For the last few days I have been living in a different world, and nearer heaven, for I am here at a height of more than 3,000 feet above the level of the Indian Ocean, and look down on the vast greyish-green plain in the west from an altitude of over 1,600 feet. This view over the plain is wonderful, extending, on the south-west across the broad channel of the Rovuma, which just now, it is true, holds very little water, and on the north-west to the distant Masasi range; while it also embraces the numerous insular peaks appearing at various distances in the south, west, and north-west. I can only enjoy this view, however, by walking back westward for about half-a-mile from my present position, for Newala is not on the precipitous edge of the plateau, but lies about a thousand yards away from it. And the climate here! What a contrast to the Inferno of Chingulungulu and the Purgatory of Akundonde’s! Here it is cool as on the crest of the Thüringer Wald, and we Europeans had to get out our warmest clothes immediately on arriving. Double blankets at night and a thick waistcoat in the morning and evening are not enough, and we have both had to take to overcoats.

But again I am anticipating! Between our departure from Chingulungulu and our arrival at Newala only eleven days intervened. But how many, or to be more accurate, what varied experiences were crowded into this interval! Never before had my carriers been so noisy with sheer high spirits as on the morning which put an end to their long inactivity at Matola’s. Wanyamwezi porters cannot endure sitting still, they want to be always on the move, always seeing something new; and in the end, if kept too long inactive in one place away from home, they realise the proverb about the sailor with a wife at every port. I had the greatest trouble to steer my twenty-four men (I had already, with no regret whatever, discharged the Lindi Rugaruga at Masasi), through the dangers of this Capua; they became violent, committed assaults on women and girls, and gave other cause for complaint as well. I did all I could to keep them out of mischief, as, for instance, employing them to make long tables for the baraza out of halved bamboos; but all to no purpose. On the morning of our departure, however, they skipped along like young calves, in spite of their loads of sixty or seventy pounds, as we marched along to the Rovuma. How cheerily we all marched! We had soon left the shadeless bush of Chingulungulu far behind. A sharp turn of the road from west to south, and a short steep declivity brought us to the Nasomba, which had a small thread of water at the bottom of its deep gorge. On we went, over extensive stubble-fields of maize and millet, between beds of beans and splendid plantations of tobacco. High ant-heaps showed the fertility of the soil; little watch-huts fixed on high poles told how the crops were endangered by wild pigs, monkeys, and other foes belonging to the animal world. Knudsen was able to indulge his love of the chase on this trip, and from time to time, one of his venerable shooting-irons lifted up its voice over hill and valley. Meanwhile I had passed the Lichehe Lake, a sheet of water almost choked with reeds, which according to the map ought to be close to the Rovuma. The vegetation, too, indicated a greater abundance of water than hitherto; we passed enormous baobabs, forced our way through low palm-thickets and heard the leaves of stately fan-palms rustling far above our heads. Just as I was about to push through another clump of bushes, the strong hand of my new corporal, Hemedi Maranga, dragged me back. “Mto hapa, Bwana”—(“There is the river, sir”). One step more, and I should have fallen down the steep bank, some sixteen or eighteen feet in height, at the foot of which I now see the gleam of those broad reaches which Nils Knudsen has so often described to me, and which have not failed to impress men so free from enthusiasm as Ewerbeck. Having so often heard the word hapana, which is really beginning to get on my nerves, the corporal’s hapa was a pleasant surprise, and it is no wonder that I felt inclined to bless him. What shall I say of the five or six pleasant days passed on the banks and islands of this river, consecrated by the memory of Livingstone?^[38] The ethnographer finds little to do there at the present day. Forty years ago, when Livingstone ascended it, its banks were covered with settlements of the Wamatambwe, its current carried a thousand canoes of that energetic fishing tribe, and a busy, cheerful life prevailed everywhere. But here, too, the Wangoni came down, like frost on a spring night, and of the once numerous and flourishing Matambwe only scanty remnants are to be found, irregularly scattered along the immense Rovuma valley, or absorbed into the Makua, Yao and Makonde. The traveller is lucky—as, by the way, I usually am—if he sees a few individuals of this lost tribe.

We made our first camp close to the river. My tent, as usual, was pitched furthest to windward, and next to the water, Knudsen’s being next to it; while the carriers had to seek shelter more to leeward, under an overhanging bank. Steep banks like this are very common here. During the rains the river carries down an immense volume of water to the sea, and piles up masses of alluvial drift to a greater height every year, but in the dry season, as now, its bed, nearly a mile wide, is almost dry, consisting of a vast expanse of sand and gravel banks. Between these the river takes a somewhat uncertain course, sometimes in a single channel about as wide as the Elbe at Dresden, but usually divided into two or three easily-forded arms. Yet, in spite of its powerlessness, the river is aggressive, and constantly washes away its banks at the bends, so that we frequently come upon trees lying in the stream which have been undermined and fallen. Its bed is, therefore, continually changing, as is the case with the Zambezi and Shire, and, in fact, most rivers of tropical Africa.

It is late afternoon: a dozen natives are standing in a circle on a level spot in mid-channel and looking round them attentively, almost timidly, staring straight at the water, as though anxious to penetrate to the bottom. What are they after? Has the white man lost some valuable property for which he is setting them to look? The answer is much simpler than that. Look within the circle, and you will see two hats floating on the surface of the current. When they raise themselves a little from the shining level, you will see two white faces—those of the Wazungu, Knudsen and Weule, who, delighted to escape for once from the rubber bath with its mere half-bucket of water, are cooling their limbs in the vivifying current. And the natives? The Rovuma has the reputation—not altogether undeserved—of containing more crocodiles than any other river in East Africa, and therefore it is as well to station a chain of outposts round us, as a precautionary measure. It is highly amusing to watch the uneasy countenances of these heroes, though the water for a long way round does not come up to their knees.

Evening is coming on; a stiff westerly breeze has sprung up, sweeping up the broad river-channel with unopposed violence, so that even the scanty current of the Rovuma makes a poor attempt at waves. Glad of the unusual sight, the eye ranges far and wide down the river. Everything is still as death—no trace remains of the old joyous Matambwe life as it was in the sixties. There, far away, on the last visible loop of the river, appears a black dot, rapidly increasing in size. Our natives, with their keen sight, have spied it long ago, and are staring in the same direction as ourselves. “Mtumbwi”—(a canoe)! they exclaim in chorus, when the dot coming round a bend becomes a black line. In a quarter of an hour the canoe has reached us, a dug-out of the simplest form, with a mournful freight, an old woman crouching in the stern more dead than alive. I feel sorry for the poor creature, and at a sign from me an elderly man and a younger one spring lightly to the bank. A few questions follow. “She is very ill, the bibi,” is the answer, “we think she will die to-day.” I can see for myself that no human help will avail. The two men return at their paddles, and in ten minutes more we see them landing higher up on the other side, carrying between them a shapeless bundle across the sand-bank into the bush. A human destiny has fulfilled itself.

Nils Knudsen had in his usual enthusiastic way been telling me of the marvels to be found at Naunge camp, higher up the Rovuma, where he insisted that we must go. This time he was not so far wrong; in fact, the wild chaos of rocks beside and in the river, the little cascades between the mossy stones, and the dark green of the vegetation on the banks, made up an attractive picture enough. But the state of the ground itself! The trodden grass and broken bushes, as well as the unmistakable smell, showed plainly enough that it was a popular camping-place and had been used not long before. “No, thank you!” said I. “Safari—forward!” Here, where we were directly on Livingstone’s track, the open bush begins a couple of hundred yards away from the bank. With three askari to cover my left flank, I therefore marched up stream, through the vegetation lining the bank, at the cost of indescribable toil, but rejoicing in the view of the river with its ever-changing scenery. At last I found what I was looking for. In mid-channel, at a distance from us of perhaps six or seven hundred yards, rose an island, steep and sharply-cut as the bow of a man-of-war, its red cliffs shining afar over the silvery grey of the sand-banks, but covered at the top with a compact mass of fresh green vegetation. With a shrill whistle to call my followers across from the pori, and one leap down the bank, I waded through the deep sand direct for the island.

The idyllic life which I enjoyed for some days on this island in the Rovuma has left an indelible impression on my memory. Nils Knudsen was always hunting, and never failed to return with a supply of meat for roasting, which kept the men in high good humour. Our tents were pitched in a narrow sandy ravine at the foot of the cliff, which may have been twenty-seven or twenty-eight feet high; the men were encamped at some distance to leeward, and I myself was alone in a green bower at the top of the island, where no one was allowed to approach me without announcing himself in the words prescribed by Swahili etiquette, “Hodi Bwana!” Only my personal attendants might bring me, unannounced, the repasts prepared by Omari, who has now learned to cook some things so as not to be absolutely uneatable. Altogether it was a delightful interlude.

Equally delightful was our last camp on the Rovuma. It was at the mouth of the Bangala, its largest northern tributary, so imposing on the map, but just now only a dry channel. The water was still flowing underground; but we should have had to dig down several yards to reach it. We did not find it necessary to do so, having abundance of clear water in the Rovuma itself, where my men led quite an amphibious life. How neat and clean they all looked as soon as daily washing became possible. “Mzuri we!” (“How fine you are!”) I remarked appreciatively in passing to Chafu koga, the Dirty Pig, for that is the approximate rendering of his name. The self-complacent smile on his bronze-coloured face was by itself worth the journey to Africa.

There is only one drawback to life on the Rovuma: the gale which springs up about sunset and, gradually rising till it becomes a veritable hurricane, sinks again about midnight. No reed fence is any protection against it, neither is it any use to seek shelter behind the tent; and no contrivance so far devised will keep the lamp from being blown out, so that there is nothing for it but to go to bed at eight.

Our nights, moreover, were disturbed by unwelcome visitors. Elephants, it is true, which, though abounding in this part of the country, are very shy, always made a wide circuit round our camp; but lions seemed to be fond of taking moonlight walks up and down between the sleeping carriers. At the Bangala, the sentry, who had stood a little way off with his gun at the ready, related to me with a malicious grin how he saw a lion walk all along the row of snoring men, and stop at Omari, the cook, seemingly considering whether to eat him or not. After standing like this for some time, he gave a deep, ill-tempered growl, as if he did not consider Omari sufficiently appetising, and slowly trotted back into the bush.

Luisenfelde Mine—I do not know what Luise gave it its name—will long remain in my memory as a greeting from home, in the heart of the African bush; it sounds so enterprising and yet so pleasantly familiar. It is true that the mining operations did not last long, though the former owner, Herr Vohsen, in the pride of his heart, bestowed on the lustrous red garnets produced there the name of “Cape rubies.” Garnets are so cheap and found in so many places that in a very short time the market was glutted. Herr Marquardt, the enterprising manager, went home, and Nils Knudsen, his assistant and factotum, remained behind forgotten in the bush. Literally in the bush, for the well-built house with its double roof of corrugated zinc protected by an outer covering of thatch, was shut up, and the Norwegian had to find shelter as best he could in one of the two outhouses. We halted here, on our march northward from the Rovuma, for three or four hours, so as to eat our Sunday dinner under the verandah of the manager’s house. Here we had before us a double reminder of the past: in the middle of the compound a great heap of the unsaleable “Cape rubies” which were to have realised such fortunes, and now lie about as playthings for native children, and in the foreground the grave of Marquardt’s only child, a promising little girl of three, who came here with her parents full of health and life. We prosaic Europeans have no faith in omens; but it appears that the child’s sudden death was no surprise to the natives. Knudsen tells me that one day a native workman from the garnet-pits came to him and said, “Some one will die here, sir.” “‘Nonsense!’ I said, and sent him away. Next day he came again and said the same thing. I sent him about his business, but he kept coming. Every night we heard an owl crying on the roof of Marquardt’s house. This went on for a whole fortnight, and then Marquardt’s little girl was taken ill and died in a few hours. The bird never came after that. They call it likwikwi.”

One story suggests another. Matola told us several of the same sort, as we sat round the lamp of an evening. Here are one or two samples:—

“Between this (Chingulungulu) and Nyasa,” said Matola, “is a high mountain, called Mlila; the road passes close to it. Beside the road are two axes and a shovel,^[39] and no one can carry them away. If anyone picks them up and takes them on his shoulder, he has not gone far before he feels as if they were no longer there, and when he turns he sees them going back to their place. But the owner of those axes and that shovel is Nakale.”

The other story is as follows: “At Mtarika’s (the old Yao chief now dead), people saw a great wonder. The grains of Usanye (a red kind of millet) cried in the basket. It came to pass in this way: The people had cut off the heads of usanye in the garden and put them into a basket. And as they were pressed together in the basket the grains began to weep and to scream. The people did not know where the crying came from, and turned out the basket, to look in it and under it, but they could find nothing, and heard nothing more. Then they put the grain back into the basket and the crying began again, and the people were frightened and ran away to fetch others. These searched, too, but could find nothing, and they all went away much astonished. But when they got home, they found the mortar dancing, and all the large earthen bowls (mbale) were dancing too, and Jongololo, the millipede, was building himself houses. Next day they all assembled to ask each other what could be the meaning of all this. And three days after, Mtarika died. That was the meaning of it.”

It was only in part for the sake of the past that we visited Luisenfelde; we should scarcely have done so but for the fact that the road from the mouth of the Bangala to Akundonde’s runs directly past it. A march of an hour and a half or two hours up the deeply-excavated ravine of the Namaputa, and a short, steep ascent to the crest of the next ridge, brought us to Akundonde’s. We saw before us the typical native settlement of these parts, a moderate-sized, carefully-swept open space with the baraza in the middle—a roof supported on pillars, and open all round. This is surrounded by some half-dozen huts, round or square, all with heavy thatched roofs, the eaves reaching nearly to the ground, other groups of huts being scattered at long intervals all along the crest of the hill. Akundonde, though he said he had been expecting our visit, did not seem very obliging or communicative. We could scarcely attribute this to the after effects of his recent libations—his throat must be far too well seasoned for that; but thought it more probable that his bad leg made him feel indisposed for society. I had just one bottle of “jumbe cognac” left, that delectable beverage, which smells like attar of roses, but has a taste which I cannot attempt to describe, and this I bestowed on the old chief, but took no further notice of him, which I could well afford to do without endangering the success of my enterprise. The junior headman of the village,—a smart Yao, quite a dandy according to local standards, who even wore a watch on a very large chain and consequently had to look at the time every two minutes—proved a much more competent guide to the life and customs of this remote district than morose old Akundonde. The young man showed us plenty of indigenous works of art—we had only to go from house to house and look under the eaves to find the walls covered with frescoes. He also conducted us to a small burying-ground—a few Yao graves sheltered by low thatched roofs (now somewhat dilapidated) which, with the cloth fastened on the top, I now saw for the first time.

Having previously heard that the unyago was taking place this year at Akundonde’s, we made every effort to see and hear as much as possible. The promise of a princely remuneration soon brought about the desired result, but the jumbe told me that the carriers and soldiers could not be allowed to come with me, though Moritz and Kibwana would be admitted. My two boys are by this time heartily sick of campaigning, and their sense of duty requires stimulating in the usual way; but this done, they trudge along, though reluctantly, behind us with the camera.

The headman leads us out of the village through byways, evidently desiring to escape notice, and then our party of five plunges into the silent bush, which here, with its large trees almost reminds me of our German forests; the foliage, too, is fresher and more abundant than we ever saw it on the other side of Chingulungulu. In the natural excitement of the new discoveries awaiting us, I pay no heed to place or time—I cannot tell whether we have been walking for half-an-hour or an hour, when, breaking through a thicket, we see a small hut before us and find that we have reached our goal.

Our exertions have been amply rewarded. Before I have yet had time to note the size, construction and workmanship of the hut, we are surrounded by a troop of half-grown boys. With loud cries and energetic gestures the jumbe orders them back, and I now perceive the approach of an elderly man who must have come out of the hut, for he suddenly appears as if he had risen out of the ground. This is the wa mijira,^[40] the man who presides over all the ceremonies of the boys’ unyago. He greets us solemnly and signals with a barely perceptible motion of his eyelids to the boys. These are already drawn up in a long row: strange, slight figures in the wide grass kilts which make them look like ballet-dancers. Each one holds to his mouth a flute-like instrument from which they proceed to elicit a musical salute. Once more I have to regret my lack of musical training, for this performance is unique of its kind. After hearing the not unpleasing melody to its close, I approach near enough to make a closer inspection of the band. The instruments are nothing more than pieces of bamboo, each differing from the rest in length and diameter, but all closed-at the lower end by the natural joint of the reed, and cut off smoothly at the upper. In this way, each of the little musicians can only play one note, but each produces his own with perfect correctness and fits it so accurately into the concerted “song without words” as to form an entirely harmonious whole. Moritz has meanwhile been attending to his duties as Minister of Finance, and some of the boys have even been persuaded to retire behind the hut and show me the result of the surgical operation which they underwent about a month ago, but which in some cases is still causing suppuration. Now, however, I wish to see the inside of the hut.

The European in Africa soon grows accustomed to do without luxuries for his own part, and would never dream of looking for them in the dwellings of the natives; but the primitive roughness of this place in which fifteen boys are expected to live for several months, baffles description. The ndagala, as the circumcision-lodge is officially called, is a good-sized building, being about thirty-two feet by thirteen, but neither the walls, constructed of crooked, knotty logs, with gaps between them affording free admission to the wind, nor the very airy and badly-kept thatch of the roof, are much protection against the cold at night. There is a doorway in the centre of each longitudinal wall, but no doors. On entering one sees in the first instance nothing but millet-straw mixed with heaps of ashes. This straw covers the floor, lies in heaps against the walls, and is spread out untidily over sixteen originally, doubtless, quite decent beds. One of these couches is appropriated to the master, the others are those on which his disciples have not only slept, but undergone the painful operation without anæsthesia or antiseptic treatment of any kind, but with set teeth and in silence. Every sign of suffering on such occasions is sternly forbidden by the Yaos, these East African Spartans. If, in spite of all his resolution, some poor little fellow, really only a child, is unable to suppress a cry of pain, he finds himself roared down by the anamungwi, his master and his companions.

The fifteen beds are already much dilapidated; some are quite broken, and others show but scant traces of the neat arrangement of straw which distinguished them at first. The great heap of ashes beside every bed shows that the little patients try to protect themselves against the cold at night by keeping up a good fire. They all look thoroughly neglected, and are thickly encrusted with dirt, dust and ashes from head to foot, so that the bath which concludes the ceremonies in the ndagala, and therefore the novitiate of the candidates, is not only a long foregone pleasure, but a direct necessity.

In the centre of the hut we see the branch of a tree set up in the ground. It is painted in various colours and hung with strips of skin, tails of animals and skins of birds. This is called the lupanda, and from it the whole ceremony takes its name, the term unyago being applied to initiation ceremonies in general, that of lupanda to the boys’ “mysteries” only. Nothing more is to be got out of the old man, so that I shall have to find some other informant, especially with regard to the girls’ unyago, which, by all I hear must be at least as interesting as the lupanda. Part of my wish was unexpectedly gratified a day or two later. The jumbe, roused to enthusiasm by the fee received for his services, came to us in great haste just after dinner. We have pitched our camp on a spot with a beautiful view but imperfectly sheltered from the evening gale, at the edge of the bush on the highest point of the hill. Knudsen at first pleaded, as on previous occasions, for the occupation of the baraza; but our old enemy the whirlwind, which of course surprised us just as the pea-soup was being dished up, soon brought him to a better mind. As we were dozing under the banda, a shelter of branches and grass, such as every mnyampara and his men can set up in a few minutes, pressing our hands from sheer habit to our aching temples and thinking of nothing—unquestionably the best occupation in these latitudes—the jumbe came running up, shouting from afar that a chiputu was going on at Akuchikomu’s. The bwana mkubwa and the bwana mdogo might see a great deal if they would go, but the women were shy and timid, and the carriers and soldiers could not be allowed to come with us. In a few minutes we were on the road, Moritz and Kibwana being heavily loaded, as this time I brought not only my large camera, but the cinematograph, too long inactive, from which I hoped great things. The walk was a longer one than on the previous day, the road at first leading north-eastward along the crest of the ridge, and then turning to the west and descending into the green valley of a babbling stream. Before reaching the valley we found the road barred by a huge circle of huts—structures of the most primitive kind consisting merely of a few poles driven into the ground, upright or slanting, and joined at the top by a horizontal cross-piece, the whole thatched with the long African grass. But these sheds were arranged with almost mathematical precision in a continuous circle of over fifty yards in diameter. This is the real place where the festival—not, however, the ceremony we have come to see, but the lupanda—is held. Here the long series of observances begins with dancing, feasting and singing, and here, when the boys return after their three or four months’ absence, recovered from the operation and initiated into the mysteries of sexual life and the moral code of the tribe, the closing celebration takes place. So out with tripod, camera, and plates. Though but a beginner in photography when I started, I have long ago by dint of continual practice become a fundi who can take his twenty or thirty negatives in a few minutes. One glance at the two little mounds of ashes occupying fixed positions in the arena, and then we were off again.

By two in the afternoon we had reached a miserable little Makua village; indeed, it scarcely deserves the name of a village, though the inhabitants of its two or three wretched huts had taken upon themselves to entertain the whole neighbourhood. In fact, a large crowd was assembled, consisting chiefly of women and girls, the men being decidedly in a minority. This alone would be sufficient to stamp the festival as one belonging peculiarly to the women.

The structure where this ceremony was to take place was typically African, not over large, but quite sufficiently so for the object in view. The natives thoroughly understand the art of putting up buildings admirably suited to the purpose they are to serve, and also quite pleasing in style and shape, out of the cheapest materials and with the simplest appliances, in a very short time. This hut was circular, with an encircling wall of poles and millet-straw, between six and seven feet high. It was about thirty feet in diameter, with two doorways facing each other, and a central post supporting the roof. The women were just entering in solemn procession, while the tuning up of several drums was heard from the inside. The jumbe’s hint as to the shyness of the women was abundantly justified; those who caught sight of us at once ran away. The participants only grew calm when we had succeeded in getting up unseen close to the outer wall of the building and there finding shelter in a group of men disposed to be sensible. It was, however, even now impossible to sketch any of the women. I am in the habit, wherever I can, of jotting down in a few rapid strokes every picturesque “bit” I come across, and here I found them in unusual number. Since I left the coast, labrets, nose-pins, and ear-studs have become quite hackneyed, but hitherto I had come across no specimens of such size or racial types so markedly savage and intact. When one of these women laughs, the effect is simply indescribable. So long as her face keeps its normal serious expression, the snow-white disc remains in a horizontal position, that is to say, if the wearer is still young and good-looking. If, however, she breaks into the short, giggling laugh peculiar to the young negress, the pelele flies up with an abrupt jerk and stands straight up over the ivory-white and still perfect teeth, while the young woman’s pretty brown eyes flash with merriment, and the weight of the heavy wooden plug sets up a quick vibration in the upper lip, which is dragged out by almost a hand-breadth from its normal position. Then the baby on the woman’s back (nearly all of them are carrying babies), begins to cry piteously under the searching gaze of the strange white man; and, in short, the whole spectacle is one which must be seen to be appreciated—no pen can describe it.

Our place was well chosen, and enabled us to survey the whole interior of the hut without let or hindrance. I noticed three youths sitting on stools of honour in a reserved part of the hall, and inquired of the jumbe, who stood beside me, obligingly ready to be of use, who those three little shrimps were? It appeared that they were the husbands of the girls whose chiputu was being celebrated that day.

And what is chiputu? It is the celebration of a girl’s arrival at womanhood; but that is a long story, which we have no time to investigate just now, for the drums have struck up, in that peculiar cadence, heard at every ngoma, which no one who has visited East Africa can ever forget. At the same moment the closely-packed throng of black bodies has already arranged itself for a dance. With a step something like the gait of a water-wagtail, they move, rhythmically gliding and rocking, round the central posts, at which three old hags stand grinning.

“Who are those?” I ask.

Those are the anamungwi, the instructresses of the three girls; they are to receive the reward of their work to-day. “See now, sir, what is happening.” For the moment nothing happens, the dance goes on and on, first in the way already described, then changing to one which is not so much African as generally Oriental: it is the so-called danse du ventre. At last this too comes to an end, the figure breaks up in wild confusion, one snatching in this direction, another in that, and everyone gathers once more round the anamungwi. These are no longer smiling, but comport themselves with great dignity as they have every right to do. One after another, the women come forward to hand them their gifts, pieces of new cloth, strings of beads, bead necklaces and armlets, and various items of a similar character. “That is all very fine,” their looks seem to say, “but is this an equivalent for the unspeakable trouble which the training of our amwali, our pupils, has given us for years past? We expect something more than that!” However, the festive throng are not in the least disturbed by this mute criticism; people all chatter at once, just as they do in other parts of the world, and everyone is in the highest spirits.

Now comes a new stage. “Hawara marre” mutters the jumbe. This even Nils Knudsen cannot translate, for it is Kimakua, which he does not know, but the jumbe, like all intelligent men in this country, is a polyglottist. He says the Yao for it is “Chisuwi mkamule” (“The leopard breaks out”). At this moment something unexpected happens. The three young fellows rise quick as lightning, and, with loud crashing and rustling, they have burst through the fragile hut-wall and are seen retiring towards the outskirts of the village. I have not yet clearly made out whether these youthful husbands themselves represent the leopard or whether they are to be thought of as pursued by an imaginary leopard. In either case, the leisurely pace at which they stroll away is scarcely convincing and still less imposing; less so, certainly, than the song of Hawara marre, rendered by the women with equal spirit and energy, which rings out into the sun-baked pori long after the three leopards have vanished in the distance.

Now comes another picture; the hall is empty, but the open space beside it, which has been carefully swept, swarms with brightly-coloured fantastic figures. It is only now that we can see how they have adorned themselves for the occasion. The massive brass bangles, nearly an inch thick, which they wear on their wrists and ankles, shine like burnished gold, and the calico of their skirts and upper garments is of the brightest colours. These cloths, in fact, have just been bought from the Indian traders at Lindi or Mrweka, at great expense, by the gallant husbands, who have recently made an expedition to the coast for the purpose. The white pelele seems to shine whiter than usual, and the woolly heads and brown faces are quite lustrous with freshly-applied castor oil, the universal cosmetic of these regions. Once more the anamungwi take up a majestic pose, and once more all the women crowd round them. This time the presents consist of cobs of maize, heads of millet, and other useful household supplies, which are showered wholesale on the recipients.

Once more the scene changes. The drummers have been tuning up their instruments more carefully than usual, and at this moment the fire blazes up for the last time and then expires. The first drum begins—boom, boom, boóm, boom, boom, boóm, boom, boom, boóm: two short notes followed by a long one. How the man’s hands fly! There are more ways of drumming than one, certainly,—but the art as practised here seems to require a special gift. It is by no means a matter of indifference whether the drumhead is struck with the whole hand, or with the finger-tips only, or whether the sound is produced by the knuckles or finger-joints of the closed fist. It is pretty generally assumed that we Europeans have an entirely different mental organization from that of the black race, but even we are not unaffected by the rhythm of this particular kind of drumming. On the contrary, the European involuntarily begins to move his legs and bend his knees in time to the music, and would almost feel impelled to join the ranks of the dancers, were it not for the necessity of maintaining the decorum of the ruling race, and of keeping eye and ear on the alert for everything that is going forward.

The dance which the women are now performing is called ikoma.^[41] Our eyes are insufficiently trained to perceive the slight differences between these various choric dances, and so we grew tired with mere looking on long before the natives, who are exerting themselves to the utmost, begin to weary. In this case the sun contributes to the result, and Moritz is already feeling ill, as he says, from the smell of the crowd; though he certainly has no right to look down on his compatriots in this respect. It is true that he has improved since the day at Lindi, when I drove him before my kiboko into the Indian Ocean, because he diffused around him such a frightful effluvium of “high” shark, that it seemed as if he himself had been buried for months. I am just about to pack up my apparatus, when the uniform, somewhat tedious rhythm in which the crowd of black bodies is moving suddenly changes. Hitherto, everything has been characterized by the utmost decency, even according to our standards, but now what do I see? With swift gesture the bright-coloured draperies fly up, leaving legs and hips entirely free, the feet move faster, and with a more vivacious and rapid motion the dancers now circle round one another in pairs. I am fixed to the spot by a sight I have often heard of, but which has never come in my way before:—the large keloids which, in the most varied patterns cover these parts of the body. The scars are raised to this size by cutting again and again during the process of healing. This, too, belongs to the ideal of beauty in this country.

Unfortunately, I was not able to await the end of the ikoma. The performers, in spite of the small silver coin which I had distributed to each of them, were evidently constrained in the presence of a European,—a being known to most of them only by hearsay—and the spontaneous merriment which had prevailed inside the hut was not to be recovered. Besides, I was forced, out of consideration for Moritz, who was now quite grey in the face, to return as quickly as possible.

Akundonde’s junior headman is excellent as a practical guide, but has little theoretic knowledge,—he is probably too young to know much of the traditional lore of his own tribe and the Makua. Old Akundonde himself keeps silence,—perhaps because he needs a stronger inducement than any yet received. This, however, I am unable to offer, especially as we ourselves have to subsist on our tinned goods, the usual lean fowls and a few old guinea-fowl shot by Knudsen. There is no trace of the liberal gifts of pombe which had delighted our thirsty souls at Masasi and Chingulungulu.

It was, therefore, with light hearts that we left Akundonde’s on the fourth day for Newala. The stages of our three days’ march were Chingulungulu, where we had left a considerable part of our baggage, and Mchauru, a very scattered village in a district and on a river of the same name, in the foothills of the Makonde plateau. Mchauru is interesting enough in several respects. First, topographically: the river, which has excavated for itself a channel sixty, in some places even ninety feet deep, in the loose alluvial soil, runs south-westward towards the Rovuma. On reaching the bottom of this gorge, after a difficult climb, we found no running water, but had to dig at least a fathom into the clean sand before coming on the subterranean supply. The deep, narrow water-holes, frequently met with show that the natives are well aware of this circumstance. The vegetation in this whole district, however, is very rich, and it is not easy to see at present whence it comes, since we are on the landward side of the hills whose seaward slope precipitates the rains. It is possible that the soil here holds more moisture than in other parts of the plain.

Mchauru has not only charming scenery but abounds in ethnographic interest. It possesses, in the first place, a fundi who makes the finest ebony nose-pins in the country, and inlays them with zinc in the most tasteful manner, and secondly, a celebrated magician by the name of Medula. In fact, it was on account of these two men that I halted here at all. The nose-pin-maker was not to be found—we were told that he was away on a journey—but Medula was at home.

From our camp, pitched under a huge tree beside the road, we—that is Knudsen and I, with my more immediate followers carrying the apparatus—walked through banana groves (which I now saw for the first time), and extensive fields of maize, beans, and peas, ready for gathering, in a south-westerly direction for nearly an hour. At intervals the path runs along the bed of a stream, where the deep sand makes walking difficult. At last, on ascending a small hill, we found ourselves before an open shed in which an old native was seated, not squatting in the usual way, but with his legs stretched out before him, like a European. After salutations, my errand was explained to him,—I wanted him to tell me all about his medicines and sell me some of them, also to weave something for us. According to native report, there are only two men left in the whole country who still possess this art, already obsolete through the cheapness of imported calico. Medula is one of these weavers,—the other, a tottering old man, I saw, several weeks ago, at Mkululu. I was greatly disappointed in him; he had not the faintest notion of weaving, and there was nothing in the shape of a loom to be seen in his hut; the only thing he could do was to spin a moderately good cotton thread on the distaff.

I expected more satisfactory results from Medula; but the medicines were the first point to be attended to. We haggled with him like Armenians, but he would concede nothing, finally showing us one or two of the usual calabashes with their questionable contents, but demanding so exorbitant a price that it was my turn to say, as I had great satisfaction in doing, “Hapana rafiki” (“It won’t do, my friend”). Medula is a philosopher in his way—“Well, if it won’t, it won’t,” appeared to be his reflection, as he turned the conversation to the subject of his name, then tried to pronounce mine, and gradually passed over to the second part of our programme. All this time I was on the watch with my camera, like the reporter of some detestable illustrated weekly. Medula was seated in an unfavourable position: bright light outside—deep shadow within his cool hut. I requested him to change his seat—he declined. My entreaties and flatteries had no other result than to make him grin, deliberately get out his pipe, light it with a burning coal, and puff away without moving. Trusting to my Voigtländer’s lens, I at last let him alone, as things had come to a standstill, and I wanted to see the loom and its use. Medula said that he must first make the thread. I submitted; the old man put a leisurely hand into a basket, deliberately took out a handful of cotton-seeds, husked them secundum artem and began beating the flaky white mass with a little stick. In a surprisingly short time a fairly large quantity of cotton was reduced to the proper consistency; Medula seized it in his left hand and began to pull out the thread with his right. So far the process looked familiar; the people who came over every winter during my boyhood from Eichsfeld to our Hanoverian village, to spin the farmers’ wool for them, always began in the same way. The parallel, however, ceased with the next step, and the procedure became entirely prehistoric. The new thread was knotted on to the end of that on the distaff, the latter drawn through a cleft which takes the place of the eye on our spinning-wheel, the spindle whirled in the right hand, the left being extended as far as possible—and then both arms moved downward; the spindle was quickly rolled round on the upper part of the thigh, and the thread was ready for winding. Medula contrived to weary us out with this performance, but never produced his loom, in whose existence I have entirely ceased to believe. He promised at our parting—which was marked by a decided coolness—to bring the implement with him to Newala; but not even the most stupid of my men gave any credit to his assurance.