Now for the dessert to my feast of research. If all its components have not been equally appetising, yet several of the courses have been good—some of them, indeed, very good—and there have been many dainty tit-bits; while the dessert is quite in character with the whole:—no further tax on the digestive powers, but a pleasant, gradual transition to the after-dinner cigar, the coffee and bitters. Thus has Mahuta, so far, appeared to me.

How ceremonious, to begin with, was our reception! It is true that all Africans have the finest manners, whether they have already assumed the white kanzu of the Coast men, or walk about in the scanty loincloth of primitive man. It has always been a matter of course, at every place I have visited in this country, for the elders of the village to come out to meet me and pay their respects. But Abdallah bin Malim, Wali of Mahuta, surpasses them all in the accurate formality with which he greeted me. It is not for nothing that he holds the highest position in this district; and we were disposed to feel ashamed of our stained and shabby khaki suits, and our generally dusty and dilapidated condition, when the Wali, dressed in the long, black, embroidered coat of the Coast Arab, and carrying a silver-mounted sword in his hand, met us long before we reached Mahuta.

Our quarters, too, looked very promising. Having squeezed ourselves into the boma through an incredibly narrow gap in the palisade, we were struck with admiration. The enclosure is nearly twice the size of all others we have seen; and a wide avenue of rubber-trees and Mauritius aloes runs across it from one gate to the other. The dwellings are placed in orderly arrangement on either side of this avenue. The sight of the solidly-built rest-house made it easy for me to dispense with the Professor’s house out by the ravine. Before long our tents had been pitched in the open space, while the carriers and soldiers distributed themselves, according to custom, among the various huts and rooms of the people inhabiting the boma. We were scarcely settled when Abdallah thought fit to call on us. Being still in his festive garments, he seemed to feel justified in claiming Knudsen’s long chair for himself. I was busy bathing my left foot, which I sprained on board the Prinzregent, and which has given me an immense amount of pain and discomfort throughout the last few months. Abdallah’s voice was loud and not melodious; he talked unceasingly, and expectorated all over the place with a freedom and marksmanship which might have been envied by the proverbial Yankee. Notwithstanding my ingrained respect for government officials, regardless of colour, I was compelled at last, in the interests of self-preservation, to get Knudsen to call the Wali’s attention to the unseemliness of his behaviour;—why, not even the washenzi—the pagans of the bush—would do thus in the presence of the Bwana Mkubwa. The hint took immediate effect.

It is now eight a.m., the sun is already tolerably high—at this season it is quite vertical over Mahuta at noon—and the two Europeans are enjoying the delicious morning air. The air of Mahuta would make it an admirable health-resort, no troublesome heat or uncomfortable cold, no mist and no gale, but excellent drinking-water hard by at the edge of the plateau, a clean baraza and plenty of fowls—what can heart desire more? We are just enjoying our morning cigars, when we hear a strange noise. Is it distant thunder? or are the Makonde making war on us? Nearer and nearer it comes, and as the rolling, rhythmic sound grows louder, we begin to perceive that it is approaching from several different directions at once, from the east, the west, and seemingly from the north as well. We soon recognise it as the sound of drums mingled with singing. Coming out from under the roof and between the tents, we see the people already pouring in through the narrow gates in an apparently endless procession.

Already the black masses have met in the midst of the spacious boma, but fresh throngs are streaming in from both sides; the avenue is full,—the black, surging sea spreads out beyond it into the lateral enclosures, the drums thunder, the voices screech, luluta, and sing,—coloured flags, looking more like flowered handkerchiefs than anything else, float from long poles above the heads of the crowd, and the whole is over-arched by the sky with its radiant sunshine and innumerable flocks of fleecy cloudlets. The picture is certainly unique of its kind, and well-fitted in its wild beauty to tempt the brush of a Breughel.

I cannot paint, but what is the good of having some thirty dark slides, well provided with plates? But, then, which way is one to turn in this superabundance of subjects? Here is an enormous circle of men, women, and children; six mighty drums are thundering away at a frantic pace, and in perfect time, as if moved by some invisible force; the whole vast assembly move arms and legs, mouths and hands as one person. Outside this huge ring is another circle of slender young girls just budding into womanhood. Their ntungululu vibrates through the air in shrillest treble, while their palms, raised high in the air, clap in time with the evolutions of the other performers. “Oh! I see,—the likwata”—the stock of human ideas is very limited, after all. Turning away in disappointment, we see in the background, occupying half of one side of the boma, two lines of sharpshooters, exercising under fire, in a truly African way. The native scorns to take cover, he is a fatalist—if he is hit, well—Inshallah! This is brought out very strikingly in the majimaji dance, the mimic representation of the late insurrection. The black attacking line charges at a run, regardless of even the uncanny “rack-rack” of the “Boom-boom”—those infernal machines out of which the Wadachi—the accursed Germans—can fire a thousand bullets a minute. In vain—not even the strong dawa of Hongo, the great war-doctor, can protect them from destruction. The enemy is already surging up—how can the majimaji stand against him? Instinctively the whole line falls back before the sharp bayonets of the askari, as far as the dimensions of the “battle-field” will permit, and then, howling their war-song, they charge again. This goes on for hours.

I have done what I can with camera and cinematograph, and now my stock of plates is exhausted, and so am I. Meanwhile the sun has climbed to the zenith;—five hundred natives are standing and lounging about, tired, hungry and thirsty, under the shadeless rubber-trees, while we, for our part, are called by the cooks to soup, chicken and omelette with bananas.

Abdallah meant well in summoning this enormous host of natives, but from the first I saw that it was useless to have so many at once. After a time the wali, too, understood this, and sent once more for the village headmen from far and near, addressing them somewhat as follows:—“To-morrow morning you, Nyamba”—or as the case might be—“are to come at eight and bring the people of your village, and they are to bring midimu and mitete (dancing-masks and snuff-boxes) as many as they have, and all the other things that you use in the house and in the shamba and in the bush,—for the white man likes these things and will pay you for them in pice and rupees. And the day after to-morrow,”—he turns to the next man, “you must come with your people and bring all the things I have just told you.” The headman, to show that he has understood, salutes with his hand to his cap, the next one follows, and so on in order.

The new plan is a complete success. In the morning I have time to photograph the people individually, to take cinematograph films of dances and games, make photographic records, and so on. The middle of the day is spent in studying the endless variety of keloid patterns in vogue among the population here, and the afternoon devoted to bargaining with the men for their household and other implements, ornaments, weapons, etc.

And the women! Closely huddled together, their heads all, as if in obedience to one impulse, inclined forward and downward, a band of thirty or forty Makonde women stand in a corner of the boma at Mahuta. Up to a moment ago they were chattering for all they were worth—then the strange white man in the yellow coat came up, and all were immediately quiet as mice, only the twenty or thirty babies on their backs continuing to snore or yell, according to circumstances, as before. I have long since found the right way to deal with women—at the first small joke the shyness takes its departure, heads are raised and the right frame of mind is easily produced. It is, indeed, highly necessary to produce this result by some means; there is so much to examine in these heads and bodies. Only the laughter going on all round them induces each to let the white man look at her closely, perhaps even touch her. Soon, however, the rumour spreads, that the stranger is a man of wealth—of inexhaustible riches—he has whole sacks and cases full of pice, and his servant has orders to pay over bright coin to every native woman who does what he asks her. Friends and acquaintances from other villages have said so, and surely it must be true. My experience up to this point had shown me so much in the way of queer manifestations of human vanity, that I thought there could be no more surprises in store for me. But I was mistaken—fresh wonders awaited me in the depths of the Makonde bush. In truth, it seems to me a miracle that these tender lips can sustain such huge masses of heavy wood, a hand-breadth in diameter and three fingers thick. The wood is daily whitened with carefully-washed kaolin. The process by which the hole in the lip is gradually brought to this enormous size has already been described. The initial operation is performed by the girl’s maternal uncle. Her mother sees that the hole is kept open and enlarged, and the day when the first solid plug is inserted is kept as a family festival. The husband cuts a new pelele for his wife when required, each a size larger than the last, and every time he has occasion to go to the bush he brings some of the fine white clay she uses for bleaching the wood. The young woman before me has a good husband, as her name Ngukimachi implies, signifying that she has no need to deceive him as other wives do theirs. But he knows, too, how well she looks in her pelele—it stands straight out, a pleasure to see, and when she laughs, her teeth flash out magnificently behind it. How ugly compared with her are those old women yonder! They have lost their teeth, and when with one trembling hand they carry the lump of porridge, taken from the heap before them, to their mouths, it is dreadful to see the food vanish into a dark cavern, when the other hand has carefully lifted up the pelele.

The next two women are greatly to be pitied. Both are young, one a girl, the other a young wife, but they are always sad, and well they may be, for the adornment of the pelele is denied them. No matter how much dawa their mothers and uncles have put on their lips, the wound has only become worse. In the elder, the front of the lip is quite eaten away by the ulceration, so that, with her large white teeth showing through in the middle, her mouth is like that of Sungura, the hare. Their looks are not improved, and even the white man, with his big box of medicines, can do nothing to cure them. No wonder they are sad.

Alitengiri, too, yonder, looks serious. Death has been a frequent visitor to her house of late; indeed, she has lost so many of her relations that her shamba cannot be cultivated. She used to be very lively, and chattered away so quickly that the eye could scarcely follow the motion of her pelele, which was a very fine one, so large that her lip could scarcely support it. Now she looks greatly changed—is she ill? or has the pelele shrunk? But that is impossible. Let us ask what is the matter. She does not answer—not a word can be got out of her. But I soon observe what is wrong; her lip must have given way and she has mended it,—I had already noticed the strip of blue stuff pasted over it—and now she dare not speak or laugh, for fear of opening the wound afresh.

There is no doubt that the largest peleles to be found in the whole southern territory are those worn by the women of Mahuta and its neighbourhood. Blocks of seven and seven and a half centimetres in diameter and three to five centimetres in thickness are not uncommon. With the black or white discs, the size of half-a-crown, worn in the lobes of the ears which are stretched in a similar manner to the lip, this gleaming white ornament makes up a triad of decorations which as a whole is surely unique. They are not enough, however, for the Makonde woman,—her face and the greater part of her body are covered with keloids, which, at first sight, seem to present an astonishing variety of patterns. On examination, however, their component elements prove to be surprisingly few. The present-day native gives to these elements such names as thitopole (“a pigeon-trap”), chikorombwe (“a fish-spear”),^[68] ceka, etc. The first of these patterns is a curve, which might stand for the bent twig of a pigeon-trap; the chikorombwe is more like a fir-tree; the teka is a chitopole with a central axis. Whether these patterns have any real relation to the bird-trap or the fish-spear, I cannot say, for the natives do not know; but one thing is certain, none of them can nowadays be considered as a genuine tribal mark. The novice is inclined to look on them as such, till taught better, as I was in a most compendious way by old Makachu. This venerable man is covered all over with the same sort of pattern as those displayed by the women, though some of his are much the worse for wear. I asked him why he was thus decorated, expecting to receive a long dissertation on tribal marks and similar institutions, and was somewhat taken aback when he merely said “Ninapenda”—(“Because I like it so”).

This, in fact, seems to be the sole reason for the keloid decoration being applied at all, as well as for the choice of pattern in each individual case. At Newala, at Nchichira, and now, at Mahuta, I have photographed, or at least inspected several hundred persons with the result, so far as I can come to any conclusion at present, that it is impossible to discover from any of the patterns the nationality of the wearer. Each of these figures has been chosen on the same principle of “ninapenda.”

It is not to be denied that there are fashions even in this form of ornament. A new pattern is introduced from somewhere,—it finds acceptance, first with one mother, then with another, and so quickly spreads through a whole generation, who, of course, have to wear it through life, so that, in fact, it might be considered a sort of badge. Perhaps in former times the tribes in this part of the country placed a higher value on the art; but it is no longer possible to prove that this was so, and, in fact, the custom seems to be passing away under modern influences. It is a great amusement, not only to myself, but to the other parties concerned, when I suddenly ask a man or youth to take off his shirt and show me his torso. Elderly men have a perfect menagerie of antelopes, snakes, frogs, tortoises and other creatures, together with chikorombwe, chitopole and teka adorning their broad chests, while the rising generation can show little or nothing. The latter no longer think the fashion “good form”; they have their eye on the coast and its civilization, and if they scarify themselves at all, are content with the two vertical cuts on the temples in vogue among the Swahili. The Yaos and the Wangoni of Nchichira have already pretty generally adopted these cuts, and other tribes will go on doing so in an increasing degree, year by year.

The patterns are cut by a professional—a fundi, who makes numerous small incisions, rubs in some sort of powder, and cuts the same place again and again till the skin heals in a raised scar.

It is essential that the director of an ethnographical museum should be a good man of business, even in Europe; but the same man, if he would collect successfully in Africa, must be more acute, patient, and unscrupulous in bargaining than any Armenian. I have already had occasion to mention the unexpected difficulties met with in this direction, and need not, therefore, express my feelings now, but the Makonde are certainly not disposed to make my task an easy one. The black crowd is moving up in close order.

“Well, what have you got?” asks the collector affably enough. By way of answer a worn-out wooden spoon is put into his hand, probably fished out of the rubbish-heap, as being quite good enough for the mzungu.

“Mshenzi!—you heathen! You may just take your treasure back again. Let me see what else you have. Where is your mask?”

“I have none, sir?”

“Oh! indeed—then I will give you time to look for it. Come back to-morrow, and mind you bring your mdimu, and don’t forget your snuff-boxes.”

This scene would be repeated a dozen times or more in the course of an afternoon; in some cases the penitential pilgrimage was efficacious, in others the men never turned up again. Since noticing this we have adopted a different procedure, and now simply render the village headman responsible for the production of the articles. This makes matters quite easy, and every evening, Knudsen, the boys, and the more intelligent of the carriers have their hands full making the inventory and packing the day’s purchases.

This country well repays the collector, though East Africa is considered a rather dull ethnographical area compared with the Congo basin, North Kamerun, and some other parts of West Africa. It is true that one must not be very exacting as to the artistic quality of weapons and implements produced by these tribes. I was all the more surprised to find among the specimens of wood-carving, collected in my district, some veritable little gems. The dancing-masks are for the most part mere conventional representations of human faces (those of women being distinguished by the pelele and ear-ornaments), or of animal heads. A few specimens in my collection are supposed to be portraits of celebrities—some heroes of the late insurrection, a young girl famous for her beauty, and sundry others, but on the whole, it cannot be denied that they are very roughly executed. Of a somewhat higher type are the statues of the Ancestress alluded to in a previous chapter. They leave, it is true, a great deal to be desired on the score of anatomical knowledge and harmony of proportions, but, on the other hand, some of these figures are, so far as I know, the only ones from Africa in which the feet have been worked out in detail.

But it is above all the mitete, the little wooden boxes in which the people keep their snuff, their medicines, and sometimes their gunpowder—which show real taste and a style and execution which can pass muster even from our point of view. The ornamentation which the elder generation of men carry about on their skins in the form of keloids is applied to the lids of these boxes. Some of them take the shape of heads of animals: various kinds of monkeys, the gnu, the bush-buck, and other antelopes, but oftenest the litotwe. This is a creature of all others likely to catch the artist’s eye and tempt him to reproduce it. It is a large rat, about the size of a rabbit, and with a head which, by its shape, suggests that of the elephant, or at least the ant-eater, the snout terminating in a long delicate proboscis. At Chingulungulu Salim Matola caught one of these creatures for me, but it escaped before I had time to sketch more than its head.

Human heads, too, are found among these carvings, and are executed with the same skill in technique. Most of them have the hair dressed in a long pig-tail, and the face still more cicatrized than the Makonde; these, I learn, represent members of the Mavia tribe. I cannot discover whether they are the work of local artists, or of the Mavia themselves. The vendors either give no answer at all when asked or say, as all natives do when ignorant of the origin of an article, “mshenzi,” that is to say, “some unknown person away at the back of the bush.” However, this does not affect our critical judgment.

In the practice of one kind of art the Makonde seem to be deficient. As has been my custom elsewhere, I occupy all my spare time in long walks, in order to observe the natives in their own homes. This, however, is not so easy as it was in other places. I think it would be possible to walk over the whole Makonde plateau without finding a single settlement, so closely are the little hamlets hidden away in the bush. But we have here an ideal guide, Ningachi, the teacher, whose name means, “What do you think?” Ningachi is a very decent, honest man, but thinking, in spite of his name, does not appear to be his strong point. Indeed, he has but little time for thought, being my courier and interpreter, and in that capacity kept busy from morning to night. He has even made himself useful by walking enormous distances to fetch plump young fowls for our table.

Under Ningachi’s guidance we inspected more than one Makonde village. They are picturesque—not even envy can gainsay that; but not one of the wretched, airy, round huts, in which the generations of these people dream away their dim lives is comfortable even according to the modest standard of the native. They are not even plastered with clay, in the usual fashion, and this of itself makes fresco decoration impossible. In one sense this fact is a relief to me, when I think of the miles I have tramped at other times, on hearing of beautifully painted houses in such or such a village. Painted they were, but the beauty was a matter of taste. We do not admire the scrawls of our children, and just such—clumsy, rudimentary, utterly devoid of perspective—are these beginnings of native art. In fact, wherever artistically untrained man gives way to the universal instinct of scribbling over all accessible surfaces, whether blank walls or smooth rocks, the result is very much the same, whether produced by the European tramp or street-boy, or by my Wangoni and Makua.

The mention of sketch-books suggests what will probably be my most enduring monument in this country—if, indeed, the people here in the south, or even my own men, preserve any recollection whatever of the Bwana picha (the man who takes photographs), once the expedition is over. If they do so, I feel it will not be my unpronounceable name (my Wanyamwezi once, and only once, succeeded in saying “Weure,” and on that occasion laughed so consumedly, that I gave up all further attempts to accustom them to this uncouth word), nor my title (Bwana Pufesa = Herr Professor) nor the magical character of my machines, which will keep my memory green, but the many books of thick white paper in which they were allowed to scribble to their heart’s content.

It was at Lindi that this artistic activity on the part of my native friends first manifested itself in all its intensity. Barnabas especially was indefatigable; every day, proud and yet anxious as to my judgment, he brought me fresh masterpieces, only one of which is reproduced in these pages, the herd of elephants on p. 190, but this alone is quite sufficient to characterize the artist. Can we deny him a certain power of perception? and is not the technique quite up to date? It is true that the animals, taken separately, have with their short legs a somewhat unfortunate likeness to the domestic pig, while their heads suggest the chameleon; the upper line of the trunk is seen in three of them behind the left tusk; and the mtoto, the baby elephant on the right of the picture, has no body, leaving off just behind its ears. But, nevertheless, the man not only knows something about perspective, but knows how to apply it, and that by no means badly.

With all his artistic virtues, Barnabas has one failing. He is no mshenzi, no raw unlettered savage of the bush, but an educated, even a learned man. By birth a Makua, from a distant part of the interior, he has passed all the examinations in the Government school at Lindi, and now attends to the stamping of letters and the weighing of parcels in the little post-office of that town. In his spare time he writes for the Swahili paper Kiongozi, published at Tanga.

Barnabas, therefore, cannot be considered as a representative of primitive art. But not one of those who have produced my other specimens, whether carriers, soldiers or savages from the interior, has ever had pencil and paper in hand before.

Marine subjects appear to be in high favour. My askari Stamburi (Stambuli, i.e., Constantinople) is a smart soldier while on duty, off duty a Don Juan; and now he shows himself possessed of an unsuspected gift for marine and animal painting. He is a landsman, born far inland on the Upper Rovuma and has therefore succeeded better in depicting the adventure of the Matambwe fisherman (p. 347) than he has with the Arab dau (p. 25). The latter is, indeed, drawn accurately enough; it has just anchored; the sail is bent to the yard; both flag and rudder are shown. We have in addition three paddles, floating above in the clouds. These are intended, so the draughtsman tells me, for use if a calm comes on. But what is that amidships? Has the vessel sprung a leak, or, indeed, two? No—they are the two hatchways. Stamburi knows that such openings exist on the ship and therefore it is his duty as an artist to put them in. Having no knowledge of perspective, he simply turns them round through an angle of ninety degrees, so as to bring them into full view from the side. Genius recognizes no limitations.

The Matambwe fisherman in the other picture has just anchored his boat at the bend of the river, and then cast his line with the uncouth iron hook. A few minutes after, he feels a jerk,—then, a mighty pull—a broad, round object swings through the air and lies on the grass. The fisherman is just letting the line run deliberately through his hand to draw the booty up to him, when some monster, probably of unearthly origin, dashes at his fine, large turtle. It is only a common snake, after all, though an unusually large one, and the old man is not going to give up his spoil so tamely, but is holding on to the line for all he is worth.

Most of these drawings represent incidents actually witnessed by the artist, and the figures, whether of men or animals, are intended for portraits of real individuals. Some, however, are purely genre pictures, such as the woman pounding at the mortar under the eaves of her hut (p. 165), and the mother with the baby on her hip (p. 345), which are typical figures from everyday life, with no attempt at portraiture. So, too, the two natives drawn by Pesa mbili are not intended for anyone in particular. The fact is that, on the day when this was executed, at Mahuta (October 21st), I had been chiefly occupied with the study of keloids, and a number of men had been induced to remove their garments and submit to my inspection. This stimulated the headman, who was more intelligent than most of his companions, to attempt the reproduction of two such figures.

The majority of the other drawings, not only represent actual incidents, but are derived from the artist’s personal experience. The drawing of the s.s. Rufiji (p. 18), done from memory, far inland, by the Swahili Bakari, has a huge shark in the foreground, because it is a reminiscence of a voyage in that vessel, when he saw that particular shark at a certain place which, no doubt, he could point out with unerring accuracy. When the carrier, Juma, brought me his “Monkeys breaking into a plantation” (p. 168), he accompanied it with this explanation—“But, Bwana Mkubwa, that is my shamba, and I threw stones at the monkeys, and drove them away; there were seven of them—great big ones.”

Of portraits in the strict sense, “Bana Pufesa” (the Professor), by one of the soldiers (see p. 368) and the stilt-dancer on p. 237 by my cook, Omari, both belong to the early days of the expedition, when I had not yet lost the charm of novelty, and the Bondei man had only seen one masquerader on stilts. Poor as Omari’s work is in other respects, he on this occasion showed considerable courage in attempting to represent his subject in full face, which a beginner very seldom ventures to do. That my right eye should be seen wandering through space like a star, is not surprising; that eye exists, and therefore it must appear in the drawing.

A number of these drawings depict whole scenes from native life in the district I have traversed. Here we have the chain-gang (p. 26), to the number of seven men, marching slowly through the streets of Lindi, five of the convicts with large tins on their heads, the last two without loads. They are going to fill the bath in some European’s house, an unpleasant task, because of the high ladder which has to be climbed, in doing which the heavy chain drags uncomfortably at the back of the man’s neck, but the soldier on guard behind is very strict, and there is no shirking.

It is true that the large whip is not really part of his insignia, being due merely to a stretch of the artist’s imagination, but he always carries a loaded rifle, I am told, since a recent mutiny, in which the guard was murdered. A likwata dance (p. 45) appeals to us as a much more cheerful subject, especially when the Bwana picha is engaged in conjuring the scene on to one of those remarkable glass plates which are contained in his three-legged box, and on which all the black women are white and their white peleles jet black. The white man’s caravan, too, is a tempting subject. How proudly the two boys, Moritz and Kibwana, are carrying their master’s guns, while he, seated on his nyumbu, the old mule, is just turning round to survey the procession behind him. The Imperial flag flutters merrily in the morning breeze at the head of the long line of carriers laden with the cases and boxes on which they are beating time to the march with the sticks in their hands, all of them in the highest spirits, true to the character of Pesa mbili’s friends from distant Unyamwezi. (See p. 104.) Another pleasant subject is the hunt commemorated by Salim Matola (p. 77). In the sportsman armed with a bow the artist has depicted himself striding along after his dog, in hot pursuit of a buffalo. Kwakaneyao, the brown dog, is a keen hunter by nature—his name means that he will drive away every other dog who may attempt to dispute the quarry with him. In spite of this, however, Salim Matola, by way of taking an extra precaution, before starting, rubbed his companion’s teeth with certain roots, and gave him a piece of the last-killed bush-buck to eat. Thereupon Kwakaneyao rushed off into the pori like an arrow, so that his master could scarcely keep up with him.

The same Salim Matola shows us this pori with its characteristic animals in another drawing which, sketchy as it is, reproduces the character of the country with the utmost accuracy:—the scattered, straggling trees, and the harsh, tall African grass between them,—the dark green tree-snake in the tamarisk on the left, a hornbill on the right, and in the background a small antelope. In short, this is in its way a little masterpiece.

The Makua Isaki illustrates the superstitions of his tribe in the little picture reproduced on p. 212. The comical little bird there depicted is the ill-omened owl (likwikwi), which, crying night after night, brought death to Marquardt’s little daughter. No native likes to see or hear it.

The little sketch on p. 305 is a scene from Makonde life. Mtudikaye, “the hospitable,” and her daughter Nantupuli, who has not yet found a husband, though not for want of seeking, are taking their turn to fetch water, as all the men are busy breaking up ground in the bush, and, burdened with the carrying-poles and the great gourds, have just accomplished the long, rough walk to the stream at the foot of the plateau. The two banana-trees with their heavy bunches of fruit, mark the place for drawing water: from the stepping stones in their shadow one can get it much clearer than by standing on the trampled, muddy bank.

Now we come to science. My men must have a marked topographical instinct—otherwise it is difficult to explain the large number of maps with which they have overwhelmed me. I have reproduced only one of these (p. 9) the first, which quite took me by surprise. The author is Sabatele, an unsophisticated child of nature from the far south-west of our colony—the southern end of Lake Tanganyika. He produced it at Lindi, quite in the early days of our expedition. It gave rise to a great discussion, carried on with the aid of Pesa mbili, the headman and other representatives of intelligence. In a quarter of an hour we succeeded in identifying all the mysterious signs, and I discovered to my astonishment that the orientation of this first cartographic attempt was quite correct, and the topography only wrong as regards some of the distances. Pointing to the curious object marked in my reproduction, I received the unhesitating answer “Mawo-panda”—Kinyamwezi for Dar es Salam. No. 2 is “Lufu”—the Ruvu of our maps, the large river always crossed by Wanyamwezi carriers on the main caravan road. No. 3 is explained as “Mulokolo”—that is to say, Morogoro, the present terminus of the great central railway, which will put an end once for all to the old caravan traffic of the Wanyamwezi and Wasukuma. The Wanyamwezi have a difficulty in pronouncing “r” and usually substitute “l” for it. The contrast between these sturdy fellows and the softness of their speech is a curious one.

No. 4 is “Mgata,” the Makata plain between the Uluguru and the Rubeho mountains, the whole of which is a swamp in the rainy season. “Kirosa” is the sound which greets me when I point with my pencil to No. 5. “Of course, where there is no ‘r’ they pronounce it,” I grumble to myself, delighted all the time with the splendid trill produced; “therefore we must set it down as Kilosa.” No. 6 is the “Balabala”—the caravan road itself. No. 7 is “Mpapwa,” the old caravan centre, once the last halt on the inland march before the dreaded Marenga Mkali, the great alkali desert, and hostile Ugogo. Conversely, on the march down to the coast, it meant deliverance from thirst and ill-treatment. Hesitatingly I place my pencil on No. 8, which according to the drawing, must mean a stream of some sort, though I know of none in that neighbourhood. In fact, the name Mutiwe, which Sabatele now mentions, is quite unknown to me; it is only on consulting the special map that I discover it, flowing past Kilimatinde—N.B., when it contains water, which, needless to remark, is not always the case. It must have impressed itself on Sabatele’s memory as a water-course—otherwise, why should so matter-of-fact a fellow have remembered the spot?

Now, however, we have reached the heart of German East Africa and find ourselves in regions well known to my followers. No. 9 is the lofty altitude of Kilimatinde, and No. 10 is called by Sabatele Kasanga. I take the name for that of Katanga, the copper district far to the south in the Congo basin, and shake my head incredulously,—it is impossible that the young man can have travelled so far. On cross-examination it comes out that he is from the Mambwe country at the south end of Tanganyika, and his Kasanga is identical with our station of Bismarckburg. No. 11 is my original goal Kondoa-Irangi, and No. 12 is the post of Kalama, in Iramba. At Tobola, as my map-maker calls Tabora, he even enters into detail. No. 13a is the present Tabora with the new boma,—No. 13b is “Tobola ya zamani,” Old Tabora, with the former boma. Nos. 14 and 15 are respectively Ujiji on Lake Tanganyika and Mwanza, on Lake Victoria; these two trading centres are Sabatele’s “farthest west” and “farthest north,” as he explains to me with proud satisfaction.

Even without counting his comrades’ performances in the same kind, Sabatele’s route-map is not an isolated phenomenon; on the contrary, whole volumes have already been written on the subject of cartography among the primitive races. Yet this unpretending little sketch is by no means without psychological interest. We are accustomed to look at every map from the south, considering the top of it as the north. All my native maps are oriented in the opposite direction—they look at the region represented as if from the north and place the south at the top of the map.

This is likewise the case in the original of the one here reproduced, which I have turned round through 180 degrees, merely in order to bring it into agreement with our maps. The distances between the various places are wrong, as already remarked, but otherwise it is wonderfully correct, considered as the work of an entirely untrained man.

The last of the native drawings reproduced is a combination of landscape-painting and topographical diagram—in it Salim Matola has represented the mountains of his home at Masasi (p. 65). None of my attempts to photograph this range were successful. When, in my excursions, I reached a spot far enough off to see it as a whole, it was even betting that the air would be too hazy; and when near enough to see any of the hills well, I was too near to get a good view of all.

Salim has therefore supplied this want, and by no means unskilfully. It is true that the native hunter on the top of Chironji, and his gun, are both out of all proportion to the height of the mountain itself, and the vegetation also errs in relative size (though not in character), but everything else is right:—the series of gigantic peaks—Mkwera, Masasi, Mtandi, Chironji, is given in the proper order, and, on the left, the smaller outlying knobs of Mkomahindo, Kitututu and Nambele. The steepness of the individual mountains is well rendered, as also the rounded dome-shape of their tops;—perhaps it would not be too much to say that Salim has tried, by parallel and concentric strokes, to indicate the structure of the gneiss.

The early rains appear to follow me wherever I go. At Newala they began at the end of September; at Nchichira, a few weeks later, and here at Mahuta they set in with considerable violence at the end of October. Fortunately I was able, before they began, to enjoy the natives even to excess. The Makonde have for the last few weeks, been celebrating a veritable series of popular festivals on a small scale, on the fine large arena within the boma enclosure. As these festivities were quite spontaneous, I was able to feel assured of their genuinely native character. More than once I saw the stilt-dancers, with their gigantic strides, rigid, masked faces and waving draperies, stalking through the crowd. One afternoon, a dancer, cleverly disguised as a monkey, earned universal applause by his excellent imitation of the animal’s movements and gestures. The African is fond of laughing—perhaps because he knows that this reflex movement displays his magnificent teeth very becomingly, but on this occasion the gambols and somersaults of the mimic furnished a sufficient excuse for the echoing volleys of mirth.