Chapter IV: Taita to Kilima-Njaro

Having once more reassembled the men, rearranged the burdens, and left behind what we could not carry in the kind charge of a missionary who was temporarily residing on the summit of Ndara Hill, we started on a day’s journey to Mwatate, passing through dense thorny bush, rocky defiles, and dried-up stream courses, and finally reaching, to my joy, the first channel of running water we had met with since leaving the vicinity of the coast. The ground along its banks had been cleared and cultivated; we crossed the stream on a rickety wooden bridge, and passed up through fields of maize and brakes of sugar-cane to our camping-place, under an umbrageous tree. Here pleasant-mannered natives greeted us; we paid the small present demanded as an indemnity for passing through their country and drinking “their” water, and then enjoyed a welcome rest amid surroundings of quiet beauty. The next day we were travelling through a Swiss-like country of mountain passes and richly fertile valleys, and at length came to Bura, a camping-place at the foot of the strangely peaked mountains of that name. Here we were nearly having a skirmish with the natives, who demanded an exorbitant payment for the right of drinking from their river. However, a resolute attitude on our part preserved the peace, and we were soon on excellent terms with the Wa-taita, buying fowls, maize, and honey at a great rate. On the morrow we skirted the little river of Bura for a few miles, and then, reluctantly leaving its belt of rich, majestic forest, plunged resolutely into the waterless wilderness which separated us from the base of Kilima-njaro.

ANTELOPES AND ANT HILLS (THE RED HARTEBEEST).

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Although the journey before us was a far longer one than that terrible march to Maungu, it was, nevertheless, marked by no sufferings from fatigue and thirst, for I had the men now well in hand, and was careful to ascertain that no one had started without a due supply of water. The country we passed through was indeed a wilderness, but yet rather parklike in its aspect. There was an entire absence of undergrowth, and tallish trees with cedar-like crowns rose at regular intervals, looking, in their uniformity of unvarying red trunks and bright green compact foliage, like an unskilfully painted landscape. Other noticeable features in the scene were the tall red ant-hills and, strange imitation, the tall red antelopes, a species of hartebeest,[8] resembling faintly in shape the form of a giraffe with sloping hind-quarters, high shoulders, and long neck. Being a deep red-brown in colour, and standing one by one stock-still at the approach of the caravan, it was really most difficult and puzzling sometimes to know which was hartebeest and which was ant-hill; for the long grass hiding the antelope’s legs left merely a red-humped mass, which, until it moved, might well be the mound of red earth constructed by the white termites. The unconscious mimicry was rendered the more ludicrously exact sometimes by the sharply-pointed, flag-like leaves of a kind of squill—a liliaceous plant—which frequently crowned the summit of the ant-hill, or grew at its base, thus suggesting the horns of an antelope, rather with the head erect, or browsing low down. The assimilation cannot have been fancied on my part, for it deceived even the sharp eyes of my men; and again and again a hartebeest would start into motion at twenty yards distance and gallop off, while I was patiently stalking an ant-hill, and crawling on my stomach through thorns and aloes, only to find the supposed antelope an irregular mass of red clay.

Fig. 20.—Zebras.
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The great plain which lies between the country of Taita and the eastern base of Kilima-njaro swarms with game, especially where the land slopes gently towards Lake ǰipe, which may be descried to the southward as a narrow slit of silvery white lying between a band of dull green forest and the purple wall of the Ugweno Mountains. As we marched along herds of hartebeest, gnu, eland, and buffalo defiled before us, wending their way slowly along their own beaten tracks to the accustomed drinking-place, where, poor fools, some of them were sure to lose their lives, for, lying in ambush in the forest tunnel, down which the thirsty creatures rush to the water, would be either lions, leopards, or human hunters, armed with poisoned arrow and broad-bladed spear. But however much a keen desire to drink might blind them to danger when they are near their goal, they were wary enough now, and their sentinels kept a sharp look-out on our movements; only the giddy zebras—most inquisitive of animals—risked their lives by galloping up to inspect the passing caravan. The sight of all this game was potent enough to stir a hunting impulse in the soul of the most jaded traveller; and although I found it hard enough to plod along the dusty track in the rear of the caravan, and avoid the impulse to cast myself down and rest in every patch of sparsely scattered shade, still I did every now and then make a sally at some wondering antelope that stood in the distance staring, snorting, and occasionally stamping petulantly with its fore-feet at the strange, inexplicable, snake-like line of white-vestured men slowly winding over the plain. But my attempts at stalking, and my snap-shots were too impatient and hurried to meet with any definite success. The fact is, in African travel, it is not easy to combine the accomplishment of twenty or thirty miles walked every day on foot, with the exploits of the chase, especially when haunted by the knowledge that every minute’s delay that separates you from your water-supply is dangerous. You leave the road just to stalk a group of zebras grazing not more than two hundred yards off, and you think if you can only creep up to that ant-hill and hide behind it, you will get a splendidly easy shot. Well, the ant-hill is reached, but the zebras have moved off a little farther, and now there is a stumpy mimosa-tree between you and your aim. However, it is a matter of a few paces to crawl up to it and fire from behind its branches. You reach the tree, and just as you are going to raise your gun you crack a dead twig, and the zebras move and trot off some distance farther. Now it is too long a shot to risk, but as the game is grazing peacefully and unsuspiciously again, you may just as well creep up a little nearer and then fire. So you go down on allfours in the grass, and crawl along, putting your hands invariably down on cruel thorns or sharp twigs every time they touch the ground; your back aches with the snake-like posture you assume, and when at length you cautiously raise your head above the grass and dare to look frankly before you, you find the zebras have moved on again, and you either crawl after them, infatuated with the love of hunting, or in desperation foolishly fire your gun at a distant speck, and of course miss, when all that remains of the animals you have stalked is a light cloud of red dust hanging in the hot air. And now you become fully conscious of how foolish you have been to leave the caravan. How hot the sun is! And your blistered feet ache as you limp back through the stubbly grass to find the track once more, of course tripping up a dozen times over unseen stumps and stones, and finally reaching the road to see your caravan represented by a few white specks in the extreme distance, these white specks now hurrying on with aggravated speed, just as if they knew you were limping painfully after them, and wished to pay you out for the many times when, they being tired and halting, you, burdenless and fresh, had remorselessly driven them on. And so with many sensible reasons you vow that nothing shall tempt you from the road again, for, even supposing you killed anything, can you stop the caravan for many hours while the meat is cooked and the skin cured? Of course not, why—and here you interrupt these reflections by exclaiming excitedly to your servant, “Oh, look here; I can’t stand this. Give me my gun—sh! don’t you see that sable antelope—_there!_ standing under the shade of the big tree;” and so hurriedly taking aim you fire, and oh! joy, the antelope falls, evidently wounded, but, alas! not to the death, for it is up and off again before your next shot can finish the work, and like an idiot, you forget your sore feet and fatigue, and go racing after it over stocks and stones till once more you find it is in vain to combine the cares of a marching caravan and the pleasures of the chase.

Fig. 21.

Sable Antelope.
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The expedition had been toiling on across the hot plains of Lanjora through the sultry afternoon, and now towards evening stopped to lay down its many burdens amid the dusty tufts of scorched grass round the base of a great mimosa-tree. Only one hour might we rest, for water lay two days behind us and one long day’s journey in front, and we intended but to stretch our tired legs on the lumpy soil until the obscurity prevailing after sunset was dispelled by the uprising of the full moon. Then beneath her cooler rays we should journey on towards our goal for half the night, and so be spared a longer walk through the heat of the morrow’s sun. The day had been sultry, and, though the rainy season was over, the western sky was a mass of lurid clouds, which in one part of the horizon were particularly dark and concentrated. I knew what caused this, and what object these cloud-masses were jealously concealing like the courtiers and officials who surround the person of some Eastern emperor; and I, who had journeyed many weary miles to see the greatest snow-capped mountain of Central Africa, impatiently longed for some giant broom to clear the sky of those heavy mists and vapours which now hid him from my gaze.

Slowly a globe of yellow-white rose in the east and mounted into the clouds, from whence a softened light descended, and showed the track across the plain winding away like a crooked snake towards the west. With many an impatient sigh and grunt the weary men took up their burdens, and I, no less tired, but compelled to show my porters an encouraging example, staggered on to my blistered feet and limped along in front of the caravan, which, once more on the move, jogged on with little heart till midnight. Then we could no more; so, making fires to keep off the wild beasts, we stopped to rest till dawn. With the falling temperature of the small hours, a brisk wind arose from the heated plain and swept the clouds from off the sky, all except the mass that obstinately clung to Kilima-njaro. Feverish and over-tired, I could not sleep, and sat and watched the heavens, waiting for the dawn. A hundred men were snoring around me, and the night was anything but silent, for the hyenas were laughing hideously in the gloom outside our circle of expiring embers. At five o’clock I woke my servant Virapan, and whilst he was making my morning coffee I dropped into a doze, from which, at dawn, he roused me, and pointed to the horizon, where, in the north-west, a strange sight was to be seen. “Laputa!” I exclaimed; and as Virapan, though he had read “Robinson Crusoe” and the “Arabian Nights” in his native tongue, had never heard of “Gulliver’s Travels,” I proceeded to enlighten him as to the famous suspended island of Swift’s imagining, and explained my exclamation by pointing to the now visible Kilima-njaro, which, with its two peaks of Kibó and Kimawenzi and the parent mass of mountain, rose high above a level line of cloud, and thus, completely severed in appearance from the earth beneath, resembled so strangely the magnetic island of Laputa.

THE FIRST VIEW OF KILIMA-NJARO.
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Kilima-njaro was weird in the early flush of dawn, with its snowy crater faintly pink against a sky of deep blue-grey, wherein the pale and faded moon was sinking, and the stars were just discernible; but as the stronger light of perfect day prevailed, and the clouds which concealed the base of the mountain disappeared, its appearance was disappointing. Owing to an atmospheric illusion Kilima-njaro, which was in reality about forty miles distant, appeared to rise from the plain just beyond a distant clump of trees, and its greater peak of snow, so distinctly crater-like in form, together with the lesser and more jagged Kimawenzi, were as hard and commonplace in look as the cheap Italian water-colour drawings of Vesuvius, charged with “body-colour,” and devoid of ærial effect. Kilima-njaro, now, was not imposing, and I soon ceased to realize its great height when it looked not much farther off than the farther groups of trees. As the day grew warm it was once more hidden behind layers of clouds, and I marched on towards my destination somewhat disappointed.

For some two days since leaving the mountains of Taita we had been crossing a waterless tract with poor herbage of dusty-brown or yellow-white, and grey, withered trees, and real verdure had been denied us; but now on reaching a point within some thirty miles of Kilima-njaro a change of an agreeable character came over the scene.[9] Tall umbrageous trees cast a welcome shade over the short herbage, which was closely cropped like a lawn by the many herds of antelopes. The bushes were vividly green, and some of them bore tufts of bright-coloured flowers. Many birds frequenting the bushy trees attested the proximity of water—we were, indeed, close to a little affluent of Lake ǰipe—and the feeling that we were now without threatened thirst added to the pleasure of the morning’s walk, and promised for the future less arduous journeyings. I was, therefore, beginning to relax my strict watch over the men, and knowing there was no need for hurry now that we were perceptibly nearing our goal, I was sauntering along easily in advance of the caravan, when my servant Virapan tugged me by the shoulder, and said, “What is that big animal, sir?”

I looked along the path in front, and saw, to my great astonishment, a lion quietly trotting ahead of us. As he heard the sound of a voice he unconcernedly looked round, gave us one penetrating glance, made a few hesitating steps, and then stopped to stare again. A mad impulse to fire seized me, and although my sporting gun was behind with the caravan, I took the Snider from my servant’s hands, aimed it hastily, and fired. No sooner had the smoke cleared away than I saw the lion bounding away in great leaps over the low bushes, evidently untouched by the bullet. He entered a dense mass of thorny acacias and there stopped. My head-collector coming up, we followed him to this refuge, and I can assure you I felt then anything but comfortable, for we could see, amid the thickly-interlaced twigs, literally nothing, while a deep ominous growling reached our ears, so strangely divested of “locality” that we could neither of us determine the exact spot from which it proceeded. We now decided to withdraw with all due caution, and backed respectfully from the presence of the king of beasts till we had once more regained the road, where we found most of the carriers awaiting anxiously the result of our encounter. Disliking to be baffled, I proposed that we should organize a regular battue, and drive the lion from his shelter, but nobody liked the idea except my Indian servant, who was inadequate for the task, so I reluctantly abandoned what might have been a spirited lion hunt. Towards the afternoon of this day, which had begun in such an exciting manner, first with the view of Kilima-njaro and next with the lion, we left every trace of sterility behind us—the very mimosas and acacias becoming changed and improved in their appearance, exhibiting more foliage and less thorns—and the track winding through superb avenues of lofty umbrageous trees. After many days of journeying in a sun-scorched wilderness my tired eyes here rested with delight on the soft green of the exuberant vegetation, while I no longer tramped along a stony road under a blazing sun, but followed a soft leaf-covered path plunged in absolute shade. We were now in the precincts of Taveita, but before we actually entered that African paradise we were obliged to halt at a gateway in the forest where the path was blocked with an immense structure of tree-trunks. Just a tiny aperture was left, an entrance three feet high in the shape of a delta, and through this we all had to wriggle and crawl, while several of the loads would scarcely admit of passing through, and only the most ingenious twisting and turning effected this end.

The first barrier passed we found ourselves in a small square chamber, really a space between two gateways, where in times of war and rapine suspicious visitors could be inspected and interviewed before being allowed to enter. There was, however, no one to scrutinize us in this gateway, because the “passport” regulations of Taveita have been greatly relaxed of late years, but a few decades back this elaborate hindrance to free transit was the only protection the wretched Taveitans had against the merciless assaults of the Masai robber bands. By erecting these wooden obstructions across the only feasible approaches to their forest stronghold they checked the impetuous onslaught of the brigands, and were able, moreover, to kill many of the bewildered Masai with their guns before these people could creep round or destroy the barrier. As the Masai never throw their spears, but always use them and most of their other arms in hand-to-hand conflict, they are naturally at a disadvantage when opposed to an enemy who has entrenched himself behind a slight fortification and can use his firearms to advantage.

Passing in through a second and easier doorway, we found ourselves in full view of banana plantations, standing out in glistening green against a background of stately forest. Here and there small groups of beehive huts stood in a clearing, surrounded by tall wooden fences. We had fired a salute of guns when approaching Taveita, to announce to its inhabitants, with many a sonorous boom re-echoing through the forest alleys, that strangers were arriving with peaceable and friendly intentions, and a wish to trade. As I was in the act of crossing a narrow rivulet, by means of the slippery stem of a banana that has been thrown across it, I caught sight of the first natives, who were on their way to inspect our caravan, and when I looked up, and they saw my white face and strange costume, a glad shout of surprise went up from their wide mouths, and they pushed forward to seize and shake me by the hand.

Such an unusual and demonstrative welcome gave me a pleasant impression of Taveita to commence with, and this, I am glad to say, was strengthened as time went on. Its inhabitants were, however, not only remarkable for their _bonhomie_ and kindly disposition, but presented other notable characteristics which were not long in impressing themselves on my observation. Firstly, their hair was generally worn in long strings, where the wool was stiffened with fat and red clay into a number of rats’ tails. There were generally one or two incisors knocked out in the upper jaw, the lobes of the ear were enormously distended with wooden cylinders or rings, and lastly, the Wa-taveita, like most of the natives of Inner Eastern Africa (and unlike those of the West), were totally ignorant of what we call decency. I would like to express this more delicately by saying that they were innocent of all clothing, but this was not the case, as many of the inhabitants wore cloth, or skins, round their shoulders, either for adornment or when the weather was chilly with breezes blowing off the snow-capped mountain.

I felt at home with the Wa-taveita from the first, for they were thoroughly conversant with Swahili, the coast language—the French of Eastern Africa, and as I also knew this tongue we had at once a medium of ready communication. So the natives who had come to meet our caravan, and trotted along by my side to direct me to the accustomed camping-place, chattered as we went and not only asked for, but imparted, information. One of the first questions was, “What is your name, white man?” “Johnston.” “Jansan?” they shrieked laughingly. “Why you must me Tamsan’s (Thomson’s) brother.” (Mr. Joseph Thomson, on his way to Masai-land, had passed through Taveita, leaving a very pleasant impression behind him. As by an odd coincidence we were both white, and our names, in the natives’ pronunciation, only differed in the initial consonant, the evident inference was that, to use the natives’ phrase, “We were of one mother.”) It would have been of such little use trying to disabuse them of this happy and likely idea that I accepted tacitly the suggested relationship, and it was soon noised about Taveita that Bwana Tamsan’s brother was come, and many of Thomson’s old friends flocked to greet me.

Our camp was established in one corner of a vast clearing, nearly square in shape, whereon certain Swahili traders, _en route_ to Masai-land, had built a temporary and straggling village of palm-thatched huts to accommodate their wives and concubines during their absence in the wilds. As soon as my tent was up, and my goods were properly stored and placed under the supervision of a trusted man, a food allowance was measured out to the hungry porters of the caravan. That is to say, a bale of cloth was unpacked, and each man received three ells (or “hands,” as they were here called) of white American sheeting, which was to purchase him sufficient food for three days. After the distribution of cloth the men dispersed for the rest of the day to forage in the Taveita market, and I was free to attend to my own affairs and to receive my new acquaintances. Firstly, however, the tent was closed, and I had a good and much-needed bath, for almost since leaving the coast water had been so precious that we had feared to lavish even a teacupful on the toilet. But here we had a glorious running river, crystal clear, and cool; and were it not for the inconvenient publicity which a dip in the stream itself would occasion at this moment, I should have strongly preferred it to a cramped bath in the hot tent. Nevertheless, a wash of any kind and a complete change of clothes was very refreshing, and when once more my tent door was thrown open to the throng, and I appeared before the elders of Taveita seated on my camp chair, I felt sure my white face was several shades lighter than on my arrival. This little colony of quiet agriculturists, known as Taveita, is unlike the neighbouring states in being a republic, or commonwealth, administered rather than ruled by an oligarchy of four or five important men known as the “Wa-zēē,” or elders. There are really two entirely distinct races inhabiting Taveita—the Wa-kwavi, a tribe of settled Masai who have turned from lawless robbers into honest, thrifty tillers of the soil, and the Wa-taveita proper, a people of Bantu stock, allied in origin to the A-kamba farther north and the Wa-čaga of Kilima-njaro. The Wa-taveita predominate over the Wa-kwavi in numbers, and the elders are mostly of the former stock. These functionaries had come to greet me with little gifts and offerings such as they deemed most acceptable to me, and, of course, expected an equivalent present on my part. One man had brought a baaing, reluctant sheep, and tied it to the tent-pegs. Another thrust into my lap a couple of fowls, strongly fastened together by the legs, but otherwise not disturbed in equanimity, for they pecked inquiringly at the buttons of my jacket. A third member of the Taveitan Legislative Council pointed to a basket of corn-cobs as his donation, and so on. Each in return received about twice the value of his free-will offering in cloth and beads, and, I am sorry to say, in accordance with African custom, they at first affected to be dissatisfied with the return-gifts, and tried to haggle for an increase, but finding this “try on” of no avail, immediately resigned themselves to the inevitable, and marched off very contentedly with what they could get. The remainder of the day was utilized by the men in buying food, while I availed myself of the unwonted rest to recruit my strength, and so did nothing in the way of active exertion beyond skinning a few birds.

About half-past 7 a.m. on the morrow we resumed our journey towards Kilima-njaro. I was going to establish myself at the Court of Mandara, chief of Moši, a state on the southern flank of the mountain. Until my return from East Africa so little was known of the politics of Kilima-njaro, that it was popularly supposed there was but one paramount ruler of the district, and he, Mandara, chief of Moši, who had sent letters to and exchanged presents with Sir John Kirk, and had seen, perhaps, each of the four or five Europeans who had approached Kilima-njaro. The way to his country lay first west, then north-west of Taveita, and the distance to be traversed was some twenty-seven miles.

After leaving our camp we first had to cross the River Lumi, over which a curious bridge was thrown. Some years ago the Wa-taveita were much inconvenienced by repeated floods, which rendered their river (fed from the snows of Kilima-njaro) dangerous or impossible to ford, and consequently cut off one-half of the colony from communication with the other. The idea of bridging this five-yard-wide rivulet was too difficult for the native mind, so the elders of Taveita contracted with a Swahili trader to do the job. The price was to be a bullock. The trafficker in ivory and slaves was not long in his operations. Selecting one of the finest and straightest trees growing on the summit of the river bank, he set to work with his followers, and with repeated chops severed its trunk near the base. The tree fell forward straight across the river from bank to bank, needing but the lopping of its superfluous crown of leafy branches to from as satisfactory a bridge as the natives required. As, however, its trunk remained rounded like a cylinder, and was polished and extremely slippery with the constant passage of naked feet, it offered anything but a secure foothold, and as a fall from any part of the bridge would be rather dangerous, I preferred fording the stream on a man’s back to risking the transit of the tree-trunk, although all my men, with heavy burdens on their heads, crossed it without mishap.

Fig. 23.—The Strange Creeper.
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Leaving the river, we walked for about two miles through very magnificent forest, where Raphia palms reached a great development; next we emerged abruptly on an unattractive wilderness of low thorny shrubs and coarse grass. The land rose gently before us towards the huge mass of Kilima-njaro, which was at present screened with louring clouds. In the middle distance, were broken chains of jagged hills, interspersed with isolated hillocks and mounds of conical shape, suggesting the idea that when the great discharge of eruptive matter from the two huge volcanoes of Kibô and Kimawenzi was temporarily or permanently checked, the sick earth broke out all over the irritated surface with minor pustules and pimples through which the disturbing matter was discharged, the present aspect of the mountain and its vicinity being the result of the scars and hardened scabs of these now healed-up earth-boils. We walked for some ten miles over an unattractive country devoid of water, and little better than desert. The hills were sparsely overgrown with sad, grey-looking trees, almost leafless or else sprinkled with scanty foliage of an olive-green. In the rolling plains at their base there was little to break the monotonous yellow of the withered grass. Now and then was seen a _Bauhinia_ shrub or stunted tree, with its bifid leaves that afforded as little shade as the poor foliage of the eucalyptus, or a thorny mimosa with flattened crown and red trunk, like a conventional tree from a child’s box of toys; or, lastly, a few inconspicuous nameless shrubs, with leaves of a shiny grey colour, like those of most plants living in semi-desert countries. Once or twice we crossed the dry bed of a torrent and found therein a more varied but scarcely more pleasing vegetation. Rampant euphorbias, with fleshy, snake-like, coiling stems armed with horrid spikes, trailed themselves triumphantly over unresisting shrubs; acacias, which from sheer viciousness had almost done without leaves to bestow all their productive powers on the development of terribly efficacious thorns, threw out their cruel grappling-hooks over the path and ripped up our faces, hands, or clothing as we passed. Other plants of the lily tribe (debased and wicked members of a beautiful family) grew like swords stuck in the ground point upwards, and woe betide any careless person who put his hand on the apex of their rigid, blade-like leaves—their rapier-points would pierce his palm as readily as a sword of steel. But as we had crossed a ridge stretching out into the plain, and our path, from sloping upwards, descended a little on the other side, this fantastic vegetation, befitting the precincts of some horrid mediæval monster’s lair, modified its repulsive character, and became intermixed with shrubs and grass of vivid green, while to our joy we descried some half a mile ahead a belt of dense purple-green foliage, which in these African wildernesses always denotes the presence of water. In fact, a few minutes’ walk took us from the dull white glare of the hazy noontide in the open, shadeless waste into a cool, delicious bower of deep green shade, where at first, so great was the contrast, we blinked our eyes and could see no details. Then I made out a clear limpid stream slipping along over small stones, or forming still, quiet, mirror-like pools between grey walls of smooth, massive tree trunks, which resembled stone in their colour and polish. Often the severity of these broad wooden bulwarks would be tempered with rich masses of foliage depending from the smaller boughs above, and breaking up with graceful and fanciful detail the somewhat formal outlines of the vista. The tree trunks that bordered the stream were many of them singularly broad in girth. In one or two cases they were grappled with by parasitic figs that wound themselves round their stout victim like vegetable boa-constrictors, or, as in the example illustrated, like some huge, long-bodied lizard. In the shade of this green tunnel, where the little river—which the Swahili traders call the Mto wa Habari, or “River of News”—bored its way through the forest belt, we cast down our burdens and prepared to rest and eat our midday meal. Succeeding the white glare of the shadeless open country this sweet and cool retreat beneath a dense over-arching canopy of foliage was inexpressibly soothing after our weary walk from Taveita. The men went off to the other side of the stream, and were lost to sight in the woodland; I only knew of their presence by the occasional murmur of voices coming from their camp, and by the blue curling smoke of their cooking fires, which ascended in gentle puffs through the network of leafy boughs. My portable table and camp-chair had been unfastened, and the former was set up on a level patch of sward by the waterside, and was quickly covered with a snowy cloth from the canteen, while my servant further laid it with the enamelled iron plates and knife and fork and napkin for my solitary meal. To pass the time and forget my impatient hunger whilst the repast was being prepared, I sat down on my camp-stool and made the rough sketch of the stream which is presented here: but my artistic labours were gladly laid aside at the announcement that lunch was ready, and I sat down with keen satisfaction to my tempting table, which had been further brightened by a little bouquet of wild flowers gathered and arranged by Virapan. Would you like to know what I ate? If so, I will endeavour to describe this one meal, so that you may better realize how I ordinarily fared in Africa while on the road. There was a plate of fowl soup to begin with, nicely flavoured with onions, thickened with a little maize-flour and rice. Two thin slices of toast lay beside it, made from some loaves my cook baked while we rested at Taveita. After the soup was finished came a little good curry made from the soup meat, and flavoured with cocoanut milk (for we had carried a sack of cocoanuts from the coast). Then, when the curry is eaten, a fresh plate was brought me, and a dear old battered calabash about half-full of delicious honey, which tastes like the smell of mimosa blossoms; and after eating some of this spread on a slice of Taveitan bread (which deserves its recipe in brackets: two pounds of maize-flour, half a cup of palm wine, a quarter of an ostrich egg, a pinch of salt, and a spoonful of butter), I wound, up my lunch with a cup of fragrant tea, and sat over an old book, while my men packed up the _impedimenta_ once more, and started again on the road towards Moši.

Fig. 24.—The River Habari.
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The afternoon was sultry, and we felt so meritorious in having accomplished our ten miles before lunch, that there was a general disposition to take things easily; besides which, our path led us through much more pleasing country than in the morning. We crossed a biggish stream (which rises near the summit of Kilima-njaro, and is called the Kilema River), then a smaller one, and at last, near our preordained camping-place for the night—a charming “almost-island” (this term sounds more expressive than peninsula), nearly surrounded by the little Mkuyuni River. You could hardly imagine a more romantically beautiful spot than this in which I camped. It was only approachable at one point—where a huge tree trunk spanned the tiny gulf between the bank and the island, and formed a bridge over which to pass to and fro. It was this fallen tree which had made our camping-place a peninsula, for in lying across the stream its lower branches acted as a kind of dam by stopping all the stones, earth, and refuse washed down by the rivulet, and so forming in time a firm barrier that sent all the water careering round the other side of the island. In the centre of this pretty peninsula rose a gigantic sycamore fig-tree (which among the Swahili traders gave its name to this stream—_Mkuyu_—a sycamore; _Mkuyuni_—the place by the sycamore)—and under the vast canopy of its mighty branches the whole caravan encamped, feeling tolerably protected from the weather by the leafy thatch o’er head.

In all my previous African experiences I had never known what it was to be in real danger from the attacks of lions. The king of beasts had hitherto exhibited a provoking shyness and a persistent dislike to cultivate my acquaintance—so much so, that I often used to complain that I gained nothing from my wish to know the lion at home and that I might learn more about him in Regent’s Park than in the savagest wilds of Africa. But ever since the troubled night which we spent at the Mkuyuni, I ask no more for leonine visits, especially in the darkness of the small hours, and will content myself with an occasional journey to the Zoological Gardens, where I can see this grandest of cats in a safe and comfortable cage. Soon after we had retired to rest on this occasion, when the men had begun to snore round their fires, wrapped up in dusky white cloths like so many mummies, and when the leader of the caravan was curling himself snugly between the blankets, the most terrific roar you ever heard startled us all into sudden wakefulness. Though the lion that uttered it was probably forty or fifty yards distant, the sound of his thunderous bellow seemed to come from our very midst. I sat up in bed and looked uneasily around me, but nobody complained of being eaten, so I lay down again, and even began to think this very interesting and very African, full of local colour, and so on. But now on our right and left, on either side of the river, a chorus of loud roaring began. The night was as yet pitchy dark, for the moon would not rise till the early morning. We could see nothing beyond the blaze of our cordon of fires. However, feeling that it was despicably tame to lie still in bed and go to sleep while my porters shivered with fear, I arose, took my gun, and fired into the bushes where the roaring was loudest. This, the men informed me, was the unwisest thing I could do; of course I killed nothing, and the noise of the firearm, instead of aweing the lions into silence, only seemed to exasperate them. I certainly never heard anything like the noise they made. My men averred that we were surrounded by ten beasts—I suppose they distinguished ten various roarings; certainly, the next morning, when we examined the precincts of our camp, the many footprints of different sizes which were marked in the soft vegetable soil of the surrounding woodland and in the red soil of the river bank, indicated unquestionably that a whole troop of lions had been in our immediate vicinity during the night. I noticed a curious fact connected with the unseen approach of these beasts. Whenever a lion was nearing our camp, and before he attested his vicinity by a roar, we were, when we had learned to read the warning, made aware of the fact by the sudden nervous twittering of the small birds in the branches above. It was a tremulous diapason of fear, most singularly impressive. On several subsequent occasions the approach of large wild beasts has been signified to me in the same manner.

The morning that succeeded this disturbed night saw us taking the road soon after sunrise, all in the best spirits at the approaching termination of a long tramp. We walked on for about two hours through low forest country, clad with scrubby trees rarely exceeding fifteen to twenty feet in height—an undergrowth of large-leaved solanaceous plants, which grew so regularly and on a soil so tidy and devoid of weeds or grass, that I at first took the country to be cultivated, and imagined these thriving herbs to be some kind of native tobacco. The wild flowers (ground orchids, hibiscus, clematis, and a kind of sunflower) were very beautiful and quite brilliant in their displays of colour. Within about an hour’s journey from the confines of Moši the path divides into two tracks, one going still due west and keeping to the plains, the other turning round towards the southern flank of Kilima-njaro, and mounting upwards. Here, at this junction, we encountered some rather disreputable Wa-swahili, shabbily clothed (it is the wearing clothes, by-the-bye, which enables one in this country to distinguish between the Wa-swahili, or natives of the coast, and the people of the interior), and armed with Snider guns. They were courtiers of Mandara’s, sent thoughtfully by that chief to meet us, and see we did not take the wrong road. Their greeting, however, was too familiar and impudent, to my taste, and I began to have a lurking presentiment that these scampish parasites of the chief of Moši might prove inimical to my mission; for, in the interior here, white men are looked upon by the coast traders as spies on the slave trade, and though outwardly fawned on and flattered from fear, yet are secretly thwarted and hindered in every possible way, especially as regards the native chiefs, whom the Wa-swahili are desirous of alienating from enlightenment. However, keeping these reflections to myself, I toiled along the ascending path, and after an hour’s stiff pull, caught a glimpse of an enchanting land. Hitherto our track had led through thick bush, with every view of the surrounding country shut out. Now we had entered a clearing, near to cultivation, and nothing impeded our view. Northwards the vast mass of the mountain stretched upwards into the heavens, its twin peaks shrouded in heavy cumulus clouds, and below the clouds, the billowy swell of hill upon hill and ridge succeeding ridge was a deep sullen blue under the heavy shadow of lowering cumuli. Then came a few lines of dark purple-green forest, still in shade, and, in the middle distance, where the sunlight broke upon the scene, the gentle, rounded hills gleamed out against the sombre background with their groves of emerald-green bananas marking the commencement of the cultivated zone. Nearer to us succeeded deep ravines, with thread-like cascades, clumps of tidy forest—just a few tall trees left growing out of religious veneration—smooth, sunny downs, whereon flocks of goats were grazing, patches of freshly-tilled soil, cultivated fields, hedge-lined lanes, and lastly, the red denuded hill, the No-man’s Land, the Pisgah, on which we were standing to gaze on this Promised Land, towards which for thirteen days we had been toiling through the wilderness. There was, however, no preordained restriction to my entering it, nor was my lieutenant qualified to play the part of Joshua, so I, who had been pausing here to let all my followers come up with me and regain their breath, once more took up my staff and marched into Mandara’s country. A ravine and a small stream separated us from the collection of beehive huts and gardens which formed his capital, and before crossing I stopped and gave the order for a salute of twenty-one guns to be fired (Mandara had heard from the Arab traders that such was the number of guns accorded to independent Royalty, and insisted on it). This accomplished I climbed the steep red path before me, and arrived at a kind of open green shaded by fine spreading trees. Here a lot of men were squatted with their shining broad-bladed spears stuck upright into the ground. They took but little notice of me, and I afterwards found that Mandara’s soldiers think it beneath their dignity to be surprised at anything. I nevertheless scanned them with considerable interest. Many were in their war-paint and were dressed to imitate the dreaded warriors of the Masai. On their heads would be either a huge circlet of ostrich feathers, or an imposing head-dress made from the black and white mane of the Colobus monkey. The same animal’s skin, with its long silky hair, of a most startling contrast in colour, was roughly fashioned into a covering for the shoulders, arranged so that a short lappet hung over the breasts, and the hinder part of the skin covered the back, while the long white tail of the monkey was disposed in such a manner as to suggest its being actually a caudal appendage of the wearer. Other soldiers wore, in place of Colobus skins, huge thick capes round the neck and shoulders, resembling the fur capes of our coachmen. These were generally made of cock’s feathers (black), or of the short, dark feathers of the ostrich. Round the ankles were short “raffs” of goat-skin, and often a “ring” of goat-skin—that is to say, a tag of hide with a slit through it—was thrust on to the finger. The lobes of the ears were distended with plugs of wood or hollow wooden rings, or hung with an infinitude of very fine steel chains (a local manufacture). Various other ornaments or charms decorated the body, but in all cases adornments and coverings were so disposed as to strictly avoid any purpose of what we should call decency, these people of Kilima-njaro, like those of Taveita, showing no idea of employing clothes for concealment.

I had time to pause and make these observations, for we had come to a halt. After passing the groups of soldiers whose attire, or the want of it, has just been described, we had gone through a hedge of dwarf dracænas and scarlet-flowered aloes, and were arrived on another open space at the back of Mandara’s compound. Hereupon we were directed to pitch our camp. The tent was soon up, and the loads were carefully piled in front of it, packed as compactly as possible, so as not to excite too much cupidity by a rash display of wealth. When this was finished, a messenger from Mandara arrived leading an unwilling goat. This animal was killed in my presence, skinned and cut up, and a small piece of the hide was made into a ring for my finger, which I was instructed to wear immediately as a sign of friendly peace, a similar bit being cut off and sent to Mandara for the same purpose.[10] The flesh of the goat was then handed over to my cook, to prepare for my next meal, and, as a matter of fact, it turned out delicious eating, for the slain animal was a plump young gelding, specially fattened for food.

Fig. 25.—Trees with Honey-boxes.
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Being informed that Mandara would not pay me a visit until the afternoon, preferring that his guest should eat and refresh himself after his long journey, I had a little leisure to look about me, as far as the laughing, staring crowds of Čaga people who thronged the encampment would allow. We were here about 3500 feet in altitude, relatively at the foot of the mountain, but yet with splendid views over the plains, which lay fifteen hundred feet below. All around were signs of agriculture of a high order, and though the people were naked, one could see they were anything but savages. There was nowhere a congeries of houses that could be called a town, but the whole country, where it was cultivated, was equally inhabited. Here and there the yellow thatch of a beehive hut peeped out from the green fronds of the banana groves. The fields were intersected with numerous runnels of water, diverted at different levels from the parent streams in the ravines above. The air was musical with the murmur of trickling rivulets and tinkling bells, for the flocks and herds were now being driven in from the pastures to the natives’ compounds, to be shut up from the afternoon heat. Wherever the ground was not in cultivation it was covered with brilliantly-coloured wild flowers—balsams, hibiscuses, dissotises, green and white ground orchids, scarlet aloes, and numberless species whose names I knew not, and from all these the bees were taking toll. The mild-eyed kine driven from the pastures suggested supplies of milk; the throng of bees about the blossoms implied that honey was also to be had. On the branches of all the big trees hereabouts were hung oblong cases—boxes—made of bark, in which these half-domesticated bees constructed their hives and stored their honey. These “honey-boxes,” called by the natives “Mizinga,” which word is also applied to cannons on the coast, are familiar objects in East Africa, and may generally be met with in the vicinity of villages.