one but myself for the quarter of an hour’s delay in starting from Lindi, which was caused by my being late for breakfast. On the second morning the askari could not quite get on with the folding of the tent, and Moritz with the best will in the world failed to get my travelling-lamp into its case, which was certainly a very tight fit. But with these exceptions we have all behaved as if we had been on the road for months. Anyone who wants a substantial breakfast first thing in the morning, after the English fashion, should not go travelling in Africa. I have given directions to wake me at five. Punctually to the minute, the sentinel calls softly into the tent, “Amka, bwana” (“Wake up, sir”). I throw both feet over the high edge of the trough-like camp bed, and jump into my khaki suit. The water which Kibwana, in the performance of his duties as housemaid, has thoughtfully placed at the tent door overnight, has acquired a refreshing coolness in the low temperature of a tropic night in the dry season. The shadow of the European at his toilet is sharply outlined on the canvas by the burning lamp, which, however, does not confine its illumination to its owner, but radiates a circle of light on the shining brown faces of the carriers and the askari. The former are busy tying up their loads for the march, while the soldiers are ready to rush on the tent like a tiger on his prey, so soon as the white man shall have finished dressing and come out. In the twinkling of an eye the tent is folded, without a word spoken, or a superfluous movement; it is division of labour in the best sense of the word, faultlessly carried out. Meanwhile the traveller goes to his camp-table, takes a hurried sip of tea, cocoa, or whatever his favourite beverage may be, eating at the same time a piece of bread baked by himself, and now stands ready for the march. “Tayari?” (“Ready?”) his voice rings out over the camp. “Bado” (“Not yet”) is the invariable answer. It is always the same lazy or awkward members of the party who utter this word beloved of the African servant. The beginner lets himself be misled by it at first, but in a few days he takes no more notice of the “Bado,” but fires off his “Safari!” (literally “Journey!”) or (as speedily introduced by me), “Los!”^[13] at the band in general, flourishes his walking-stick boldly in the air, thereby indicating to the two leading askari the direction of the march, and the day’s work has begun.

I do not know how other tribes are accustomed to behave at the moment of starting, but my Wanyamwezi are certainly neither to hold nor to bind on these occasions. With evident difficulty each one has got his load lifted to head or shoulder, and stands in his place bending under the weight. At the word of command arises an uproar which baffles description. All the pent-up energy of their throats rings out into the silent forest; stout sticks rattle in a wild, irregular rhythm on the wooden cases, and, alas! also on the tin boxes, which furnish only too good a resonator. The noise is infernal, but it is a manifestation of joy and pleasure. We are off! and, once on the march, the Wanyamwezi are in their element. Before long the chaos of noise is reduced to some order; these men have an infinitely delicate sense of rhythm, and so the din gradually resolves itself into a kind of march sung to a drum accompaniment, whose charm even the legs of the askari—otherwise too dignified for such childish goings-on—cannot resist.

Oh! the beauty of these early mornings in the tropics! It is now getting on for six o’clock; the darkness of night has quickly yielded to the short twilight of dawn; the first bright rays gild the light clouds floating in the sky, and suddenly the disc of the sun rises in its wonderful majesty above the horizon. With swift, vigorous strides, and still in close order, the procession hastens through the dew-drenched bush, two soldiers in the van, as if in a military expedition; then, after an interval we Europeans, immediately followed by our personal servants with guns, travelling-flask and camp-stool. Then comes the main body of the soldiers followed by the long line of carriers and the soldiers’ boys, and, lastly, to keep the laggards up to the mark, and also to help any who have to fall out from exhaustion or illness, two soldiers bringing up the rear. An admirable figure is the mnyampara or headman. His position is in a sense purely honorary, for he receives not a farthing more wages than the lowest of his subordinates. Perhaps even this expression should not be used; he is rather primus inter pares. The mnyampara is everywhere. He is in front when the master sends for him, and he is back at the very end of the line (which becomes longer with every hour of the march) if there is a sick man needing his help. In such a case he carries the man’s load himself, as a matter of course, and brings him safely to camp. It seems to me that I have made an unusually happy choice in Pesa mbili. He is young, like the great majority of my men, probably between 23 and 25, of a deep black complexion, with markedly negroid features, and a kind of feline glitter in his eyes; he is only of medium height, but uncommonly strong and muscular; he speaks shocking Swahili—far worse than my own—and withal he is a treasure. It is not merely that he is an incomparable singer, whose pleasant baritone voice never rests whether on the march or in camp, but he thoroughly understands the organization of camp life, the distribution of tasks and the direction of his men. The demands made on such a man by the end of the day’s march are arduous enough.

The delicious coolness of the morning has long since given place to a perceptibly high temperature; the white man has exchanged his light felt hat or still lighter travelling-cap for the heavy tropical helmet, and the naked bodies of the carriers are coated with a shining polish. These, who have been longing for the day to get warm ever since they awoke shivering round the camp fire at four, have now reached the goal of their desires; they are warm—very warm—and the white man will do well to march at the head of the caravan, otherwise he will find opportunities more numerous than agreeable for studying the subject of “racial odours.” After two hours, or two hours and a half, comes the first halt. The European shouts for his camp-stool and sits watching the long string of loads coming up and being lowered to the ground. A frugal breakfast of a couple of eggs, a piece of cold meat, or a few bananas, here awaits the traveller, but the carriers, who started without a meal, steadily fast on. It seems incomprehensible that these men should be able to march for many hours with a load of sixty or seventy pounds, while practising such abstinence, but they are quite content to have it so. In the later hours of the day, it is true, they begin to flag, their steps become slower and shorter, and they lag more and more behind the personal “boys” who have no heavy loads to carry. Yet when they reach camp at last, they are as merry and cheerful as they were in the early morning. The same noise—though now with quite different words from the throats of the singers—overwhelms the European, who has long been seated at the halting-place. My company seem to be obsessed by the “Central-Magazin” at Dar es Salam, where they entered my service; they are celebrating this spacious building in the closing song of their day’s march.

The duties of my followers—whether boys, askari, or porters—are by no means over when they have reached camp. By the time they come up, the leader of the expedition has looked round for a place to pitch his tent, a matter which seems to me to require special gifts. The fundamental principles to bear in mind are: that it should be within reach of good drinking water and free from noxious insects, such as ticks, mosquitoes, and jiggers. The second point, but one by no means to be overlooked, is the position of the tent-pole with regard to the course of the sun, and the next the shade of leafy trees, if that is attainable. I find it simplest to draw the outline of the tent on the sandy ground, after the spot has been carefully swept, indicating the place where I want the door to be by a break in the line. That is quite enough for my corporal in command. Scarcely have the two unfortunates, whose shoulders are weighed down by my heavy tent, come up panting and gasping for breath, when the loads are unrolled, and in a twinkling every warrior has taken up his position. “One, two, three!” and the two poles are in their places, and the next moment I hear the blows of the mallet on the tent-pegs. While this is going on, the two boys, Moritz and Kibwana, are amusing themselves with my bed. This occupation seems to represent for them the height of enjoyment, for it seems as if they would never be done. Neither scolding nor threats can avail to hasten their movements. It seems as if their usually slow brains had become absolutely torpid. Mechanically they set up the bedstead; mechanically they spread the cork mattress and the blankets over it; in the same dull, apathetic way they finally set up the framework of the mosquito-net. The soldiers have taken their departure long before my two gentlemen condescend to carry the bed into the tent.

My carriers meanwhile have found all sorts of work to do. Water has to be fetched for the whole caravan, and fires to be made, and the sanitary requirements of the camp provided for; and noon is long past by the time their turn comes and they can live their own life for an hour or two. Even now they cannot be said to revel in luxury. This southern part of the German territory is very poor in game, and in any case I have no time for shooting, so that meat is almost an unknown item in my people’s menu. Ugali, always ugali—stiff porridge of millet, maize or manioc, boiled till it has almost a vitreous consistency, and then shaped with the spoon used for stirring into a kind of pudding—forms the staple of their meals day after day.

Here at Masasi the tables are turned; my men have a good time, while I can scarcely get a minute to myself. My escort are quite magnificently housed, they have moved into the baraza or council-house to the left of my palatial quarters and fitted it up in the native way. The negro has no love for a common apartment; he likes to make a little nest apart for himself. This is quickly done: two or three horizontal poles are placed as a scaffolding all round the projected cabin, then a thick layer of long African grass is tied to them, and a cosy place, cool by day and warm by night, is ready for each one. The carriers, on the other hand, have built themselves huts in the open space facing my abode, quite simple and neat, but, to my astonishment, quite in the Masai style—neither circular hut nor tembe. The circular hut I shall discuss in full later on, but in case anyone should not know what a tembe is like, I will here say that the best notion of it can be got by placing three or four railway carriages at right angles to one another, so that they form a square or parallelogram, with the doors inward. This tembe is found throughout most of the northern and central part of German East Africa, from Unyamwezi in the west to the coast on the east, and from the Eyasi and Manyara basin in the north to Uhehe in the south. The Masai hut, finally, can best be compared with a round-topped trunk. Though the Masai, as everyone knows, usually stand well over six feet, their huts, which (quite conformably with the owners’ mode of life as cattle-breeders par excellence) are neatly and fragrantly plastered with cowdung, are so low that even a person of normal stature cannot stand upright in them. My Wanyamwezi, however, never attempt to stand up in their huts; on the contrary, they lie about lazily all day long on their heaps of straw.

My activities are all the more strenuous. The tropical day is short, being only twelve hours from year’s end to year’s end, so that one has to make the fullest possible use of it. At sunrise, which of course is at six, everyone is on foot, breakfast is quickly despatched, and then the day’s work begins. This beginning is curious enough. Everyone who has commanded an African expedition must have experienced the persistence of the natives in crediting him with medical skill and knowledge, and every morning I find a long row of patients waiting for me. Some of them are my own men, others inhabitants of Masasi and its neighbourhood. One of my carriers has had a bad time. The carrier’s load is, in East Africa, usually packed in the American petroleum case. This is a light but strong wooden box measuring about twenty-four inches in length by twelve in width and sixteen in height, and originally intended to hold two tins of “kerosene.” The tins have usually been divorced from the case, in order to continue a useful and respected existence as utensils of all work in every Swahili household; while the case without the tins is used as above stated. One only of my cases remained true to its original destination, and travelled with its full complement of oil on the shoulders of the Mnyamwezi Kazi Ulaya.^[14] The honest fellow strides ahead sturdily. “It is hot,” he thinks. “I am beginning to perspire. Well, that is no harm; the others are doing the same.... It is really very hot!” he ejaculates after a while; “even my mafuta ya Ulaya, my European oil, is beginning to smell.” The smell becomes stronger and the carrier wetter as the day draws on, and when, at the end of the march, he sets down his fragrant load, it is with a double feeling of relief, for the load itself has become inexplicably lighter during the last six hours. At last the truth dawns on him and his friends, and it is a matter for thankfulness that none of them possess any matches, for had one been struck close to Kazi Ulaya, the whole man would have burst into a blaze, so soaked was he with Mr. Rockefeller’s stock-in-trade.

Whether it is to be accounted for by a strong sense of discipline or by an almost incredible apathy, the fact remains that this man did not report himself on the first day when he discovered that the tins were leaking, but calmly took up his burden next morning and carried it without a murmur to the next stopping place. Though once more actually swimming in kerosene, Kazi Ulaya’s peace of mind would not even now have been disturbed but for the fact that symptoms of eczema had appeared, which made him somewhat uneasy. He therefore presented himself with the words a native always uses when something is wrong with him and he asks the help of the all-powerful white man—“Dawa, bwana” (“Medicine, sir”), and pointed significantly, but with no sign of indignation, to his condition. A thorough treatment with soap and water seemed indicated in the first instance, to remove the incrustation of dirt accumulated in seven days’ marching. It must be said, in justice to the patient, that this state of things was exceptional and due to scarcity of water, for Kazi Ulaya’s personal cleanliness was above the average. I then dressed with lanoline, of which, fortunately, I had brought a large tin with me. The patient is now gradually getting over his trouble.

Another case gives a slight idea of the havoc wrought by the jigger. One of the soldiers’ boys, an immensely tall Maaraba from the country behind Sudi, comes up every morning to get dawa for a badly, damaged great toe. Strangely enough, I have at present neither corrosive sublimate nor iodoform in my medicine chest, the only substitute being boric acid tabloids. I have to do the best I can with these, but my patients have, whether they like it or not, got accustomed to have my weak disinfectant applied at a somewhat high temperature. In the case of such careless fellows as this Maaraba, who has to thank his own lazy apathy for the loss of his toe-nail (which has quite disappeared and is replaced by a large ulcerated wound), the hot water is after all a well-deserved penalty. He yells every time like a stuck pig, and swears by all his gods that from henceforth he will look out for the funsa with the most unceasing vigilance—for the strengthening of which laudable resolutions his lord and master, thoroughly annoyed by the childish behaviour of this giant, bestows on him a couple of vigorous but kindly meant cuffs.

As to the health of the Masasi natives, I prefer to offer no opinion for the present. The insight so far gained through my morning consultations into the negligence or helplessness of the natives as regards hygiene, only makes me more determined to study other districts before pronouncing a judgment. I shall content myself with saying here that the negro’s power of resisting the deleterious influences of his treacherous continent is by no means as great as we, amid the over-refined surroundings of our civilized life, usually imagine. Infant mortality, in particular, seems to reach a height of which we can form no idea.

Having seen my patients, the real day’s work begins, and I march through the country in the character of Diogenes. On the first few days, I crawled into the native huts armed merely with a box of matches, which was very romantic, but did not answer my purpose. I had never before been able to picture to myself what is meant by Egyptian darkness, but now I know that the epithet is merely used on the principle of pars pro toto, and that the thing belongs to the whole continent, and is to be had of the very best quality here in the plain west of the Makonde plateau. The native huts are entirely devoid of windows, a feature which may seem to us unprogressive, but which is in reality the outcome of long experience. The native wants to keep his house cool, and can only do so by excluding the outside temperature. For this reason he dislikes opening the front and back doors of his home at the same time, and makes the thatch project outward and downward far beyond the walls. My stable-lantern, carried about the country in broad daylight by Moritz, is a great amusement to the aborigines, and in truth our proceeding might well seem eccentric to anyone ignorant of our object. In the darkness of a hut-interior, however, they find their complete justification. First comes a polite request from me, or from Mr. Knudsen, to the owner, for permission to inspect his domain, which is granted with equal politeness. This is followed by an eager search through the rooms and compartments of which, to my surprise, the dwellings here are composed. These are not elegant, such a notion being as yet wholly foreign to the native consciousness; but they give unimpeachable testimony to the inmates’ mode of life. In the centre, midway between the two doors is the kitchen with the hearth and the most indispensable household implements and stores. The hearth is simplicity itself: three stones the size of a man’s head, or perhaps only lumps of earth from an ant-heap, are placed at an angle of 120° to each other. On these, surrounded by other pots, the great earthen pot, with the inevitable ugali, rests over the smouldering fire. Lying about among them are ladles, or spoons, and “spurtles” for stirring the porridge. Over the fireplace, and well within reach of the smoke, is a stage constructed out of five or six forked poles. On the cross-sticks are laid heads of millet in close, uniform rows, and under them, like the sausages in the smoke-room of a German farmhouse, hang a great number of the largest and finest cobs of maize, by this time covered with a shining layer of soot. If this does not protect them from insects, nothing else will; for such is the final end and aim of the whole process. In the temperate regions of Europe, science may be concerned with preserving the seed-corn in a state capable of germination till sowing-time; but here, in tropical Africa, with its all-penetrating damp, its all-devouring insect and other destroyers, and, finally, its want of suitable and permanent building material, this saving of the seed is an art of practical utility. It will be one, and not the least welcome, of my tasks, to study this art thoroughly in all its details.

As to the economy of these natives, their struggle with the recalcitrant nature of the country, and their care for the morrow, I am waiting to express an opinion till I shall have gained fuller experience. In the literature dealing with ethnology and national economy, we have a long series of works devoted to the classification of mankind according to the forms and stages of their economic life. It is a matter of course that we occupy the highest stage; all authors are agreed on one point, that we have taken out a lease of civilization in all its departments. As to the arrangement of the other races and nations, no two authors are agreed. The text-books swarm with barbarous and half-barbarous peoples, with settled and nomadic, hunter, shepherd, and fisher tribes, migratory and collecting tribes. One group carries on its economic arts on a basis of tradition, another on that of innate instinct, finally, we have even an animal stage of economics. If all these classifications are thrown into a common receptacle, the result is a dish with many ingredients, but insipid as a whole. Its main constituent is a profound contempt for those whom we may call the “nature-peoples.”^[15] These books produce the impression that the negro, for instance, lives direct from hand to mouth, and in his divine carelessness takes no thought even for to-day, much less for to-morrow morning.

The reality is quite otherwise, here and elsewhere, but here in an especial degree. In Northern Germany, the modern intensive style of farming is characterized by the barns irregularly distributed over the fields, and in quite recent times by the corn-stacks, both of which, since the introduction of the movable threshing-machine, have made the old barn at the homestead well-nigh useless. Here the farming differs only in degree, not in principle; here, too, miniature barns are irregularly scattered over the shambas, or gardens; while other food-stores which surprise us by their number and size are found close to and in the homestead. If we examine the interior of the house with a light, we find in all its compartments large earthen jars, hermetically sealed with clay, containing ground-nuts, peas, beans, and the like, and neatly-made bark cylinders, about a yard long, also covered with clay and well caulked, for holding maize, millet and other kinds of grain. All these receptacles, both outdoor and indoor, are placed to protect them from insects, rodents and damp, on racks or platforms of wood and bamboo, from fifteen inches to two feet high, plastered with clay, and resting on stout, forked poles. The outdoor food-stores are often of considerable dimensions. They resemble gigantic mushrooms, with their thatched roofs projecting far beyond the bamboo or straw structure, which is always plastered with mud inside and out. Some have a door in their circumference after the fashion of our cylindrical iron stoves; others have no opening whatever, and if the owner wishes to take out the contents, he has to tilt the roof on one side. For this purpose he has to ascend a ladder of the most primitive construction—a couple of logs, no matter how crooked, with slips of bamboo lashed across them a yard apart. I cannot sketch these appliances without a smile, yet, in spite of their primitive character, they show a certain gift of technical invention.

The keeping of pigeons is to us Europeans a very pleasing feature in the village economy of these parts. Almost every homestead we visit has one or more dovecotes, very different from ours, and yet well suited to their purpose. The simplest form is a single bark cylinder, made by stripping the bark whole from the section of a moderately thick tree. The ends are fastened up with sticks or flat stones, a hole is cut in the middle for letting the birds in and out, and the box is fastened at a height of some five or six feet above the ground, or hung up (but this is not so common) like a swinging bar on a stand made for the purpose. This last arrangement is particularly safe, as affording no access to vermin. As the birds multiply, the owner adds cylinder to cylinder till they form a kind of wall. Towards sunset, he or his wife approaches the dovecote, greeted by a friendly cooing from inside, picks up from the ground a piece of wood cut to the right size, and closes the opening of the first bark box with it, doing the same to all the others in turn, and then leaves them for the night, secure that no wild cat or other marauder can reach them.

I have found out within the last few days why so few men are to be seen in my rounds. The settlements here scarcely deserve the name of villages—they are too straggling for that; it is only now and then that from one hut one can catch a distant glimpse of another. The view is also obstructed by the fields of manioc, whose branches, though very spreading, are not easily seen through on account of the thickly-growing, succulent green foliage. This and the bazi pea are, now that the maize and millet have been gathered in, the only crops left standing in the fields. Thus it may happen that one has to trust entirely to the trodden paths leading from one hut to another, to be sure of missing none, or to the guidance of the sounds inseparable from every human settlement. There is no lack of such noises at Masasi, and in fact I follow them almost every day. Walking about the country with Nils Knudsen, I hear what sounds like a jovial company over their morning drink—voices becoming louder and louder, and shouting all together regardless of parliamentary rules. A sudden turn of the path brings us face to face with a drinking-party, and a very merry one, indeed, to judge by the humour of the guests and the number and dimensions of the pombe pots which have been wholly or partially emptied. The silence which follows our appearance is like that produced by a stone thrown into a pool where frogs are croaking. Only when we ask, “Pombe nzuri?” (“Is the beer good?”) a chorus of hoarse throats shouts back the answer—“Nzuri kabisa, bwana!” (“Very good indeed, sir!”)

As to this pombe—well, we Germans fail to appreciate our privileges till we have ungratefully turned our backs on our own country. At Mtua, our second camp out from Lindi, a huge earthen jar of the East African brew was brought as a respectful offering to us three Europeans. At that time I failed to appreciate the dirty-looking drab liquid; not so our men, who finished up the six gallons or so in a twinkling. In Masasi, again, the wife of the Nyasa chief Masekera Matola—an extremely nice, middle-aged woman—insisted on sending Knudsen and me a similar gigantic jar soon after our arrival. We felt that it was out of the question to refuse or throw away the gift, and so prepared for the ordeal with grim determination. First I dipped one of my two tumblers into the turbid mass, and brought it up filled with a liquid in colour not unlike our Lichtenhain beer, but of a very different consistency. A compact mass of meal filled the glass almost to the top, leaving about a finger’s breadth of real, clear “Lichtenhainer.” “This will never do!” I growled, and shouted to Kibwana for a clean handkerchief. He produced one, after a seemingly endless search, but my attempts to use it as a filter were fruitless—not a drop would run through. “No use, the stuff is too closely woven. Lete sanda, Kibwana” (“Bring a piece of the shroud!”) This order sounds startling enough, but does not denote any exceptional callousness on my part. Sanda is the Swahili name for the cheap, unbleached and highly-dressed calico (also called bafta) which, as a matter of fact, is generally used by the natives to wrap a corpse for burial. The material is consequently much in demand, and travellers into the interior will do well to carry a bale of it with them. When the dressing is washed out, it is little better than a network of threads, and might fairly be expected to serve the purpose of a filter.

I found, however, that I could not strain the pombe through it—a few scanty drops ran down and that was all. After trying my tea and coffee-strainers, equally in vain, I gave up in despair, and drank the stuff as it stood. I found that it had a slight taste of flour, but was otherwise not by any means bad, and indeed quite reminiscent of my student days at Jena—in fact, I think I could get used to it in time. The men of Masasi seem to have got only too well used to it. I am far from grudging the worthy elders their social glass after the hard work of the harvest, but it is very hard that my studies should suffer from this perpetual conviviality. It is impossible to drum up any considerable number of men to be cross-examined on their tribal affinities, usages and customs. Moreover, the few who can reconcile it with their engagements and inclinations to separate themselves for a time from their itinerant drinking-bouts are not disposed to be very particular about the truth. Even when, the other day, I sent for a band of these jolly topers to show me their methods of basketmaking, the result was very unsatisfactory—they did some plaiting in my presence, but they were quite incapable of giving in detail the native names of their materials and implements—the morning drink had been too copious.

It is well known that it is the custom of most, if not all, African tribes to make a part of their supply of cereals into beer after an abundant harvest, and consume it wholesale in this form. This, more than anything else, has probably given rise to the opinion that the native always wastes his substance in time of plenty, and is nearly starved afterwards in consequence. It is true that our black friends cannot be pronounced free from a certain degree of “divine carelessness”—a touch, to call it no more, of Micawberism—but it would not be fair to condemn them on the strength of a single indication. I have already laid stress on the difficulty which the native cultivator has of storing his seed-corn through the winter. It would be still more difficult to preserve the much greater quantities of foodstuffs gathered in at the harvest in a condition fit for use through some eight or nine months. That he tries to do so is seen by the numerous granaries surrounding every homestead of any importance, but that he does not invariably succeed, and therefore prefers to dispose of that part of his crops which would otherwise be wasted in a manner combining the useful and the agreeable, is proved by the morning and evening beer-drinks already referred to, which, with all their loud merriment, are harmless enough. They differ, by the bye, from the drinking in European public-houses, in that they are held at each man’s house in turn, so that every one is host on one occasion and guest on another—a highly satisfactory arrangement on the whole.

My difficulties are due to other causes besides the chronically bemused state of the men. In the first place, there are the troubles connected with photography. In Europe the amateur is only too thankful for bright sunshine, and even should the light be a little more powerful than necessary, there is plenty of shade to be had from trees and houses. In Africa we have nothing of the sort—the trees are neither high nor shady, the bushes are not green, and the houses are never more than twelve feet high at the ridge-pole. To this is added the sun’s position in the sky at a height which affects one with a sense of uncanniness, from nine in the morning till after three in the afternoon, and an intensity of light which is best appreciated by trying to match the skins of the natives against the colours in Von Luschan’s scale. No medium between glittering light and deep black shadow—how is one, under such circumstances, to produce artistic plates full of atmosphere and feeling?

For a dark-room I have been trying to use the Masasi boma. This is the only stone building in the whole district and has been constructed for storing food so as to prevent the recurrence of famine among the natives, and, still more, to make the garrison independent of outside supplies in the event of another rising. It has only one story, but the walls are solidly built, with mere loopholes for windows; and the flat roof of beaten clay is very strong. In this marvel of architecture are already stacked uncounted bags containing millet from the new crop, and mountains of raw cotton. I have made use of both these products, stopping all crevices with the cotton, and taking the bags of grain to sit on, and also as a support for my table, hitherto the essential part of a cotton-press which stands forsaken in the compound, mourning over the shipwreck it has made of its existence. Finally, I have closed the door with a combination of thick straw mats made by my carriers, and some blankets from my bed. In this way, I can develop at a pinch even in the daytime, but, after working a short time in this apartment, the atmosphere becomes so stifling that I am glad to escape from it to another form of activity.

On one of my first strolls here, I came upon a neat structure which was explained to me as “tego ya ngunda”—a trap for pigeons. This is a system of sticks and thin strings, one of which is fastened to a strong branch bent over into a half-circle. I have been, from my youth up, interested in all mechanical contrivances, and am still more so in a case like this, where we have an opportunity of gaining an insight into the earlier evolutional stages of the human intellect. I therefore, on my return to camp, called together all my men and as many local natives as possible, and addressed the assembly to the effect that the mzungu was exceedingly anxious to possess all kinds of traps for all kinds of animals. Then followed the promise of good prices for good and authentic specimens, and the oration wound up with “Nendeni na tengenezeni sasa!” (“Now go away and make up your contraptions!”).

How they hurried off that day, and how eagerly all my men have been at work ever since! I had hitherto believed all my carriers to be Wanyamwezi—now I find, through the commentaries which each of them has to supply with his work, that my thirty men represent a number of different tribes. Most of them, to be sure, are Wanyamwezi, but along with them there are some Wasukuma and Manyema, and even a genuine Mngoni from Runsewe, a representative of that gallant Zulu tribe who, some decades ago, penetrated from distant South Africa to the present German territory, and pushed forward one of its groups—these very Runsewe Wangoni—as far as the south-western corner of the Victoria Nyanza. As for the askari, though numbering only thirteen, they belong to no fewer than twelve different tribes, from those of far Darfur in the Egyptian Sudan to the Yao in Portuguese East Africa. All these “faithfuls” have been racking their brains to recall and practise once more in wood and field the arts of their boyhood, and now they come and set up, in the open, sunny space beside my palatial abode, the results of their unwonted intellectual exertions.

The typical cultivator is not credited in literature with much skill as a hunter and trapper; his modicum of intellect is supposed to be entirely absorbed by the care of his fields, and none but tribes of the stamp of the Bushmen, the Pygmies and the Australian aborigines are assumed by our theoretic wisdom to be capable of dexterously killing game in forest or steppe, or taking it by skilful stratagem in a cunningly devised trap. And yet how wide of the mark is this opinion of the schools! Among the tribes of the district I am studying, the Makua are counted as good hunters, while at the same time they are like the rest, in the main, typical hoe-cultivators—i.e., people who, year after year, keep on tilling, with the primitive hoe, the ground painfully brought under cultivation. In spite of their agricultural habits their traps are constructed with wonderful ingenuity. The form and action of these traps is sufficiently evident from the accompanying sketches; but in case any reader should be entirely without the faculty of “technical sight,” I may add for his benefit that all these murderous implements depend on the same principle. Those intended for quadrupeds are so arranged that the animal in walking or running forward strikes against a fine net with his muzzle, or a thin cord with his foot. The net or the string is thereby pressed forward, the upper edge of the former glides downwards, but the end of the string moves a little to one side. In either case this movement sets free the end of a lever—a small stick which has hitherto, in a way sufficiently clear from the sketch—kept the trap set. It slips instantaneously round its support, and in so doing releases the tension of the tree or bent stick acting as a spring, which in its upward recoil draws a skilfully fixed noose tight round the neck of the animal, which is then strangled to death. Traps of similar construction, but still more cruel, are set for rats and the like, and, unfortunately, equal cunning and skill are applied to the pursuit of birds. Perhaps I shall find another opportunity of discussing this side of native life; it certainly deserves attention, for there is scarcely any department where the faculty of invention to be found in even the primitive mind is so clearly shown as in this aspect of the struggle for existence.

Of psychological interest is the behaviour of the natives in face of my own activity in this part of my task. When, we two Europeans having finished our frugal dinner, Nils Knudsen has laid himself down for his well-deserved siesta, and the snoring of my warriors resounds, more rhythmically than harmoniously from the neighbouring baraza, I sit in the blazing sun, like the shadowless Schlemihl, only slightly protected by the larger of my two helmets, sketching.

The ability to make a rapid and accurate sketch of any object in a few strokes is one whose value to the scientific explorer cannot be overrated. Photography is certainly a wonderful invention, but in the details of research-work carried on day by day, it is apt to fail one oftener than might be expected, and that not merely in the darkness of hut-interiors, but over and over again by daylight in the open air.

I am sitting sketching, then. Not a breath of air is stirring—all nature seems asleep. My pen, too, is growing tired, when I hear a noise immediately behind me. A hasty glance shows me that the momentum of universal human curiosity has overcome even the primæval force of negroid laziness. It is the whole band of my carriers, accompanied by a few people belonging to the place. They must have come up very softly, as they might easily do with their bare feet on the soft, sandy soil. Presently the whole crowd is looking over my shoulder in the greatest excitement. I do not let them disturb me; stroke follows stroke, the work nears completion,—at last it is finished. “Sawasawa?” (“Is it like?”) I ask eagerly, and the answering chorus of “Ndio” (“Yes”) is shouted into my ears with an enthusiasm which threatens to burst the tympanum. “Kizuri?” (“Is it fine?”) “Kizuri sana kabisa” (“Very fine, indeed”), they yell back still more loudly and enthusiastically; “Wewe fundi” (“You are a master-craftsman”). These flattering critics are my artists who, having practised themselves, may be supposed to know what they are talking about; the few washenzi, unlettered barbarians, unkissed of the Muse, have only joined in the chorus from gregarious instinct, mere cattle that they are.

Now comes the attempt at a practical application. I rise from my camp-stool, take up an oratorical attitude and inform my disciples in art that, as they have now seen how I, the fundi, set about drawing a trap, it would be advisable for them to attempt a more difficult subject, such as this. It is dull work to keep on drawing their friends, or trees, houses, and animals; and they are such clever fellows that a bird-trap must surely be well within their powers. I have already mentioned the look of embarrassed perplexity which I encountered when beginning my studies at Lindi. Here it was even more marked and more general. It produced a definite impression that the idea of what we call perspective for the first time became clear to the men’s minds. They were evidently trying to express something of the sort by their words and gestures to each other; they followed with their fingers the strangely foreshortened curves which in reality stood for circles—in short, they were in presence of something new—something unknown and unimagined, which on the one hand made them conscious of their intellectual and artistic inferiority, and on the other drew them like a magnet to my sketch-book. None of them has up to the present attempted to draw one of these traps.

Travellers of former days, or in lands less satisfactorily explored than German East Africa, found the difficulties of barter not the least of their troubles. Stanley, not so many years ago, set out on his explorations with hundreds of bales of various stuffs and innumerable kinds of beads, and even thus it was not certain whether the natives of the particular region traversed would be suited; not to mention the way in which this primitive currency increased the number of carriers required by every expedition. In German East Africa, where the Colonial Administration has so often been unjustly attacked, the white man can now travel almost as easily as at home. His letter of credit, indeed, only holds good as far as the coast, but if his errand is, like mine, of an official character, every station, and even every smaller post, with any Government funds at its disposal, has orders to give the traveller credit, on his complying with certain simple formalities, and to provide him with cash. The explanation is not difficult: the fact that our rupees are current on the coast compels all the interior tribes to adopt them, whether they like it or not. I brought with me from Lindi a couple of large sacks with rupees, half and quarter rupees, and for immediate needs a few cases of heller.^[16] This copper coin, long obsolete in Germany, has been coined for circulation in our colony, but the natives have not been induced to adopt it, and reckon as before by pice—an egg costs one pice (pesa) and that is enough—no one thinks of working out the price in hellers. Neither is the coin popular with the white residents, who deride its introduction and make feeble puns on its name—one of the poorest being based on the name of the present Director of Customs, which happens to be identical with it.

I find, however, that the natives are by no means averse to accepting these despised coins when they get the chance. On our tramps through the villages, Moritz with the lantern is followed by Mambo sasa, the Mngoni, carrying on his woolly head a large jar of bright copper coin newly minted at Berlin.

After a long, but not tedious examination of all the apartments in the native palaces, I return to the light of day, dazzled by the tropical sunshine. With sympathetic chuckles, my bodyguard—those of my men who are always with me and have quickly grasped, with the sympathetic intuition peculiar to the native, what it is that I want—follow, dragging with them a heap of miscellaneous property. Lastly come the master of the house and his wife, in a state of mingled expectation and doubt. Now begins the bargaining, in its essentials not very different from that experienced in the harbours of Naples, Port Said, Aden and Mombasa. “Kiasi gani?” (“What is the price?”) one asks with ostentatious nonchalance, including the whole pile in a compendious wave of the hand. The fortunate owner of the valuables apparently fails to understand this, so he opens his mouth wide and says nothing. I must try him on another tack. I hold up some article before his eyes and ask, “Nini hii?” (“What is this?”), which proves quite effectual. My next duty is to imagine myself back again in the lecture-hall during my first term at college, and to write down with the utmost diligence the words, not of a learned professor, but of a raw, unlettered mshenzi. By the time I have learnt everything I want to know, the name, the purpose, the mode of manufacture and the way in which the thing is used, the native is at last able and willing to fix the retail price. Up to the present, I have met with two extremes: one class of sellers demand whole rupees, Rupia tatu (three) or Rupia nne (four), quite regardless of the nature of the article for sale—the other, with equal consistency, a sumni as uniform price. This is a quarter-rupee—in the currency of German East Africa an exceedingly attractive-looking silver coin, a little smaller than our half-mark piece or an English sixpence. Possibly it is its handiness, together with the untarnished lustre of my newly-minted specimens in particular, which accounts for this preference. One thing must be mentioned which distinguishes these people very favourably from the bandits of the ports already mentioned. None of them raises an outcry on being offered the tenth or twentieth part of what he asks. With perfect calm he either gradually abates his demands till a fair agreement is reached, or else he says, at the first offer, “Lete” (“Hand it over”). At this moment Moritz and my jar of coppers come to the front of the stage. The boy has quickly lifted the vessel down from the head of his friend Mambo sasa. With the eye of a connoisseur he grasps the state of our finances and then pays with the dignity, if not the rapidity, of the cashier at a metropolitan bank. The remaining articles are bargained for in much the same way. It takes more time than I like; but this is not to be avoided.

When the purchase of the last piece is completed, my carriers, with the amazing deftness I have so often admired, have packed up the spoil, in the turn of a hand, in large and compact bundles. A searching look round for photographic subjects, another last glance at the house-owner chuckling to himself over his newly-acquired wealth, and then a vigorous “Kwa heri” (“Good-bye”), and lantern and jar go their way. We had only just settled into our house here when we received a visit from the chief’s son, Salim Matola, a very tall and excessively slender youth of seventeen or eighteen, magnificently clad in a European waistcoat, and very friendly. Since then he has scarcely left my side; he knows everything, can do everything, finds everything, and, to my delight, brings me everything. He makes the best traps, shows me with what diabolical ingenuity his countrymen set limed twigs, plays on all instruments like a master, and produces fire by drilling so quickly that one is astonished at the strength in his slight frame. In a word, he is a treasure to the ethnographer.

One thing only seems to be unknown to my young friend, and that is work. His father, Masekera Matola, already mentioned, has a very spacious group of huts and extensive gardens. Whether the old gentleman ever does any perceptible work on this property with his own hands, I am not in a position to judge, as he is for the present most strenuously occupied in consuming beer; but at every visit, I have noticed the women of the family working hard to get in the last of the crops. The young prince alone seems to be above every plebeian employment. His hands certainly do not look horny, and his muscles leave much to be desired. He strolls through life in his leisurely way with glad heart and cheerful spirit.