With all its evils, a downright good fever has one advantage,—when it is over the convalescent has such an appetite that “eating” is far too mild a term to apply to the process of gratifying it. In this state of health a whole roast fowl is just about enough for a breakfast, that is if it has been preceded by a large plate of tinned soup and is to be followed by a still larger omelette with bananas. But when this stage is reached the patient is well on the way to recovery, and soon begins to enjoy his cigar, which, according to Wilhelm Busch,^[24] is the surest test of fitness. Only a certain feeling as if the brain did not quite fill its allotted space and therefore broke in waves at the edges every time you move your head, remains for some days as an unpleasant reminder of the attack.

“Reality” versus “Dream,” or “Prose” versus “Poetry,” might be a very good name for the famous Chingulungulu. One would need to have lived for ten years in the bush, like Nils Knudsen, to look on this emporium of mud, dirt, and dust as the paradise which he still honestly believes it to be. Of course we have taken up our abode in the famous baraza, which is, in fact, quite a handsome building. True, it is nothing but a thatched roof supported on posts; but it is no less than sixteen yards across, and the ridge of the roof is at least twenty feet from the floor. It is no contemptible achievement as regards architecture; the posts are arranged in three concentric circles round the central pillar, and the floor is of beaten clay mixed with ashes. To bring it to the proper degree of firmness and smoothness they use a wooden beater, bent into an obtuse angle and ending in a broad, flat surface. A raised ledge, about fifteen inches high, and broken by three openings at angles of 120°, runs round the building. This represents the seats of the “thingmen,” for the baraza is in fact neither more nor less than the parliament-house of the village elders. The chief sits in the middle of the spacious building, and round him in a serried throng squat, sit, or stand his black fellow-citizens. Every native village has such a baraza, but the Chingulungulu one is the most famous of all. Matola is naturally not a little proud of being able to lodge his guests in so distinguished a building.

But even his private residence is a notable feat of architecture. It is surrounded, like all other houses, by a verandah, the ground under the wide eaves being raised a few inches out of the wet. Here Matola holds his court every day and all day long, which is interesting, but hardly agreeable, as far as I am concerned, since the auditorium is hardly thirty yards from my seat, and native voices are little accustomed to restraint. And when the women take part in the general discussion, or conduct their own defence in a trial, the noise becomes appalling.

The interior of Matola’s house is scarcely in keeping with its spacious dimensions. The whole front is taken up by what Matola calls his evening baraza, a long narrow apartment, into which the inmates of the house and their friends withdraw on wet or stormy evenings. The furniture consists of a single kitanda, or coast-fashion bedstead. The rest of the house is occupied by three rooms of about fifteen feet by fifteen each. The two lateral ones are intended for sleeping-rooms, as shown by a couple of bedsteads and large heaps of ashes, the remains of the fire which every native keeps up beside his couch at night. These rooms are only accessible through doors leading from the central one, windowless, and therefore pitch dark. The central room serves as a kitchen, but how elementary and primitive is Matola’s hearth compared with Zuza’s! The latter has a substructure for the system of cooking-stones, pots and other culinary appurtenances, which is quite correct in material and workmanship, while at Matola’s there is nothing but a chaos of ashes, in the midst of which two or three lumps, as big as a man’s head, of earth from an ant-heap indicate where the royal meals are prepared. At the same time this Yao chief has the reputation of being a wealthy man, as wealth goes in Africa, and of having great hoards of bright silver rupees hidden somewhere about his huts.

Matola’s compound, however, is rather more interesting. On my first visit to him, he was somewhat embarrassed, being obviously ashamed of the shabbiness of his interior; but he took me over his back premises with evident pride, for which indeed he had ample justification. The back verandah is occupied by an unbroken row of food-stores of the most diverse sizes and shapes. Here we find beehive-shaped receptacles about six feet high for millet and maize, and cylindrical ones, of nearly equal height for ground-nuts, beans and peas; while in the dark spaces between them the eye after a while makes out small bark boxes or earthen jars containing less important vegetable products. All these receptacles are thickly plastered with clay, to protect them from vermin and weather. If we turn to the back of the large rectangular compound, where a high palisade keeps out unauthorised intruders, we again find proof of a very far-seeing and prudent economy, for here, too, everything is arranged in order to make the crops of the current year last over till the next harvest. Large and small food-stores are ranged round it, and in the centre is a large granary, on whose ground floor, so to speak, some women are busy at a fireplace, while the whole roof-space is filled with heads of millet and cobs of maize. And if we step outside Matola’s compound on the eastern side, there is a scaffolding some seven or eight feet high and about as wide running along the whole length of the palisade. On this, in spite of the lateness of the season, large quantities of grain just harvested are drying in the sun. And, lastly, walking round the estate to the west side of the house, we come face to face with a granary of truly gigantic size, and without doubt of very rational construction, which is shown in the illustration at the head of this chapter. Like all the other food-stores, this granary is built on piles; but, while in the usual form the scaffolding is only about two feet high, and from three to five feet square, it is in this case between ten and twelve feet high and at least ten feet across. On this platform rests the granary itself, which in shape can best be compared to a brewer’s mash-tub. Just now it is only half full of millet, and therefore not yet closed, and the whole is covered in with the usual wide-eaved, heavy, thatched roof. Access to this marvel of architecture and economic science is gained by the same kind of antediluvian ladder which excited my risible faculties at Masasi—two strong gnarled logs, with a couple of wretched sticks tied across them—not too firmly—a yard apart.

Matola, however, saved up the most striking feature of his whole farm till the last. Grunts and squeaks expressive of the utmost well-being were heard proceeding from the shadows about a gloomy structure which was described to me as a prison. A prison in Africa? Certainly; the native is not an angel, and when he is on the chain-gang he must have some shelter at night. But for the present we were more interested in the origin of the above sounds, which proved to proceed from a sow with twelve piglings. This merry company, we soon found, was all over the place, examining the baggage of the askari, calling on Nils Knudsen in his tent, but most persistent of all in visiting our kitchen after dinner and helping the cook and his boy to clean up our dishes. Every facility is afforded them for this pursuit, as, in the first place, our kitchen is only a sheltered corner under the eaves of the prison, and in the second, when a native has eaten his fill and is lying spread-eagled on the ground snoring through his siesta, you might cut him to pieces at your leisure without waking him. Thus every afternoon witnesses the remarkable spectacle of a khaki-clad European, uttering frantic vituperations of the lazy black villains and their whole continent, as he rushes across the square of Chingulungulu brandishing a kiboko, to drive the affectionate mother and her family away from his cooking-pots. Of course, whenever this takes place, the careless kitchen-staff comes in for a few blows in passing, but my beloved Omari cares very little for that. Knudsen and I have vowed vengeance on the pigs, to the effect that they shall indeed find their way into our cooking-pots one day, whether they like it or not.

How Matola obtained these pigs, so rare a sight in a Moslem country (for as such we must count this district), I have not yet heard, but I assume that he got them, like his herd of cattle, from the English Mission. The cattle are sheltered in a kraal immediately adjoining his dwelling-house—a mere enclosure of stakes into which the animals are driven soon after sunset, to leave it the next morning after the dew is off the grass. They are herded by several boys, and number about twenty head, all of the humped breed, and most of them evidently suffering from the tsetse disease. Only one young bull and a couple of cows look healthy and vigorous, and are playful enough to put some life into the whole mournful company. I am glad to see some milch cows among them—in fact it is they who provide the jar Matola sends me every morning.

This is Matola’s residence in the more immediate sense. The best way to become acquainted with his whole territory is to mount and ride over it, for Chingulungulu is a settlement of extraordinary extent. Broad roads, as straight as a rule can make them, and planted with rubber-trees, run north, east and west from the square surrounding the baraza. To right and left of these roads lies a vast expanse of fields, from which emerges here and there the greyish-brown roof of a hut, larger or smaller as the case may be. During the whole of my stay here at Matola’s, I have been doing my best to get acquainted with all the details of this negro settlement, and I must confess that the charms of this occupation have so far consoled me for an evil which under other circumstances would long ago have disgusted me with the place. By this I mean the difficulty of obtaining information as to the more intimate customs, habits and opinions of the people, and thus penetrating as deeply as I certainly wish to do, into their intellectual and moral life. At Masasi the epidemic conviviality of the whole male population was a totally unforeseen impediment to this object, and here at Chingulungulu it seems either that Matola has not sufficient influence to obtain wise men for me to question, or that he does not care to reveal the wisdom of his people to a stranger. It is true that he possesses a good deal of information himself, and has already on more than one occasion sat with us and talked about the history of his tribe, but whenever I particularly want him, he is not to be found, and we are told that he is hunting on the Rovuma.

From an anthropological point of view the population here, in the political centre of the great plain between the Masasi mountains and the Rovuma, is as heterogeneous as at Masasi itself, only that down here the Wayao are not merely at present numerically in the majority, but politically supreme over their neighbours. These are, as in the north, Makua, Wangindo, Wamatambwe and Makonde, and, here as there, the various tribes live side by side according to no fixed rule. The history of the Yaos, up to the time when they settled and came to rest in this plain, is full enough of change and adventure. For a long time—from the moment when they first became known to Europeans, almost to the present day, they were unhesitatingly reckoned as belonging to the Kafir family. As, like the Wangoni, and almost simultaneously with them, they migrated from south to north—that is to say, from the region east of the Shire and south end of Nyasa to the Rovuma and Lujende, and as they at the same time showed equal freshness and physical vigour with those warlike hosts from the far south-east of the continent, it was natural that they should be considered as immigrants from sub-tropical South Africa, in other words, Kafirs. This view is now known to be erroneous; their language obviously belongs to the group of Eastern Bantu idioms, and it is quite clear that they have nothing to do with the southern extremity of Africa.

If we get the history of this people related to us by men who are either old enough to remember several of the many decades over which the tribal wanderings extended, or else, like Zuza, Matola and Nakaam, hold a position which makes them by right of birth transmitters of the tribal tradition,—we always find the region east of the south end of Nyasa mentioned as the starting point of all these (mostly involuntary) migrations.

A couple of aged Yaos, whom we had summoned, independently of Matola, through the agency of two or three sturdy askari, gave me the following report:—“Once, long ago, the Yaos lived at Kwisale Kuchechepungu. Kuchechepungu is the name of the chief under whom they lived at peace in the hill country of Kwisale. Then there befell a war in which the Yaos were beaten, and they went to the country of the Makua chief Mtarika. But that is very long ago; I, Akundonde (the spokesman of this historical commission) only know it from men older than myself.

“At Mtarika’s also the Yaos fared badly, for this powerful Makua chief made war on them and drove them out. And they went to Malambo, which lies behind Mkula. At Malambo the Yaos remained for a long time, but at last they were driven thence by the same Mtarika; then they settled near the Lumesule river in the Donde country, and from thence they afterwards went on to Masasi.”

This took place when Akundonde was a big lad. As the old gentleman must be some years over sixty, this march into the Masasi plain must be dated towards the end of the fifties. At Masasi the Yaos were attacked by the Wangoni, but defeated them and drove them back in the direction of Kilwa Kivinja. In spite of this success, the Yaos retired to the greater security of the Makonde plateau. Here they were once more attacked by the Wangoni at Mahuta, but this was in the time of the elder Matola. After that Bakiri came from Zanzibar, and this was the beginning of an entirely new epoch.

This Bakiri of Zanzibar and his appearance on the Rovuma show unmistakably how little we know, at bottom, of the native and his history. Herr Ewerbeck has resided in the country over ten years, and has always taken a keen interest in the history of his district; but he never heard anything more than vague rumours of an embassy from the Sultan of Zanzibar. All the more vivid is the recollection of this event among those concerned, in the country itself. In the case of Akundonde and his contemporaries, who must have been grown-up men at the time, this is not to be wondered at; but even Matola and his generation, who were then mere children, or perhaps not even born, at once become excited when the conversation turns on Bakiri (already somewhat of a legendary character), and his memorable march.

This expedition, which, according to information elicited by Ewerbeck’s inquiries, had for its objective the coal measures of the Lujende, the great southern tributary of the Rovuma, has in the consciousness of the local tribes entirely lost its character as a journey, and has assumed that of the shauri familiar to and characteristic of all these tribes. But this shauri—this assembly of all the local notables and their tribesmen—has fixed itself indelibly in the people’s memory. It is the famous shauri of Nkunya, a place still in existence at the south-western corner of the Makonde plateau. Matola the Younger gives the following account of its causes, its course, and its consequences:—

“The Yaos in old times lived much further away to the west and south, but they were badly off there. The old Makua chief Mtarika of Metho made war on them, and when he was gone the Mazitu came from the other side and also made war on them. They killed or enslaved the men of the Yaos and carried off the women and children. This happened when old Matola was quite a young man. Now he would be very old, if he were still living; but he died twelve years ago, at a great age, but still quite strong.^[25]

“In the end Matola had to fly; he went first to the Upper Bangala and then down that river till he was three hours’ march from the Rovuma, where his second brother died. At this place Matola was only a small chief, for he had in all only five huts. But he was brave and clever, he raided other tribes and was also a great hunter, who killed much game and exchanged the meat for corn. From the Lower Bangala, Matola moved to the Newala River and built his huts down in the valley at the foot of the Makonde plateau. Here he lived a long time; but the land belonged to Mawa, a Makua. Then a man came up from Mikindani to Nkunya, by name Bakiri, to hold a shauri. He called all the tribes together: Wayao, Wamakua, Wamatambwe and Wangoni. They came, all of them, in troops, and Bakiri acted as judge. The Wangoni and Wamatambwe grew frightened and ran away; the Makua also ran away; there remained only Matola, Mawa, and some of the Makua. The shauri lasted from morning till evening and all night long till the next morning, and in the morning Bakiri said to Matola: ‘I give you the whole country; it is true that till now I have heard very little about you and your chieftainship, but all the others have run away and you only remained; I see, therefore, that you are trustworthy. So you shall rule over the whole country.’ Mawa, too, agreed to this. He said: ‘I am old, and I shall soon die; do you rule over the whole country.’ And so it came to pass. Matola I. ruled wisely and justly, though severely. First he moved to Mikindani and planted palms there, then he went back inland, halfway to Newala, and from thence, at last, to Newala itself. There he lived at first on the plateau, because of the attacks of the Mazitu; then he came down into the valley, but in the end he had to go back to the heights again. He died up there at Newala, and there he lies buried.”

It is in many respects highly interesting to watch these dusky elders while engaged in recalling their memories of the past. They usually speak well; it is well known that most African natives do; they have a natural eloquence which avoids artificial phraseology but is quick to find the simple, natural expression and fit it into the structure of the sentence. Only now and then we find a man whose faculties are blunted with old age and whose speech flows less smoothly from his toothless mouth. The teeth of old natives are by no means in the flourishing condition one might expect from the dazzling white rows of ivory which characterise the youth of the black race. The crowns of their teeth are rapidly worn down by the large amount of grit which enters into their daily food. Millet, maize and rice are alike ground on stones; the wear and tear to which these are subject are shown by the deep hollow in the lower and the rapid diminution in size of the upper, when they have been in use for any length of time. The resulting minute particles of stone do not exactly conduce to the benefit of the teeth, whose premature decay, moreover, is assisted by the artificial deformations of which I shall have much to say later on.

The kind of intellectual activity which goes on is also worth notice. The European investigator has, from the start, to take up a very critical attitude towards the native and his statements on any subject whatever, for our black brother’s standard of truthfulness is notoriously not very exacting. But here, in the department of history, the narrators check each other, whether consciously or unconsciously I cannot decide. One begins—the stream of his eloquence flows on peacefully for a time, and then another suddenly interrupts him with “A! A!”—an inimitable, abruptly-uttered sound twice repeated and accompanied by a still more inimitable gesture of deprecation, as who should say, “Stop, my friend, you are talking nonsense!” But the objection has hit its mark, the narrator breaks off, consults his historical conscience, and then presents the fact under discussion in a version which, on questioning the others, is found to have their approval.

It is characteristic of life in these parts that each narrator can only give the history of his own immediate tribal group. All these men, whether Yao or Makua by nationality, have been whirled about the country in numerically small sections, to which one may give the name of horde, clan, or troop, as one pleases. In this way a definite, historically-grounded tribal consciousness could not be formed, and, if it was already in existence, had every chance of being lost. So, too, they know nothing except about themselves and their own immediate neighbourhood. It is the task of ethnology to collect as many as possible of such individual accounts, in order ultimately to build them up into the complete structure of a tribal history. As far as I am concerned, there shall be no want of industry and perseverance in the collection of such narratives.

Now, however, comes the last and most delightful touch—a most characteristically African one. In the absence of writing, the native has no means of arriving at a correct estimate of time. His astonishment and perplexity when asked his own age are fully expressed in the stare which meets the questioner; and one never finds people able to give even the approximate ages of their own children and grandchildren. Life flows along far too monotonously and uneventfully, while at the same time it is too full of their small cares and small pleasures, to leave them any time for special exercises of memory, even if they had the smallest desire for such unnecessary mental exertion. Finally—and this is probably the really decisive cause—there is no such thing as compulsory, or other registration; and so the small black citizen of the world grows up untroubled by questions of space and time; he takes to himself a wife—or wives—and raises a family, and no one thinks of inquiring whether he and his age have been duly entered on the register.

The entire absence of a fixed chronology makes itself felt more especially in tribal history. Considering, on the one hand, the sublime indifference to space and time already referred to, and on the other the difficulty of framing intelligible questions guaranteed not to produce misleading answers, I was ready to despair of any satisfactory result; but I soon found that my informants possessed a primitive yet tolerably trustworthy method of dating occurrences.

“When was it that you lived on the Lumesule?” I asked old Akundonde. Without a word, he stretched his right arm out horizontally, at a height about corresponding to that of a twelve-year-old boy, and bent his hand gracefully upward, so that the elbow formed nearly a right angle. I watched this manœuvre in silent astonishment, but Knudsen immediately furnished the explanation amid an approving murmur from all present. It seems that this is the native way of indicating the height (and consequently the age) of a human being; the height of an animal is always shown by stretching the arm out straight without raising the hand. I must confess that, among all the new and strange impressions which have hitherto crowded in on my mind here in Africa, this delicate and yet so significant distinction between man and beast is the most striking. Nakaam at Mwiti made use of a somewhat different pantomime when relating to me the history of the Yaos. Nakaam draws a distinction between pure and mixed Yaos; reckoning among the former the Chiwaula, the Katuli, and the Kalanje. This is a point not hitherto recognised in the ethnological literature dealing with the Yaos; and it must be reserved for later criticism to test the evidence of my intelligent but perhaps somewhat slippery Chiwata informant. According to Nakaam, the home of the true Yaos is Likopolwe, a hilly district in the Chisi country, in Portuguese territory between Mataka’s and Unangu Mountain. They were expelled thence by the chief Mputa, when Nakaam’s mother was still a little child crawling on all fours. Nakaam is, on his own testimony, the fourth child of his mother, and may be any age from forty to forty-five. After Mputa came others of the Makua, and broke up the Yao tribe still more. Nakaam undoubtedly ranks as an intellectual giant, comparatively speaking, but even he could give no exact chronological date. Some compensation for this was to be found in the comical sight presented when the portly chief—who was usually dignity personified—was so carried away by his narrative as to forget what was due to his exalted position and show us, in most realistic pantomime, how his mother crawled about the ground when she was a baby.

Matola is in almost every point a contrast to Nakaam. The difference is seen even in their costume: Nakaam dresses, like a coast man, in the long, snow-white kanzu, while Matola is a European above and a Yao below, wearing a coloured cotton waist-cloth, like all his subjects, below a commonplace European jacket. The indications of cunning, so characteristic of Nakaam, are here quite absent; Matola impresses one as an honest man, and such, in fact, he is, if we may judge by the evidence of all the Europeans at Lindi who have ever come in contact with him. He is always occupied—either he is holding a court under his baraza, that is to say talking to the dozen or two dozen men who drop in and out there in the course of the day, or he is engaged with us and the satisfaction of our wants. In manners he differs little from his subjects. Smoking is all but unknown here, but everyone takes snuff and chews tobacco. One consequence of this habit is that the people are always expectorating, and Matola is no exception. Another objectionable habit, which he shares with his neighbours, is that of perpetually scratching himself. In fact, when one is surrounded by a crowd of them, it is difficult, in the midst of the universal scratching, to refrain from following the agreeable example. I assume that it is a result of the prevailing want of cleanliness; the water from the two or three holes in the nearest stream-bed is only just enough for cooking and drinking; there is none of the precious fluid left to wash one’s face, to say nothing of one’s whole body.

Of all my senses the olfactory is the best developed, and daily causes me acute suffering. When a party of natives honour me with a visit, their coming is heralded from afar off by a smell whose ingredients, including racial odour, perspiration, rancid oil, wood smoke, and a hundred others, our language is too poor to specify in full. What comes nearest to it is, perhaps, the exhalation from a large flock of sheep.

And then the flies! Along with the smell, which, so to speak, marches ahead of the main body, they come rushing in swarms on the unlucky European. I thought myself a model of prudence and foresight in bringing with me from Leipzig two pairs of spectacles with smoked glasses. One of these has long had its abiding-place on Moritz’s nose. The rascal appeared one fine day suffering from acute conjunctivitis, which, thanks to my energetic treatment, is by this time quite cured. But it has never entered the conceited fellow’s head to restore the glasses, which, in an access of exaggerated philanthropy, I had placed at his disposal. That he no longer really requires them is sufficiently shown by the fact that he usually takes them off in the bright sunlight, but wears them instead in the dusk of the house and of course stumbles over everything that happens to be standing about. The other pair serve me excellently well out of doors, but under the dark baraza they absorb too much light, and thus I am left without protection from the swarms of flies the natives bring with them. These African insects and our European house-flies are not to be mentioned in the same breath. Like a flash of lightning, a creature the size of a small bee comes rushing at you—not hitting the eye straight, but describing a tangent, and passing along inside the whole eyelid, with such incredible swiftness that defence is absolutely impossible. This is repeated over and over again, while the victim, in mingled astonishment and horror, watches the little wretches preparing for the attack by a short halt on the inflamed eyelids of the natives. Instinctively one hits out wildly all round to no purpose: the raid has already been successfully accomplished. Knudsen suffers less from this plague than I, and apparently also from the one previously mentioned; for, while I always feel more or less ill after a shauri lasting several hours, the blonde Norwegian sits all day long among the people unmoved.

There is not much to be seen of the women here. Matola has repeatedly issued stringent orders that they are all to come and be photographed, but so far only four or five have appeared. They no sooner see me than they make their escape as quickly as their native dignity and the peculiarities of the feminine mode of progression will permit.

On the other hand, I am persistently besieged by the male youth of the place. Our residence is surrounded by a perfect wall of small boys squatting on the ground, their mouths wide open, staring stupid and motionless at the white stranger. This open mouth is universal among the children here—as is also the well-known pot-belly; hardly a surprising phenomenon, if one sees the amount of indigestible vegetable food which one of these boys will stuff into himself in the course of the day. I am unable to judge how this unintentional deformation of the body disappears afterwards, but that it must do so is certain, the adults being without exception well-built men.

The Dark Continent has no love for me; on the march it persecuted me daily with its whirlwinds, and here at Chingulungulu it pursues a systematic plan for expelling me from its interior. Knudsen and I dine between twelve and one. Originally the hour had been fixed at twelve precisely. With measured step Moritz and Knudsen’s Ali approach from the direction of the kitchen with the inevitable plate of tinned soup. We are ready to fall to cheerfully, each—as is customary out here—at his own camp-table, when we hear the sound of a rushing mighty wind coming nearer and nearer. Dust, grass, and leaves are whirled into the air; one instinctively holds one’s hand or one’s cap over the plate, but all in vain—a gyrating chaos of ashes, dust, tufts of grass, and all the various kinds of dirt which can only be studied in this country, overwhelms us from behind; the baraza groans in all its beams; the boys fly out, unresisting and helpless into the open space in front; and then all is over. When we can open our eyes under the crust of foreign matter which covers our faces and everything else, we are just in time to see the thatch of the huts waltzing through the air before the whole phenomenon vanishes into the pori. On the first day, of course, we were quite helpless; on the second we were again overwhelmed while thinking no evil; on the third I suggested that dinner should be postponed for a quarter of an hour. It was no use, the whirlwind came just a quarter of an hour later. We have gone on waging a regular war against this midday whirlwind, and, so far, we have been beaten all along the line. It always springs up the moment the soup is brought in. Moritz and Ali have scarcely time to clap the lids of a couple of tins over our plates when it is upon us. To protect ourselves against it, and also, it must be said, against the troublesome curiosity of the children of the land, small and great, we have built ourselves in under Matola’s baraza by carrying a screen of millet stalks right across the hall high enough to reach the roof, and erecting two other screens at the ends of the first and converging on each other, so that we are now in a closed room. But my intimate enemy, the chimbunga, penetrates even into this carefully protected apartment.

The water-supply of this region forms a subject by itself. Of all the charms of Chingulungulu this was what Knudsen had dwelt on most lovingly—one might be ever so ill and wretched, but a draught from this unrivalled spring would restore health to the most infirm. One of our first walks after getting through the fever which marked our arrival at this place, was to its principal wells. They are close to the road from Zuza’s, and I should have seen them just before we arrived had I not been at that time more dead than alive. With expectations raised to the highest pitch, I walked along the path leading to the spot in question—two hundred yards distant at most—followed by a long train of boys and half-grown lads. “Here we are,” said my companion suddenly, as we caught sight of a number of women and several young girls squatting in three roomy pits about six feet deep.

“Well, how about the spring?” I asked, the Norwegian’s glowing descriptions being still present to my mind’s eye.

“Why, down there—those holes—those are the springs; don’t you see the women drawing water?” That I certainly did see, and my illusions vanished in the twinkling of an eye. But their place was taken with equal rapidity by the scientific interest attaching to the hydrography of the country in general and Chingulungulu in particular; and of this I was enabled to get a fairly clear notion after walking round the three pits and scrambling down into each of them.

The rivers and streams here on the inland slope of the Makonde plateau are of the kind called wadi in North Africa or Omurambe in the distant German territory of the south-west—that is to say, they have water all the year round, but only in the subsoil; on the surface the water does not flow except in the rainy season, and immediately after it. The rains, which are extremely abundant, were over months ago, so that it is no wonder if the people have to dig deeper every day into the stream-beds to find water. Here they have in places penetrated right through the superincumbent strata, and Moritz cannot say enough in praise of this water which comes straight from the living rock. It may indeed be comparatively poor in bacteria and innocuous even for Europeans, but what I have seen of the way in which it is obtained has induced me to keep up, from the moment of my arrival, and insist on having scrupulously carried out, the procedure customary with me ever since we left Lindi, of having all the drinking-water treated with alum, filtered, and boiled.

In no department of daily life is the contrast between Europe and Africa more sharply defined than in this matter of the water-supply. Instead of the brass tap and clear, cool water in a clean glass, we find, brooding over a muddy water-hole, an almost equally muddy woman. Behind her, on the high bank, stands her portly earthen jar. She sits gazing apathetically into the narrow opening, the usual ladle (the half-cocoa-nutshell with a wooden handle stuck through it) in her right hand. At last enough fluid has accumulated to make it worth while to plunge the dipper under the turbid surface; not ungracefully, with the rocking motion peculiar to the negress, she reaches the top of the bank, and the water pours in a milky jet into the large jar, the process being repeated as often as necessary till it is full. Then she walks to the nearest bush and comes back with a handful of fresh green twigs, which she carefully inserts into the neck of the jar. This is no manifestation of a decorative instinct, or of any feeling for the beauties of nature—neither man nor woman in this country has advanced so far; in fact, highly as we Europeans think of ourselves, this feeling for nature is even with us of comparatively recent growth. The native is, in the first instance, practical—in fact, he is nothing if not practical. Without this bunch of leaves, the water-jar, filled to the brim, would slop over at every step, drenching the bearer’s head and body; but, as it is, not a drop is spilt, the twigs and leaves hindering all undulatory motion in the narrow space. Probatum est.

The uses of a coffee machine are various. My cook, Omari, having from the beginning refused to employ mine for its legitimate purpose, it came in very handy for the construction of a filter. Charcoal is always to be had; and it is easy to pound it into small pieces and put a deep layer into the tin funnel, which with its two fine strainers thus makes an excellent filter, simple, portable, and easily repaired. It gives Moritz and Kibwana far more to do than the lazy rascals like. Having formerly studied the problem of sedimentary deposit in different kinds of water, I know that salts hasten the precipitation of all solid matter. Alum is the clarifier indicated for this expedition. A moderately large tin is easily procured from any Indian trader, and the carriers have soon deposited, in the shade of the baraza, a long row of jars and calabashes hastily borrowed from the inhabitants. “Dawa ya Ulaya!” I call out to Kibwana, meaning this time the alum-tin. Dawa is anything producing an effect which the native fails to understand, and Ulaya is every country outside his own—usually Europe, and sometimes Germany in particular; but even American petroleum, for him, comes from Ulaya. A pinch of the salt is dropped into every jar, which, when stirred round, shows an alarming degree of thickness and impurity. All the same, Moritz considers this broth “maji mazuri” (“beautiful water”), a designation which only fits it, in my opinion, after the lapse of several hours. Then, indeed, it is clear as crystal. After carefully pouring it off, the boys strain it twice, thrice, or even four times through the charcoal filter. Omari boils it for ten minutes, under threats of the severest punishment in case of failure. It is left to cool overnight, and in the morning it is a drink for the gods—though only rendered so first by the water-cooler and then by the addition of fruit-syrup from Lübeck. My Berlin outfit, of course, included the usual large aluminium flask carried by expeditions, but I never dream of using it. Instead, we carry an Indian water-cooler of porous, unglazed earthenware, which I bought at Lindi, by Captain Seyfried’s advice, for a rupee, and which is closely netted round with cocoa-nut rope for protection on the journey, and carried by Kofia tule with more dignity than grace on his woolly head. It amuses me, by the bye, to find that Knudsen will not hear of treating his drinking-water with alum. He is quite of the same mind as his native friends and thinks there is something uncanny about the dawa ya Ulaya, preferring the muddy brew as it comes from the well. Well—habeat sibi! In our enthusiasm for seltzer—prepared on my sparklet apparatus—with fruit-syrup in it, we are cordially agreed. It is better than the finest quality of pombe produced at the celebrated breweries of Chingulungulu.