Having witnessed—thanks to Sefu, and to a favourable conjuncture of circumstances—the festive ceremonies of the unyago, I have been trying to study the theory and the details of the whole process of initiation for both sexes. I find this extremely difficult. It is true that I have gradually obtained a complete view of the boys’ unyago, though it cost me endless trouble to ascertain all the rules; but the other part of the problem seems to be absolutely bewitched, so many accumulated obstacles oppose themselves to its solution. Under other circumstances, this might drive the most patient inquirer to despair; but on the Makonde plateau, happily, there is no time for despair, for with this question are associated a hundred others, not less interesting and important, and therefore demanding an answer with equal insistency.

But I see that I must arrange the account of my inquiries and their principal results in a systematic way in order to present them in a form which can be satisfactorily grasped by the reader.

Taken all round, the whole environment of Newala is such as to offer a sort of resistance to every kind of intense intellectual work. Not that we suffer from the heat here, at a height of about 2,460 feet above sea-level, to the same degree as we did in the plain, which had gradually become something like a baker’s oven. It is true that the temperature of about 80° F. indicated by the maximum thermometer in our baraza during the early hours of the afternoon, causes the same severe headache as the 86° F. and over of the plain; but, on the one hand, one gets used to having one’s work suspended by the heat, and, on the other, the natives generally sleep through the hottest part of the day, so that I lose nothing by inactivity at that time. Much more trying is the loss of time resulting from the cumulative effect of a series of other circumstances, which may seem almost comical to those not immediately concerned, and even occasionally prove amusing to ourselves, but which are serious hindrances none the less.

In the first place, we have the daily changes of temperature. In the grey dawn, wrapped up warmly in two blankets, I hear heavy drops falling on the tent-roof, think half-consciously, that it is raining, and doze off again, soon to be awakened by sounds of creaking and groaning which make me sit up with a start. On opening my eyes I see the ropes so tightly stretched that the tough ashen poles are bent over almost into a half-circle. With an imprecation on the careless sentinel, I jump from beneath my mosquito-net, call him up along with the two previously on duty, and make them lengthen the ropes as a punishment. By the time this is accomplished, not without severe exertion, it is quite light, and I do not find it worth while to go to sleep again. Now comes the pleasantest event of the day—the morning bath; at six a.m. the temperature is between 57° and 58°, perfectly Arctic for Africa. The long row of gourds treated the day before with alum contain water which feels ice-cold; and the bath and the rub down afterwards, are truly delicious. Kibwana, in his capacity of valet, has long ago become accustomed to my white skin; but there are plenty of eyes staring through the gaps in the boma palisade or the headman’s fence, in astonished enjoyment of this daily spectacle. When I get out, I find there is not a vestige of rain—it was only the heavy morning dew, dripping from the thick-foliaged mango-trees under which our tents are pitched. The sun is as yet invisible; Newala is shrouded in a thick mist—not even the lofty trees in the burying-ground outside the gateway being recognizable in this rolling sea of white. Instinctively, Knudsen and I put on the winter clothes already described, and I add a muffler in the shape of a folded handkerchief, while he buttons his overcoat up to his chin.

This has brought us to about half-past six; and, quite ready for work, I leave the tent at the moment when the soldiers are reporting for the two hours’ daily drill, which I introduced at Masasi, to keep them from becoming confirmed loafers. Hemedi Maranga comes up to me to make his report. This smart fellow has already improved the appearance of the company; he is a born soldier, while his predecessor, Saleh, was more of a hunter. Saleh has been sent by the District Commissioner to the Central Lukuledi Valley to get rid of the lions which are still decimating the unhappy inhabitants, numerous lives having been lost even since we passed through in July. All success to him in his perilous task!

While I am amusing myself with my breakfast—cocoa made very thick, and the usual large omelette with bananas—the corporal and his division have marched out into the pori, to practise bush-fighting or go through their drill. “Legt an! Feuer! Geladen!” The word of command, strange enough in the mouth of a native, rings out from a distance as clearly and sharply as if spoken by the smartest of German non-commissioned officers. But I have no time to listen to this reminder of far-off home scenes, for already my wise elders are arriving with the slow, dignified pace of the old native. It was agreed yesterday that they should be here by seven. This may sound surprising, considering that the natives have neither clocks nor watches, and would be unable to read them if they had; but it was arrived at in the following way. When we stopped work at sunset yesterday, all, white and black alike, too tired to sit up any longer, I said to the fifteen old men, getting Sefu to interpret my words into Kimakua and Kima-konde: “You are to come again to-morrow, saa” (at the hour of), and completed my sentence by stretching out my arm to the east at an angle of 15° with the horizon. The men watched me attentively. In order to make sure, I had them asked whether they understood, and each forthwith raised one arm and held it at exactly the same angle. Fifteen degrees is the height reached by the sun an hour after rising, and therefore equivalent to seven o’clock; if I want them at a later hour, I enlarge the angle accordingly. This is no invention of mine, but the universal custom of the country; and the people can indicate accurately the relative position of the sun at periods separated by the smallest intervals of time.

A couple of hours have sped quickly enough, filled up with questions and answers relating to various points of custom and tradition, and the old gentlemen are still squatting round me in a semicircle, on a huge mat. On the first day of our work in common, one of them was so far from putting any restraint on himself as to send a jet of tobacco-juice, sailor-fashion, through his teeth just in front of my feet. “Mshenzi!” (“You savage!”) I growled, half involuntarily, and since then I have had no occasion to complain of the smallest breach of good manners. It is true that they bring with them a strong effluvium of perspiration and rancid oil, so that I feel worse and worse as the hours pass; and they are accompanied by a cloud of flies, which go on doing their level best to transfer to the white stranger the ophthalmic affections from which the natives suffer; but otherwise their behaviour is deserving of all respect. The observation which I have made in all places hitherto visited, that these savages have a strong natural sense of tact, holds good here also. If we compare their behaviour with that of certain circles and strata of our home population, we are forced to the conclusion that we Europeans, though we imagine ourselves to have taken a long lease of all the culture and tact on earth, are, after all, not very much more favourable specimens of humanity.

But the shed has all this time been growing hotter, and the northern style of clothing is no longer called for. Off with the heavy boots, then, and the thick woollen stockings, as well as the warm flannel shirt, waistcoat, and neckcloth, to be replaced by thin tropical garments affording free passage of the air. At noon the khaki coat is flung into a corner, and a thin silk jacket assumed instead of it. This completes the negative process, which has to be reversed again as the sun declines. The dreaded evening gale of Newala sets in with a sharp, icy squall, and Knudsen and I, by a simultaneous and violent sneeze, prove that our chronic catarrh, though latent by day, is as vigorous as ever. There is no help for it; we must put on again, piece by piece, our whole winter stock, and, moreover, by a habit which has now become an instinct, wrap ourselves up in overcoats when the gale, now arrived at its height, whirls clouds of dirt and dust through our dwelling. In the course of the four weeks we have spent here, we have had to close in this abode more and more. The mats originally put up to protect the open side have long since been replaced by a solid wall of thatch, which has swallowed up one panel after another, so that now by the end of the month only one large window remains to admit light. In the evening the carriers tie a large tarpaulin in front of this opening, but even this complete shutting off of the wind does not make the place comfortable. When, about ten, I have finished developing my plates and come, bathed in perspiration, out of the tent which serves me for a dark-room into the baraza, I find my Norwegian friend a shapeless bundle, wrapped in all the available blankets, but his teeth chattering all the same. Each of us then makes haste to creep into his warm tent. The tents, by the bye, have only become really warm since we have had a screen of millet-straw, strengthened by strong stakes, built in front of them to windward. Before this was done, they were in danger of being blown over every night. These are the daily cares of clothing and lodging: their amount is not excessive, but in any case they take up a certain fraction of my precious time, on which still further inroads are made by the necessary provision for food and health.

Next to the bush, the greatest peculiarity of the Makonde Plateau is the fact that its surface is quite waterless; the soil, down to a considerable depth, consisting of a loose stratification of sandy loam and loamy sand. In the west these strata belong to the upper chalk formation, and are called Makonde beds, in the east they are tertiary, and are called Mikindani beds. Both are extraordinarily pervious to water, so that all atmospheric moisture, if not evaporated or retained by the abundant vegetation, rapidly sinks through them till stopped by the impervious strata—the inclined plane of the Newala sandstone or the primæval granite core (of the same nature as the insular mountains yonder in the Masasi plain), which we must suppose to exist in the depths of the Makonde Plateau. The water, flowing down along these strata, does not, of course, come to the surface till it reaches the declivity of the plateau, which, in contrast with the upper level, is a region abounding even to excess in springs and brooks.

One might therefore expect to find the plateau itself uninhabited, and all the people settled at its edges. That is the course which would have been followed by Europeans like ourselves skilled in the rationale of colonization. As a matter of fact, not a human being lives below, but on the heights there are over 80,000 Makonde, nearly 5,000 Wangoni, thousands of Wayao and Wamakua, and a—to me—unknown number of Wamatambwe. In recent times, however, the tendency to come further and further down into the well-watered lowlands, has been gaining ground. This has been caused by the cessation of the Mafiti raids and the firm rule of the German Administration. This tendency, however, only affects the more progressive elements, the Yaos and Makuas, not the Makonde. The latter follow the practice which has been usual with them from time immemorial. So soon as the most necessary work has been done in house and garden, father and son, or mother and daughter take on their shoulders a pole, some yard and a half or two yards long, to each end of which is fastened a large gourd, or perhaps two. They hurry along at a rapid walk to the edge of the plateau, from which their hamlet is inconveniently distant, scramble down a steep declivity by a difficult path, remain for a while in the marshy bottom and return with their load up the almost vertical ascent of several hundred yards. At last, having accomplished the toilsome climb, they draw a deep breath, and walk, or rather trot, back to their village. The Makonde are said to devote the greater part of their lives to tillage—which I find true as far as I have gone, though I have not reached their main centre of distribution—but beyond all doubt the second largest share of their time is absorbed by these long excursions—so foolish a waste of time according to our ideas—in search of water. If half the family has to spend two hours, or even more, daily in bringing in, at the cost of severe labour, just enough water to cook their pittance of ugali and allow every one a muddy draught all round, it is surely an economic absurdity.

Newala, too, suffers from the distance of its water-supply—at least the Newala of to-day does; there was once another Newala in a lovely valley at the foot of the plateau. I visited it and found scarcely a trace of houses, only a Christian cemetery, with the graves of several missionaries and their converts, remaining as a monument of its former glories. But the surroundings are wonderfully beautiful. A thick grove of splendid mango-trees closes in the weather-worn crosses and headstones; behind them, combining the useful and the agreeable, is a whole plantation of lemon-trees covered with ripe fruit; not the small African kind, but a much larger and also juicier imported variety, which drops into the hands of the passing traveller, without calling for any exertion on his part. Old Newala is now under the jurisdiction of the native pastor, Daudi, at Chingulungulu, who, as I am on very friendly terms with him, allows me, as a matter of course, the use of this lemon-grove during my stay at Newala.

The water-supply of New Newala is in the bottom of the valley, some 1,600 feet lower down. The way is not only long and fatiguing, but the water, when we get it, is thoroughly bad. We are suffering not only from this, but from the fact that the arrangements at Newala are nothing short of luxurious. We have a separate kitchen—a hut built against the boma palisade on the right of the baraza, the interior of which is not visible from our usual position. Our two cooks were not long in finding this out, and they consequently do—or rather neglect to do—what they please. In any case they do not seem to be very particular about the boiling of our drinking-water—at least I can attribute to no other cause certain attacks of a dysenteric nature, from which both Knudsen and I have suffered for some time. If a man like Omari has to be left unwatched for a moment, he is capable of anything. Besides this complaint, we are inconvenienced by the state of our nails, which have become as hard as glass, and crack on the slightest provocation, and I have the additional infliction of pimples all over me. As if all this were not enough, we have also, for the last week been waging war against the jigger, who has found his Eldorado in the hot sand of the Makonde plateau. Our men are seen all day long—whenever their chronic colds and the dysentery likewise raging among them permit—occupied in removing this scourge of Africa from their feet and trying to prevent the disastrous consequences of its presence. It is quite common to see natives of this place with one or two toes missing; many have lost all their toes, or even the whole front part of the foot, so that a well-formed leg ends in a shapeless stump. These ravages are caused by the female of Sarcopsylla penetrans, which bores its way under the skin and there develops an egg-sac the size of a pea. In all books on the subject, it is stated that one’s attention is called to the presence of this parasite by an intolerable itching. This agrees very well with my experience, so far as the softer parts of the sole, the spaces between and under the toes, and the side of the foot are concerned, but if the creature penetrates through the harder parts of the heel or ball of the foot, it may escape even the most careful search till it has reached maturity. Then there is no time to be lost, if the horrible ulceration, of which we see cases by the dozen every day, is to be prevented. It is much easier, by the way, to discover the insect on the white skin of a European than on that of a native, on which the dark speck scarcely shows. The four or five jiggers which, in spite of the fact that I constantly wore high laced boots, chose my feet to settle in, were taken out for me by the all-accomplished Knudsen, after which I thought it advisable to wash out the cavities with corrosive sublimate. The natives have a different sort of disinfectant—they fill the hole with scraped roots. In a tiny Makua village on the slope of the plateau south of Newala, we saw an old woman who had filled all the spaces under her toe-nails with powdered roots by way of prophylactic treatment. What will be the result, if any, who can say?

The rest of the many trifling ills which trouble our existence are really more comic than serious. In the absence of anything else to smoke, Knudsen and I at last opened a box of cigars procured from the Indian store-keeper at Lindi, and tried them, with the most distressing results. Whether they contain opium or some other narcotic, neither of us can say, but after the tenth puff we were both “off,” three-quarters stupefied and unspeakably wretched. Slowly we recovered—and what happened next? Half-an-hour later we were once more smoking these poisonous concoctions—so insatiable is the craving for tobacco in the tropics.

Even my present attacks of fever scarcely deserve to be taken seriously. I have had no less than three here at Newala, all of which have run their course in an incredibly short time. In the early afternoon, I am busy with my old natives, asking questions and making notes. The strong midday coffee has stimulated my spirits to an extraordinary degree, the brain is active and vigorous, and work progresses rapidly, while a pleasant warmth pervades the whole body. Suddenly this gives place to a violent chill, forcing me to put on my overcoat, though it is only half-past three and the afternoon sun is at its hottest. Now the brain no longer works with such acuteness and logical precision; more especially does it fail me in trying to establish the syntax of the difficult Makua language on which I have ventured, as if I had not enough to do without it. Under the circumstances it seems advisable to take my temperature, and I do so, to save trouble, without leaving my seat, and while going on with my work. On examination, I find it to be 101·48°. My tutors are abruptly dismissed and my bed set up in the baraza; a few minutes later I am in it and treating myself internally with hot water and lemon-juice.

Three hours later, the thermometer marks nearly 104°, and I make them carry me back into the tent, bed and all, as I am now perspiring heavily, and exposure to the cold wind just beginning to blow might mean a fatal chill. I lie still for a little while, and then find, to my great relief, that the temperature is not rising, but rather falling. This is about 7.30 p.m. At 8 p.m. I find, to my unbounded astonishment, that it has fallen below 98·6°, and I feel perfectly well. I read for an hour or two, and could very well enjoy a smoke, if I had the wherewithal—Indian cigars being out of the question.

Having no medical training, I am at a loss to account for this state of things. It is impossible that these transitory attacks of high fever should be malarial; it seems more probable that they are due to a kind of sunstroke. On consulting my note-book, I become more and more inclined to think this is the case, for these attacks regularly follow extreme fatigue and long exposure to strong sunshine. They at least have the advantage of being only short interruptions to my work, as on the following morning I am always quite fresh and fit. My treasure of a cook is suffering from an enormous hydrocele which makes it difficult for him to get up, and Moritz is obliged to keep in the dark on account of his inflamed eyes. Knudsen’s cook, a raw boy from somewhere in the bush, knows still less of cooking than Omari; consequently Nils Knudsen himself has been promoted to the vacant post. Finding that we had come to the end of our supplies, he began by sending to Chingulungulu for the four sucking-pigs which we had bought from Matola and temporarily left in his charge; and when they came up, neatly packed in a large crate, he callously slaughtered the biggest of them. The first joint we were thoughtless enough to entrust for roasting to Knudsen’s mshenzi cook, and it was consequently uneatable; but we made the rest of the animal into a jelly which we ate with great relish after weeks of underfeeding, consuming incredible helpings of it at both midday and evening meals. The only drawback is a certain want of variety in the tinned vegetables. Dr. Jäger, to whom the Geographical Commission entrusted the provisioning of the expeditions—mine as well as his own—because he had more time on his hands than the rest of us, seems to have laid in a huge stock of Teltow turnips,^[46] an article of food which is all very well for occasional use, but which quickly palls when set before one every day; and we seem to have no other tins left. There is no help for it—we must put up with the turnips; but I am certain that, once I am home again, I shall not touch them for ten years to come.

Amid all these minor evils, which, after all, go to make up the genuine flavour of Africa, there is at least one cheering touch: Knudsen has, with the dexterity of a skilled mechanic, repaired my 9 × 12 cm. camera, at least so far that I can use it with a little care. How, in the absence of finger-nails, he was able to accomplish such a ticklish piece of work, having no tool but a clumsy screw-driver for taking to pieces and putting together again the complicated mechanism of the instantaneous shutter, is still a mystery to me; but he did it successfully. The loss of his finger-nails shows him in a light contrasting curiously enough with the intelligence evinced by the above operation; though, after all, it is scarcely surprising after his ten years’ residence in the bush. One day, at Lindi, he had occasion to wash a dog, which must have been in need of very thorough cleansing, for the bottle handed to our friend for the purpose had an extremely strong smell. Having performed his task in the most conscientious manner, he perceived with some surprise that the dog did not appear much the better for it, and was further surprised by finding his own nails ulcerating away in the course of the next few days. “How was I to know that carbolic acid has to be diluted?” he mutters indignantly, from time to time, with a troubled gaze at his mutilated finger-tips.

Since we came to Newala we have been making excursions in all directions through the surrounding country, in accordance with old habit, and also because the akida Sefu did not get together the tribal elders from whom I wanted information so speedily as he had promised. There is, however, no harm done, as, even if seen only from the outside, the country and people are interesting enough.

The Makonde plateau is like a large rectangular table rounded off at the corners. Measured from the Indian Ocean to Newala, it is about seventy-five miles long, and between the Rovuma and the Lukuledi it averages fifty miles in breadth, so that its superficial area is about two-thirds of that of the kingdom of Saxony. The surface, however, is not level, but uniformly inclined from its south-western edge to the ocean. From the upper edge, on which Newala lies, the eye ranges for many miles east and north-east, without encountering any obstacle, over the Makonde bush. It is a green sea, from which here and there thick clouds of smoke rise, to show that it, too, is inhabited by men who carry on their tillage like so many other primitive peoples, by cutting down and burning the bush, and manuring with the ashes. Even in the radiant light of a tropical day such a fire is a grand sight.

Much less effective is the impression produced just now by the great western plain as seen from the edge of the plateau. As often as time permits, I stroll along this edge, sometimes in one direction, sometimes in another, in the hope of finding the air clear enough to let me enjoy the view; but I have always been disappointed. Wherever one looks, clouds of smoke rise from the burning bush, and the air is full of smoke and vapour. It is a pity, for under more favourable circumstances the panorama of the whole country up to the distant Majeje hills must be truly magnificent. It is of little use taking photographs now, and an outline sketch gives a very poor idea of the scenery. In one of these excursions I went out of my way to make a personal attempt on the Makonde bush. The present edge of the plateau is the result of a far-reaching process of destruction through erosion and denudation. The Makonde strata are everywhere cut into by ravines, which, though short, are hundreds of yards in depth. In consequence of the loose stratification of these beds, not only are the walls of these ravines nearly vertical, but their upper end is closed by an equally steep escarpment, so that the western edge of the Makonde plateau is hemmed in by a series of deep, basin-like valleys. In order to get from one side of such a ravine to the other, I cut my way through the bush with a dozen of my men. It was a very open part, with more grass than scrub, but even so the short stretch of less than two hundred yards was very hard work; at the end of it the men’s calicoes were in rags and they themselves bleeding from hundreds of scratches, while even our strong khaki suits had not escaped scatheless.

I see increasing reason to believe that the view formed some time back as to the origin of the Makonde bush is the correct one. I have no doubt that it is not a natural product, but the result of human occupation. Those parts of the high country where man—as a very slight amount of practice enables the eye to perceive at once—has not yet penetrated with axe and hoe, are still occupied by a splendid timber forest quite able to sustain a comparison with our mixed forests in Germany. But wherever man has once built his hut or tilled his field, this horrible bush springs up. Every phase of this process may be seen in the course of a couple of hours’ walk along the main road. From the bush to right or left, one hears the sound of the axe—not from one spot only, but from several directions at once. A few steps further on, we can see what is taking place. The brush has been cut down and piled up in heaps to the height of a yard or more, between which the trunks of the large trees stand up like the last pillars of a magnificent ruined building. These, too, present a melancholy spectacle: the destructive Makonde have ringed them—cut a broad strip of bark all round to ensure their dying off—and also piled up pyramids of brush round them. Father and son, mother and son-in-law, are chopping away perseveringly in the background—too busy, almost, to look round at the white stranger, who usually excites so much interest. If you pass by the same place a week later, the piles of brushwood have disappeared and a thick layer of ashes has taken the place of the green forest. The large trees stretch their smouldering trunks and branches in dumb accusation to heaven—if they have not already fallen and been more or less reduced to ashes, perhaps only showing as a white stripe on the dark ground.

This work of destruction is carried out by the Makonde alike on the virgin forest and on the bush which has sprung up on sites already cultivated and deserted. In the second case they are saved the trouble of burning the large trees, these being entirely absent in the secondary bush.

After burning this piece of forest ground and loosening it with the hoe, the native sows his corn and plants his vegetables. All over the country, he goes in for bed-culture, which requires, and, in fact, receives, the most careful attention. Weeds are nowhere tolerated in the south of German East Africa. The crops may fail on the plains, where droughts are frequent, but never on the plateau with its abundant rains and heavy dews. Its fortunate inhabitants even have the satisfaction of seeing the proud Wayao and Wamakua working for them as labourers, driven by hunger to serve where they were accustomed to rule.

But the light, sandy soil is soon exhausted, and would yield no harvest the second year if cultivated twice running. This fact has been familiar to the native for ages; consequently he provides in time, and, while his crop is growing, prepares the next plot with axe and firebrand. Next year he plants this with his various crops and lets the first piece lie fallow. For a short time it remains waste and desolate; then nature steps in to repair the destruction wrought by man; a thousand new growths spring out of the exhausted soil, and even the old stumps put forth fresh shoots. Next year the new growth is up to one’s knees, and in a few years more it is that terrible, impenetrable bush, which maintains its position till the black occupier of the land has made the round of all the available sites and come back to his starting point.

The Makonde are, body and soul, so to speak, one with this bush. According to my Yao informants, indeed, their name means nothing else but “bush people.” Their own tradition says that they have been settled up here for a very long time, but to my surprise they laid great stress on an original immigration. Their old homes were in the south-east, near Mikindani and the mouth of the Rovuma, whence their peaceful forefathers were driven by the continual raids of the Sakalavas from Madagascar and the warlike Shirazis^[47] of the coast, to take refuge on the almost inaccessible plateau. I have studied African ethnology for twenty years, but the fact that changes of population in this apparently quiet and peaceable corner of the earth could have been occasioned by outside enterprises taking place on the high seas, was completely new to me. It is, no doubt, however, correct.

The charming tribal legend of the Makonde—besides informing us of other interesting matters—explains why they have to live in the thickest of the bush and a long way from the edge of the plateau, instead of making their permanent homes beside the purling brooks and springs of the low country.

“The place where the tribe originated is Mahuta, on the southern side of the plateau towards the Rovuma, where of old time there was nothing but thick bush. Out of this bush came a man who never washed himself or shaved his head, and who ate and drank but little. He went out and made a human figure from the wood of a tree growing in the open country, which he took home to his abode in the bush and there set it upright. In the night this image came to life and was a woman. The man and woman went down together to the Rovuma to wash themselves. Here the woman gave birth to a still-born child. They left that place and passed over the high land into the valley of the Mbemkuru, where the woman had another child, which was also born dead. Then they returned to the high bush country of Mahuta, where the third child was born, which lived and grew up. In course of time, the couple had many more children, and called themselves Wamatanda. These were the ancestral stock of the Makonde, also called Wamakonde,^[48] i.e., aborigines. Their forefather, the man from the bush, gave his children the command to bury their dead upright, in memory of the mother of their race who was cut out of wood and awoke to life when standing upright. He also warned them against settling in the valleys and near large streams, for sickness and death dwelt there. They were to make it a rule to have their huts at least an hour’s walk from the nearest watering-place; then their children would thrive and escape illness.”

The explanation of the name Makonde given by my informants is somewhat different from that contained in the above legend, which I extract from a little book (small, but packed with information), by Pater Adams, entitled Lindi und sein Hinterland. Otherwise, my results agree exactly with the statements of the legend. Washing? Hapana—there is no such thing. Why should they do so? As it is, the supply of water scarcely suffices for cooking and drinking; other people do not wash, so why should the Makonde distinguish himself by such needless eccentricity? As for shaving the head, the short, woolly crop scarcely needs it,^[49] so the second ancestral precept is likewise easy enough to follow. Beyond this, however, there is nothing ridiculous in the ancestor’s advice. I have obtained from various local artists a fairly large number of figures carved in wood, ranging from fifteen to twenty-three inches in height, and representing women belonging to the great group of the Mavia, Makonde, and Matambwe tribes. The carving is remarkably well done and renders the female type with great accuracy, especially the keloid ornamentation, to be described later on. As to the object and meaning of their works the sculptors either could or (more probably) would tell me nothing, and I was forced to content myself with the scanty information vouchsafed by one man, who said that the figures were merely intended to represent the nembo—the artificial deformations of pelele, ear-discs, and keloids. The legend recorded by Pater Adams places these figures in a new light. They must surely be more than mere dolls; and we may even venture to assume that they are—though the majority of present-day Makonde are probably unaware of the fact—representations of the tribal ancestress.

The references in the legend to the descent from Mahuta to the Rovuma, and to a journey across the highlands into the Mbekuru valley, undoubtedly indicate the previous history of the tribe, the travels of the ancestral pair typifying the migrations of their descendants. The descent to the neighbouring Rovuma valley, with its extraordinary fertility and great abundance of game, is intelligible at a glance—but the crossing of the Lukuledi depression, the ascent to the Rondo Plateau and the descent to the Mbemkuru, also lie within the bounds of probability, for all these districts have exactly the same character as the extreme south. Now, however, comes a point of especial interest for our bacteriological age. The primitive Makonde did not enjoy their lives in the marshy river-valleys. Disease raged among them, and many died. It was only after they had returned to their original home near Mahuta, that the health conditions of these people improved. We are very apt to think of the African as a stupid person whose ignorance of nature is only equalled by his fear of it, and who looks on all mishaps as caused by evil spirits and malignant natural powers. It is much more correct to assume in this case that the people very early learnt to distinguish districts infested with malaria from those where it is absent.

This knowledge is crystallized in the ancestral warning against settling in the valleys and near the great waters, the dwelling-places of disease and death. At the same time, for security against the hostile Mavia south of the Rovuma, it was enacted that every settlement must be not less than a certain distance from the southern edge of the plateau. Such in fact is their mode of life at the present day. It is not such a bad one, and certainly they are both safer and more comfortable than the Makua, the recent intruders from the south, who have made good their footing on the western edge of the plateau, extending over a fairly wide belt of country. Neither Makua nor Makonde show in their dwellings anything of the size and comeliness of the Yao houses in the plain, especially at Masasi, Chingulungulu and Zuza’s. Jumbe Chauro, a Makonde hamlet not far from Newala, on the road to Mahuta, is the most important settlement of the tribe I have yet seen, and has fairly spacious huts. But how slovenly is their construction compared with the palatial residences of the elephant-hunters living in the plain. The roofs are still more untidy than in the general run of huts during the dry season, the walls show here and there the scanty beginnings or the lamentable remains of the mud plastering, and the interior is a veritable dog-kennel; dirt, dust and disorder everywhere. A few huts only show any attempt at division into rooms, and this consists merely of very roughly-made bamboo partitions. In one point alone have I noticed any indication of progress—in the method of fastening the door. Houses all over the south are secured in a simple but ingenious manner. The door consists of a set of stout pieces of wood or bamboo, tied with bark-string to two cross-pieces, and moving in two grooves round one of the door-posts, so as to open inwards. If the owner wishes to leave home, he takes two logs as thick as a man’s upper arm and about a yard long. One of these is placed obliquely against the middle of the door from the inside, so as to form an angle of from 60° to 75° with the ground. He then places the second piece horizontally across the first, pressing it downward with all his might. It is kept in place by two strong posts planted in the ground a few inches inside the door. This fastening is absolutely safe, but of course cannot be applied to both doors at once, otherwise how could the owner leave or enter his house? I have not yet succeeded in finding out how the back door is fastened.

This is the general way of closing a house. The Makonde at Jumbe Chauro, however, have a much more complicated, solid and original one. Here, too, the door is as already described, except that there is only one post on the inside, standing by itself about six inches from one side of the doorway. Opposite this post is a hole in the wall just large enough to admit a man’s arm. The door is closed inside by a large wooden bolt passing through a hole in this post and pressing with its free end against the door. The other end has three holes into which fit three pegs running in vertical grooves inside the post. The door is opened with a wooden key about a foot long, somewhat curved and sloped off at the butt; the other end has three pegs corresponding to the holes, in the bolt, so that, when it is thrust through the hole in the wall and inserted into the rectangular opening in the post, the pegs can be lifted and the bolt drawn out.^[50]

With no small pride first one householder and then a second showed me on the spot the action of this greatest invention of the Makonde Highlands. To both with an admiring exclamation of “Vizuri sana!” (“Very fine!”). I expressed the wish to take back these marvels with me to Ulaya, to show the Wazungu what clever fellows the Makonde are. Scarcely five minutes after my return to camp at Newala, the two men came up sweating under the weight of two heavy logs which they laid down at my feet, handing over at the same time the keys of the fallen fortress. Arguing, logically enough, that if the key was wanted, the lock would be wanted with it, they had taken their axes and chopped down the posts—as it never occurred to them to dig them out of the ground and so bring them intact. Thus I have two badly damaged specimens, and the owners, instead of praise, come in for a blowing-up.

The Makua huts in the environs of Newala are especially miserable; their more than slovenly construction reminds one of the temporary erections of the Makua at Hatia’s, though the people here have not been concerned in a war. It must therefore be due to congenital idleness, or else to the absence of a powerful chief. Even the baraza at Mlipa’s, a short hour’s walk south-east of Newala, shares in this general neglect. While public buildings in this country are usually looked after more or less carefully, this is in evident danger of being blown over by the first strong easterly gale. The only attractive object in this whole district is the grave of the late chief Mlipa. I visited it in the morning, while the sun was still trying with partial success to break through the rolling mists, and the circular grove of tall euphorbias, which, with a broken pot, is all that marks the old king’s resting-place, impressed one with a touch of pathos. Even my very materially-minded carriers seemed to feel something of the sort, for instead of their usual ribald songs, they chanted solemnly, as we marched on through the dense green of the Makonde bush:—

“We shall arrive with the great master; we stand in a row and have no fear about getting our food and our money from the Serkali (the Government). We are not afraid; we are going along with the great master, the lion; we are going down to the coast and back.”

With regard to the characteristic features of the various tribes here on the western edge of the plateau, I can arrive at no other conclusion than the one already come to in the plain, viz., that it is impossible for anyone but a trained anthropologist to assign any given individual at once to his proper tribe. In fact, I think that even an anthropological specialist, after the most careful examination, might find it a difficult task to decide. The whole congeries of peoples collected in the region bounded on the west by the great Central African rift, Tanganyika and Nyasa, and on the east by the Indian Ocean, are closely related to each other—some of their languages are only distinguished from one another as dialects of the same speech, and no doubt all the tribes present the same shape of skull and structure of skeleton. Thus, surely, there can be no very striking differences in outward appearance.

Even did such exist, I should have no time to concern myself with them, for day after day, I have to see or hear, as the case may be—in any case to grasp and record—an extraordinary number of ethnographic phenomena. I am almost disposed to think it fortunate that some departments of inquiry, at least, are barred by external circumstances. Chief among these is the subject of iron-working. We are apt to think of Africa as a country where iron ore is everywhere, so to speak, to be picked up by the roadside, and where it would be quite surprising if the inhabitants had not learnt to smelt the material ready to their hand. In fact, the knowledge of this art ranges all over the continent, from the Kabyles in the north to the Kafirs in the south. Here between the Rovuma and the Lukuledi the conditions are not so favourable. According to the statements of the Makonde, neither ironstone nor any other form of iron ore is known to them. They have not therefore advanced to the art of smelting the metal, but have hitherto bought all their iron implements from neighbouring tribes. Even in the plain the inhabitants are not much better off. Only one man now living is said to understand the art of smelting iron. This old fundi lives close to Huwe, that isolated, steep-sided block of granite which rises out of the green solitude between Masasi and Chingulungulu, and whose jagged and splintered top meets the traveller’s eye everywhere. While still at Masasi I wished to see this man at work, but was told that, frightened by the rising, he had retired across the Rovuma, though he would soon return. All subsequent inquiries as to whether the fundi had come back met with the genuine African answer, “Bado” (“Not yet”).