I am still at Chingulungulu, cursing the infernal heat, horrible dust and dirty natives with more fervour than ever, but unable to get away from them. The reason for this is the fact that while at first my stay here seemed utterly barren of scientific results, this state of things gradually reversed itself, so that the difficulty now lay in dealing with the mass of new impressions and observations. It is impossible to relate in full detail the exact way in which I obtained an insight into native customs and ideas—this would fill several volumes, and my time is limited. I shall therefore content myself with a few personal touches and a small selection from the various departments of the material and mental life of the tribes inhabiting this vast plain.

The most important incident affecting my expedition was the engagement of Nils Knudsen as a permanent member of its staff, subject, of course, to the consent of the Agricultural Committee. I fancy the arrangement is satisfactory to both parties. As I have already remarked, Knudsen is in the service of the Lindi Municipality, as master of the Industrial School. At the request of the District Commissioner, he had been granted leave of absence to make a tour through the plain west of the Makonde Plateau and exercise a sort of supervision over the village headmen. For reasons of which I am not called on to judge, the plan of appointing such European inspectors has been given up again, and, as the Lindi municipality naturally saw no occasion to let their industrial teacher travel about the country for his own amusement, he was recalled. I must honestly confess that I had long found Knudsen quite indispensable, and therefore took the opportunity of applying to the District Commissioner for permission to engage him, when the latter, a few days ago, visited us on one of his official tours. He has seemed ever since to enjoy an increased sense of his own importance and, in fact, the task of initiating a German scholar into the deepest secrets of alien life is no doubt a far pleasanter one than that of teaching lazy native boys to plane, saw, forge and solder.

The second incident is a severe attack of fever, with which I have been laid up during the last few days. I was just about to photograph the old Sudanese sergeant who had come up with Ewerbeck, and who was chiefly remarkable for a cough which kept everyone awake at night. When I saw him going to muster his men for roll-call in the middle of the afternoon, I went to take down my 9 x 12 cm. camera which hung from a nail on one of the pillars of the baraza; but let it fall in lifting it down, and found, on picking it up, that the sliding front had got bent and the instantaneous shutter injured by the fall. The first accident was remedied by energetic pressure, for the second nothing could be done. I do not to this day understand why the loss of this instrument should have thrown me into such a state of excitement; but there are moments in life when we do, or omit to do, things for which we afterwards vainly try to account. I suppose I never even remembered at the time that I still possessed a 13 × 18 cm. apparatus of excellent quality. That I did not recall the fact later on, is easier to understand, as by sunset I found that my temperature was rapidly rising. I tried a remedy previously found effectual for bringing on perspiration—huge quantities of tea with citric acid in it, but in vain. After a terrible night with an average temperature of over 104°, the fever had so far abated that I could exert myself to make the working drawings for additional slides to my 13 × 18 cm. camera, which I wished to send to the Indian fundi at Lindi. Up to this moment I had thought my photographic equipment perfect, but the possibility of such an accident as befell my smaller camera and of remedying it by the use of simple wooden frames had not occurred either to me or the firm who supplied me. By exerting all my energies, I was just able to finish the drawings and send them off by a runner to Lindi, when my temperature again rose above 100° and I was forced to go back to bed. The attack then ran its course and came to an end, as fever always does. To-day I should almost feel inclined to smoke, if we had any tobacco worthy of the name. However, I have now had quite enough of Chingulungulu, and as the Rovuma with its green banks and clear, cool water, its sand-banks and islands is only a day’s march distant, we intend to go thither shortly for a rest and change after all the discomforts, great and small, of our stay here.

Before leaving, I feel that I ought to set down at least a few of the observations made at this place.

Among many other diseases, such as malarial, black-water and remittent fever, sleeping-sickness, guinea-worm, beriberi, and whatever other ills, great or small, mankind may suffer from in these otherwise favoured regions, leprosy is unfortunately endemic in our colony on the Indian Ocean. On the coast of the southern district, the Government is trying to prevent the further spread of this terrible disease, by establishing an isolation hospital on an island in the Lukuledi Estuary, where the patients, at present about forty in number, are treated by the medical staff at Lindi. Here in the interior, lepers are for the present entirely dependent on the care of their fellow-tribesmen. Among the Yaos this care is a mixture of human sympathy and the crudest barbarity. The patient is taken to a hut built specially for him in a remote part of the bush, where his friends or relations bring him food, till the end seems to be approaching. If the wise men of the tribe come to the conclusion that this diagnosis is correct, a last and very abundant meal is carried out to the hut, which is then fastened up from the outside, so strongly that, even had the patient the power and the will to make an effort, he could not free himself. He is thus, should he still have any vitality left by the time the last of the food and drink is consumed, condemned to perish of starvation.

Another picture connected with death presents itself. We have already seen the mysterious, legend-haunted site of Hatia’s grave on Unguruwe mountain; those of other mortals are unpretending enough and quite prosaic in character. In the country round Chingulungulu I have found graves, both old and recent, at various places in the bush, none of them outwardly distinguishable from graves in our own country, except that the mounds over those of children are round or oval, instead of long like those of adults. So far I have seen nothing of the custom reported to me by several informants, of building a hut over the grave, and decorating it with calico. Only one grave at Masasi had such a hut, but I was told that it was an Arab grave, and there was no cloth.^[35] The grave of Nakaam’s predecessor, Maluchiro, at Meviti, has unfortunately quite lost the traditional character. Here the traveller finds a large oval hut, and, stooping under the wide, overhanging eaves to enter, he sees, in the solemn twilight within, massive clay pillars at the head and foot of the grave, and a somewhat lower wall on either side of it. Such monuments are shown with pride by the natives to the passing European, but they are a proof how far Islamitic culture has penetrated the old African life.

European influence also has a share in the disappearance of old customs, though, in one point, at least, it is less far-reaching than I had supposed. I imagined that a box of matches would be found in every native hut, but I have seen nothing of the sort, and, moreover, have observed no other way of procuring fire. Yet no hut is ever without it. Here we have the startling solution of a question which has long occupied the attention of ethnographers. Not so many decades ago, inquirers of the standing of Tylor and Lubbock seriously believed in the existence of fireless tribes—even our brown fellow-subjects in the Marianne Islands being classed with such unfortunates. The contrary of this hypothesis has now been irrefutably demonstrated, and it is known that there is no tribe in the world ignorant of the use of fire, or even of the mode of producing it artificially. The problem has therefore assumed another aspect. Did men first use fire, and then learn to produce it? that is to say, did they begin by making use of its natural sources, such as volcanoes and lava currents, burning naphtha-beds, trees kindled by lightning, or heaps of vegetable matter ignited by spontaneous combustion?—or did they first learn to bring out the divine spark by boring, friction, or percussion, and then proceed to harness the kindly element to household tasks? Both sequences of events are a priori possible, though, of course, the first is much the more probable of the two. To-day we may say that it is the only one recognised. This knowledge we owe entirely to ethnography.

At a time when hundreds of students are continually busy investigating and describing the remotest and most forlorn of primitive tribes at present accessible—when the existing ethnographic museums are filled to overflowing with new collections, and new museums are opened every year, it is strange to think of the earlier and less favoured period which had to be content with mere arm-chair theories. Two branches of a tree rub together in a storm. As the wind grows stronger, the friction becomes more rapid, till the surfaces are heated; at last a tiny spark appears, it becomes a larger spark, and then a devouring flame which consumes the whole tree. Primitive man, standing under the tree, has been watching the process with amazement. “Oh!” says he, “is that how it’s done?” and thereupon takes a couple of sticks and does likewise.

In this description we have a typical specimen of the old-fashioned theory devoid of any concrete basis of fact. It is the hypothesis propounded by Kuhn, the philologist, who, fifty years ago, was at least as famous for his “Origin of Fire”^[36] as for his work in comparative linguistics. We of a generation which knows no reverence have grown accustomed to laugh at the venerable scholar; but such is the way of the world.

It is always well to remember, in the case of a widely-distributed art, like the production of fire, that it may have originated in more ways than one. When we see to-day that by far the greater number of primitive tribes make use of a boring implement, while a smaller section uses friction, and a third an instrument like a saw, and the rest have already advanced to the principles of the flint and steel, the concave mirror and the pneumatic fire-producer—it follows of itself that such must be the case. At the same time this variety of method shows us that the production of fire is everywhere a secondary matter, an accidental discovery, made while pursuing some entirely different end. This is even found to be the case with the Malay fire-pump of South-Eastern Asia. This is a tube, closed below, into which a tightly-fitting piston, whose hollow lower end encloses a small piece of tinder, is forcibly driven, when the compression of the air heats it sufficiently to ignite the tinder. The blow-pipe, which has the same distribution, gives us a hint as to the invention of this appliance. In drilling the hole to make this weapon, it would soon be observed that the air within the tube readily becomes hot enough to ignite the dust or shavings; and it would not be difficult to do the same thing again intentionally. In the very oldest culture of mankind, we can find indications of how all other forms of fire-producing implements came to be invented. The earliest primitive man had to scrape, bore, rub and saw, in order to shape his elementary weapons and implements in accordance with the purpose for which they were to be used. All these processes produced dust, which under favourable circumstances became ignited through the heat engendered by rapid motion.

This is the view taken by present-day ethnographers of the way in which the use of fire originated. No doubt the invention was made independently in many places and at various times, but only, in all probability, after men were already familiar with fire as a natural phenomenon. This necessarily follows from the fact, observed by careful travellers among all primitive people, that fire is looked after and cherished as a kind of domestic animal, all possible precautions being taken to prevent its going out. It is even probable that the invention of the house was suggested by the necessity of protecting the fire from rain and snow. In the tribes which have come under my own observation, nothing is so touching as their care for the “eternal fire.” If I had not made a point of getting young and old people to show me, in every place visited, the mode of making fire by boring, I might live ten years in the country without seeing the slightest indication of their being acquainted with such a thing. They carry the smouldering brand with them for enormous distances, and only when, in spite of all care, it has gone out, and no other fire can be borrowed, the man takes up his two sticks and kindles a new fire by short but severe exertion. It is not every man who can do this. I have seen skilled practitioners who had a bright flame leaping up within half a minute from the first twirl of the stick, while others toiled away for a long time and effected nothing. One essential point is the notch at one side of the bore-hole, so that the first spark can reach the little cone of dust as quickly as possible. It is also necessary to twirl the stick quietly and with a uniform, not a hurried motion, and to blow gently and steadily. In my Leipzig experiments in fire-boring I tried all possible methods, and my students and I wearied ourselves out in vain, for want of knowing and attending to these three points.

I see, somewhat to my surprise, that the distinction between the skilled and unskilled use of weapons is also fully recognised. What sort of shooting the men here can do with their muzzle-loaders I am unable to judge, as the importation of powder has been prohibited since the rising,^[37] and therefore these weapons are not now in use. This is one reason why the old-fashioned arms are more in evidence at present; and, besides, everyone knows that the stranger from Ulaya is interested in such things. As far as hunting is concerned, however, (and this is the principal purpose for which weapons are required,) the use of firearms has occasioned little or no change in tactics. The difficulty of getting within shot of the game with these antediluvian flint-lock guns is almost as great as with bows and arrows, and the innumerable precautions taken before and during hunting expeditions are intended to overcome these difficulties. The local hunters, among whom Nils Knudsen easily takes the first place, have, in the course of the month spent at Chingulungulu, described to me with the fullest details, all native methods of hunting, and everything connected therewith. When everything else failed, when I was weary with the continuous work of photographing, making phonographic and cinematographic records, sketching, cross-examining and taking notes, and when it became evident that my unlucky informants were only being kept awake by consideration for their distinguished visitor, I had only to touch on the subject of hunting, and everyone was quite fresh again, myself included; for, as a matter of fact, no more interesting ethnographical picture can be conceived than that suggested by these conditions.

In one of those daily conferences in which the men of the village pass much of their time during the greater part of the year, the assembly has to-day decided on a great hunt, to be held shortly. With an eagerness not usually seen in these muscular but fairly plump figures, everyone immediately hurried to his hut to inspect his weapons. It is a well-known fact that the native always keeps his gun in first-rate condition, but this is not the point just now. What has to be done is to cast a spell on the quarry and to secure the assistance of higher powers for the matter in hand. For this purpose, medicine, much and strong medicine, is needed. The most powerful charms are parts of the bodies of still-born children; for, as they have been unable to do any harm in the world, every part of them is, in the native view, calculated to have a beneficent influence. Similar ideas seem to underlie the efforts made to obtain the human placenta for such purposes. On the other hand, bones of men long dead, especially of such as were famous hunters in their lifetime, are eagerly sought in the belief that the qualities of the deceased will be transferred to the user. All these things, together with the roots of certain plants, are made up into amulets with which the hunter adorns both himself and his gun. Not until he has assured himself that he is forearmed against any possible casualty can he start with an easy mind.

There is, of course, no danger involved in hunting the numerous antelopes of the country. The hunters assemble early in the morning at the rendezvous agreed on, but before they start they are all rubbed down with decoctions of certain roots. This is necessary to overpower by means of a smell less alarming to the game, the strong bodily effluvium already alluded to, together with the peculiar odour of wood smoke, etc., from the huts, which hangs about them. Even the ordinary antelopes require great care in this respect, the eland much more, and the elephant, of course, most of all. Not till this is done does the hunt begin. Having once found the track, the men follow it up without stopping, ascending ant-heaps, climbing trees, and keeping a look-out from hills. At last, having got within thirty or forty yards of the quarry, whether a solitary animal or a herd, they fire a volley of shot and slugs which either brings it down at once, or wounds it so severely that, on following up the blood-spoor, they find it dead in the bush. All the party now crowd round to dip their amulets in its blood, and so make them more effectual for the future. The successful marksman gets the tip of the tail as a much coveted ornament. He and his companions now take a small piece of the animal’s nose as medicine, to strengthen and sharpen their scent, of the apex of the heart, to give them endurance and perseverance in stalking, of the eyes, to make their sight keener, and of the brain to increase their intelligence. These parts are eaten, and also a small piece of flesh from the place struck by the bullet—this to ensure a similar result next time—and a piece of the liver. I have not been able to ascertain the reason for this last; but this organ being by many peoples regarded as the seat of life, perhaps this association of ideas is at the bottom of the practice. All particles of flesh or hide which adhere to the hands after partaking of this remarkable hunting-breakfast must by an invariable rule be smeared on the stock of the gun. Then they all hasten away. The animal is dead, it is true, but its spirit has not been killed, and will want to revenge itself. They return with various herbs and roots, the juice of which they make haste to rub over their bodies, and so protect themselves.

But what are the observances connected with a mere antelope hunt compared with the mass of superstitious practices which precede, accompany and follow the chase of the elephant? I cannot here describe in detail the preparation of the medicines and charms and their more than fantastic ingredients. An elephant-hunt not only compels the master of the house himself to adopt a particular regimen both by day and night, but also exercises a similar constraint on his wife for at least a week beforehand. As a rule, the native dislikes nothing more than any interruption of his night’s rest, but at this time man and wife are often kept on their feet half the night in order to prepare the necessary charms. Portions of the human placenta, brain, etc., are again among the principal ingredients, with the addition of human semen, and in particular, decoctions of the bark of various trees with which the hunter has to anoint himself and his gun. I must refer the reader to the official report of my expedition, where these and many other details may be found.

We cannot undertake to follow the hunters on their expedition, and have to be content with pointing out that there is one infallible means of stopping an elephant when all efforts to come up with him have failed. It is very simple—you take some earth from the four footprints of the animal pursued, mix it with a certain medicine made of roots, and tie the mixture fast somewhere. After this the elephant will be unable to move, let him try never so hard.

When at last the hunt has been successful and the elephant is killed, the first thing done is to cut off the tip of his trunk, which is immediately buried. It is believed that this is the most dangerous part of an elephant and lives on long after the animal has been killed. It is buried so that it may not see what is done next. The hunters dance round the fallen colossus, firing off their guns over and over again in token of rejoicing; then they seek for medicinal roots, with which they rub their bodies as a protection against the elephant’s revengeful spirit. This done, they are at leisure to cut out the tusks, cut up the carcase, consume enormous quantities of the fresh meat, and dry the rest for carrying away. This is done in the same manner in which fish are dried on the Rovuma, that is, over a fire, on a stage about two feet high. Others prefer to cut it into strips and let it dry in the sun. There is probably not much left to be treated in this way; the native, like a vulture, scents any bit of meat which might break the monotony of his porridge diet, even though it should be miles away; and so, in an incredibly short time, hundreds of guests see that none of the joint is wasted.