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Title: On the borders of pigmy land
Author: Ruth B. Fisher
Release date: June 8, 2025 [eBook #76250]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Marshall Brothers, 1905
Credits: Peter Becker and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ON THE BORDERS OF PIGMY LAND ***
ON THE BORDERS OF PIGMY LAND
[Illustration: _Yours heartily_
_Ruth B. Fisher_]
ON THE BORDERS
OF PIGMY LAND
BY
RUTH B. FISHER
(_née_ HURDITCH)
NEW YORK, CHICAGO, TORONTO:
FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY
1905
R. W. SIMPSON AND CO., LTD.,
PRINTERS,
RICHMOND AND LONDON.
PREFACE
To none of her many friends in England and Ireland does the writer
of this book, whether as Miss Ruth Hurditch or Mrs. Fisher, need any
introduction; but I gladly accept the opportunity offered to me of
commending her graphic story of Mission life and work to a still wider
circle, including the American Christian public, among whom we are
assured the work will find ready circulation.
No one can read it and not be impressed by the evidence with which
it abounds that the same Gospel which conquered Europe, civilized or
barbarous, in ages past is as potent to-day to transform the most
degraded and dormant races into peoples of quick intelligence and
spiritual consciousness, and has given them in a marvellously short
time a measure of self-respect, a sense of the dignity of labour, and a
devotion to the welfare of others, not always found in Christian lands
or even Churches of ancient fame. At a time when the jaded faith of
many at home is giving way before the incessant undermining of the old
foundations, and when we are invited to recast the “details” of the
Gospel, it is no small thing that the Bible is seen to be making new
history again, and giving fresh evidences of its divine vitality. The
Mission Field is paying back its debt to the Church at home. Africa,
emerging from the night of ages, is bringing her treasures of grace to
make up the “fulness of the Gentiles.” The pigmies themselves are worthy
of a better lot than to be carried off by a traveller and be made a show
for the sordid curiosity of holiday crowds.
There are other reasons also why we welcome Mrs. Fisher’s journals. She
has drawn with her pen pictures of the country and people as lifelike as
the excellent photographs which adorn the book. She has enabled us to
share her adventures without the discomforts. The tropical storms and
glaring sunshine, the swamps of Semliki, and the snow peaks of Ruwenzori,
the camps and caravans, the dispensary and the school, the good King and
the gentle Queen, the Prime Minister and poor Blasiyo the pigmy are all
as real to us as though we had seen them and known them ourselves.
Mrs. Fisher has shown us how a devoted couple whose hearts are filled
with a longing to win souls for the Saviour can face dangers, and cut
themselves off from the common comforts of home, not only with patience
but with cheerfulness. No one will feel the playfulness and the sense of
humour with which she often describes the most trying situations to be
inconsistent with the more serious purpose of her Missionary life, or to
unfit her for the gracious ministry of comforting the sorrowful, teaching
the ignorant, and healing the sick, in which she has been engaged.
If each reader of these pages will let them raise before the conscience
such questions as these, “What have _I_ done, and what can _I_ do to help
such blessed work” or “Why should _I_ not follow in such steps myself,”
and if such questions be honestly answered as in the presence of the
Lord, I cannot doubt that results still more wonderful than those which
this book describes will find a record in the near future,—that may be
even the Coming of the Lord.
May the Holy Spirit moving in many lives bring this to pass.
H. E. FOX,
_Hon. Sec., C.M.S._
CONTENTS
CHAPTER. PAGE.
I. A JOURNEY ON THE UGANDA RAILROAD FOUR YEARS AGO 1
II. ON LAND AND LAKE 11
III. MENGO, UGANDA 22
IV. TORO, THE LAND OF THE MOUNTAINS OF THE MOON 31
V. THE COUNTRY 41
VI. HOME LIFE 50
VII. ROYAL LIFE 59
VIII. THE WOMEN OF TORO 69
IX. CHILD LIFE 79
X. RELIGION 84
XI. LANGUAGE 92
XII. FESTIVITIES IN TORO 97
XIII. TRAMP I. TO THE ALBERT EDWARD LAKE 106
XIV. TRAMP II. HOLIDAYS 119
XV. TRAMP III. TRAMP THROUGH THE FOUR KINGDOMS OF
THE PROTECTORATE 128
XVI. TRAMP IV. TOWARDS THE PIGMIES 151
XVII. IN DARKEST AFRICA. THE PIGMIES (BATWA) AND
THEIR (BAMBUBA) NEIGHBOURS 161
XVIII. A CLIMB TO THE SNOWS 173
XIX. MISSIONARY WORK 188
XX. MEDICAL WORK 199
XXI. SCHOLASTIC WORK 211
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
A GROUP OF BAGANDA.
A GROUP OF MASAIS.
A GROUP OF PIGMY WOMEN.
A MUBIRA LADY: AN AFTERNOON CALLER.
A NANDI FAMILY.
A NATIVE OF BALEGA: THE FIRST TO BE BAPTISED OF HIS RACE.
A PEEP AT THE SNOWS.
APOLO KIVEBULAYA.
A SCHOOL IN TORO.
A VIADUCT ON THE UGANDA RAILROAD.
BACK FROM THE SNOWS: BAKONJO PORTERS.
BLASIYO: FIRST BAPTISED PIGMY.
CROSSING THE MULUKU RIVER.
KICUCEI CAMP.
KING DANDI KASAGAMA OF TORO AND HIS CHIEFS.
MULUKU GLACIER.
NEW CHURCH, KABAROLE TORO.
OUR HOME IN TORO.
PORT OF MOMBASA.
SNOW PEAKS.
STIFF CLIMBING: A CLIMB TO THE SNOWS.
TABALA, CHIEF OF MBOGA, AND SUITE.
THE ALBERT EDWARD LAKE.
THE BA-AMBAS: NEAREST NEIGHBOURS TO THE PIGMIES.
THE BAHUKU: CANNIBAL RACE.
THE BAKONJO AT HOME.
THE BATORO AT HOME.
THE FOUR PIGMIES AT KABAROLE.
THE KIDONG ESCARPMENT.
THE MARKET PLACE.
THE NEW BOAT ON VICTORIA NYANZA.
THE SEMLIKI RIVER.
CHAPTER I
A Journey on the Uganda Railroad Four Years Ago
It was in the beginning of the year 1900 that a British India steamer
cast anchor and set down on African soil a party of seven missionaries
bound for distant Uganda. Six of that number might be termed “freshers,”
for they were complete strangers to the “dark continent,” and absolutely
uninitiated in the art of African travelling. It is a little difficult
to define the feelings of a new arrival who has before him or her the
prospect of life and work in that country. The memories of magnificent
lives laid down for its people fill the heart with an intensely solemn
sense of responsibility and dignity; records of travel and adventure
kindle a love of daring, and a desire for opportunities of heroism; while
the meagre knowledge that exists on the interior districts breaks the
imagination of the traveller away from its leading strings.
The port of British East Africa—the Island of Mombasa—is a typical
foreign mercantile coast town, with its medley of craft, ships, yachts,
tugs, boats and canoes manned by seamen of various nationalities,
pushing, hustling and screaming in all the tongues of Babel. The
handsome old Arab fortress that stands on its jagged rocky prominence as
a sentinel at the entrance of the harbour, takes one back to the time
before the port was taken over by the British, and when it was used by
those who had carried on the terrible slave traffic in the interior. A
little to the left is to be seen the British Consulate with its Union
Jack fluttering from the mast as the emblem of liberty and justice to all
who come under its jurisdiction.
As we stepped from the ship’s deck on to the landing-stage the sun felt
distinctly African. The dazzling white and somewhat congested streets
seemed to singe our very boot leather. It was a relief to have pointed
out a strip of bright green mainland which lay at the extreme end of a
sheltered bay, as the place where hospitality would be offered me and two
others of our party of seven, while preparations were being made for our
journey up country. A short row brought us to this mission station of
the Church Missionary Society—Freretown—the situation of which is very
pleasing; in front stretches the transparent blue bay, beyond to the
right the white minarets and red tiled roofs of Mombasa, and all around
dense foliage—mango and banana trees, creepers and shrubs and flowers in
tangled confusion. A warm English welcome awaited us from our missionary
friends there who were domiciled in a solid two-storied brick house.
The guest room delegated to me was evidently an afterthought, as it was
constructed of corrugated iron with plaited grass stretched across for a
ceiling. The room opened out on a broad balcony, and as it is the custom
to leave open the doors at night to catch the least suspicion of a breeze
that might blow in across the bay, the bats and rats made free use of
my room until daybreak. The first night I found the rats had shewed
an appreciative appetite for Cadbury’s chocolate, for they completely
finished off my half-pound tin which had been tusselled for at a chess
tournament on board ship.
[Illustration: PORT OF MOMBASA.]
The terrible famine up country had brought many half-starved folk to the
coast. Bishop Peel had sent down some 30 to 40 girls and boys from the
Wanika tribe to be clothed, fed, and cared for at the mission dormitory.
Starvation had played frightful havoc with them. One wee babe of about
two years, all skin and bone, had had her hands held in the fire by her
mother because hunger had driven her to steal a banana. Her tiny fingers
were twisted back and much distorted, some joints having entirely gone.
Other children had no toes, these having been literally eaten away by
the little insects known as jiggers, which are very numerous inland, and
trouble Europeans as well as natives.
On Sunday we went to morning service in the splendid brick native church.
As it was conducted in the Swahili language we could only follow in
silence the order of the liturgy. The church, holding about 500 people,
was almost full. Colours were very pronounced among the women. The girls
were dressed in white gowns with red handkerchiefs round the head;
but the elder women adopted the most remarkable hues: orange-coloured
sashes and violet head gear were the most conspicuous. They attended
very devoutly, and as I knelt at the Communion rails with a native
woman on either side, that text appealed to me with a new power “Other
sheep I have ... and there shall be one fold and one Shepherd.” In the
afternoon I delivered my first message to Africans. I had been asked to
speak through interpretation to a class of women; it was not easy to
stand up before one’s first audience of dusky faces and to try and adapt
the message to their minds—an unexplored land as yet to me—to choose
carefully words which would lend themselves to interpretation and to
recollect the point stopped at between the sentences.
The morning after our arrival we all met in the office of the Church
Missionary Society’s agency. Before us were arrayed a dozen Swahili lads
who were coming up country with us to act as our personal attendants.
Each of us was to be allowed the sole service of one, the half of
another, and a quarter of another; that is, one boy was to act as
housemaid, two of us would share a cook, and four a cook’s mate. Minute
instructions were given us as to travelling arrangements, which resulted
in, for one thing, the re-adjusting of every one of our loads that
weighed anything over 65lbs. It let me in for some days of arduous
labour. If it had not been for my newly acquired “housemaid” Richard,
who had attached himself to me after that morning in the office, the
unpacking and re-packing would have proved an almost hopeless task
in such melting temperature. The last load nailed down contained a
heterogeneous collection of groceries, Monkey Brand soap, photos, a
saucepan, and a few garments, all of which had been taken out of loads
of overweight. Quite unexpectedly we heard that our start up country was
to be made on the fifth day after our arrival at the coast. A breakdown
was hinted at as being likely to occur on the railroad on account of the
heavy rains that had fallen. Apart from this we were told that the train
would accomplish the 364 miles of its journey in one day and night. At
railhead our caravan of porters was awaiting us, as also the two donkeys
and two jinrickshas, which would prove essential in case of sickness on
the road. We speedily fixed our bicycles up on hearing of the immediate
start to be made, which seemed to make us all desperately impatient to be
spinning along the African roads to Uganda.
On February 23rd we left Mombasa. A large party of missionaries met at
Freretown Church at eight o’clock for united Communion. Then we hurried
down to the shore where a boat awaited us to take us across to Port
Mombasa. After getting together all handbags and other small baggage we
were packed away in a ghari—a tiny truck for four persons, with shade,
run on rails along the street. A curious party we looked; three gharis
left the town, boxes, bags and rugs heaped up in a pile, a few natives
scattered about here and there among us, and boys pushing behind.
These vehicles simply fly along when going downhill; one box toppled
over in one of these wild escapades, and the whole contents burst out
and were scattered about on the road. Then a derailment of one ghari
necessitated the passengers dismounting, and the cars that followed in
the wake being carried round the obstructing car. The terminus of the
railway is at Kilindini, which lies about two miles outside Mombasa. At
the station a strange scene confronted us. People from various countries
were rushing about in a state of great excitement, all struggling to
crowd into the few compartments allotted to fourth class passengers. They
were so jammed together that one could only expect to see the carriages
burst apart with the pressure from inside. Our compartments were ever so
much better than I had expected; two had been reserved for our party of
seven. Perhaps some of us were a little disappointed that there was no
“roughing it,” but we tried to console each other with the thought that
there might be a breakdown on the line. Our feelings can be imagined
when the train whizzed away and kept up a most respectable speed, in
fact, behaved itself like a civilized being. We had armed ourselves with
plenty of provisions, but found that good meals had been prepared for us
at various long halting stations on the route. Wanting to lighten our
supplies, however, afternoon tea was suggested, and as passengers could
walk from one compartment to another by means of an outside foot-board,
even though the train was running, we invited all the members of our
party in to a social tea. My canteen was produced and efforts were made
to boil the water, but the train was shaking so unreasonably that the
small kettle needed to be constantly replenished during the boiling. We
had to warn our guests to avoid the streams of water that were running
down the carriage from the kettle spout, but the last arrival made a
dreadful mistake by sitting on the top of the teapot just as the tea was
made. This was not discovered until the whole contents were upset and the
offender realized a scalding sensation.
The first day on the Uganda railroad was certainly not the most
enjoyable; the heat was stifling and the dust so obtrusive that in spite
of having the windows closed, in less than an hour everything had assumed
a brownish-red appearance; the carriage cushions, our clothing, hair, and
eyes were full of it, and if one did venture to open the lips to pass a
remark, a mouth-wash was necessary. Mile after mile of country was passed
where the grass was entirely burnt up, and almost all trees and shrubs
dried and bleached. The land was in the grip of famine, whose hand of
death had touched all nature. Some of its last victims dragged their
exhausted limbs to the banks of the railroad as the train passed through
their land of hunger. Poor wee children, their sharp bones standing out
in a most ghastly manner, looked like skeletons moving. We gave them food
which they voraciously seized, but alas, many had got beyond the power of
eating.
Our first halting place was Voi, which we reached at seven p.m., after
a run of eight hours. As the train was not leaving again till eleven
o’clock we were allowed time for a short rest after dining at the station
bungalow. Native couches of woven grass stretched over wooden frames
were given to us, but the need of mosquito nets and blankets drove all
ideas of sleep away. The next morning we found the scenery had entirely
changed; vast stretches of plain and gently undulating country extended
for miles on either side. This district, known as the Athi plain, is
thickly populated with all sorts of wild animals. There were scores of
antelopes, zebras, and ostriches. The tracks of lions were pointed out to
us, but these are the only animals that apparently do not venture near
the trains in broad daylight.
Nairobi, which has been named the “tin-town” on account of all the
buildings being composed of corrugated zinc, is quite an important place.
It is one of the headquarters and workshops of the railway company, and
a large and rapidly increasing European, Indian, and Arab population has
settled here. From this point we had to take up our porters, and this was
not an easy matter. Instead of the 300 or so required, only about 150
were procurable to carry all our loads of food supplies, clothing and
household requisites for the road and our destination, besides various
other boxes and literature for missionaries and mission work in Uganda.
After leaving Nairobi another complete contrast opened out before us.
Dense thickets, forests and jungle covered hill and dale, without a
sign of human life. Truly the world seemed here as in infancy, and the
railway a harsh discord of civilization. It is a rest to the mind and
soul to pass through these world’s natural parks; the deep long silence,
unreached by man’s babble, carries in its air a breeze from Home and
one’s whole inward being rises on the wing to its God. I wondered why
such miles and miles of uninhabited land existed when “He created it
not in vain, He formed it to be inhabited.” Was it that He might give
us “the treasures of darkness and hidden riches of secret places” which
God deposits in regions where, untrammelled by the footprints (not the
results) of sin the Shekinah dwells revealed in such natural splendour?
On Sunday at two p.m., we found ourselves at railhead. The train before
ours had been derailed several times on account of the heavy rains
washing down the new embankments, but as trains only run once a week,
repairs had been temporarily completed, so we finished our journey
without a single mishap.
I wish you could have seen our plight as we arrived. To begin with, even
in the finest weather the country would always appear somewhat dreary;
nature has not behaved very liberally. The train drew up abruptly, not
because of its having reached a station, but there was no more line
on which to run. The only buildings were a few tents and iron sheds,
the property of the six Europeans and score of Indians employed on the
construction of the railway. The whole country was under water, and the
rains were sweeping down in a deluge. Out of the waters appeared our
two jinrickshas and a few boxes, and these indicated the spot where we
were to camp. Our first inclination was to remain in the train, but as
that had to return at once, we waded out and about, and did not quite
know what to do next. Here the Europeans came nobly to our assistance
and offered the ladies shelter in a tent called the post-office. It
is remarkable what a lot it takes to make you depressed in Africa. In
England I believe most of us would have felt rather despondent, but none
of us confessed to those feelings. After a cup of tea, with condensed
milk, had warmed us up, we gave a right good British cheer as a tapping
at the telegraph wires in our tea room told us of a splendid British
victory at the seat of war.
Towards evening the rain ceased and as the ground was well digged round
with trenches the water quickly drained off, so our tents were unpacked
and erected. The railway officials kindly supplied us with a number of
solid planks, which formed a firm flooring over the mud.
The tents looked so warm and bright in the midst of such grey
surroundings. Camping out was quite a new experience to most of us and we
immensely enjoyed moving in to our new quarters. When we had got straight
the whole party came together in our tent, squeezed round the tiny table,
and we had a thanksgiving service. Through the goodness of God, things
had marvellously adjusted themselves, considering the short time and the
swamped condition of the country. We all sang the _Te Deum_ till our
little tent rang with voices.
[Illustration: THE KIDONG ESCARPMENT.
_Photo by W. D. Young, Mombasa._]
As we joined in the general thanksgiving and prayers I can truly say
that no more heartfelt praise ascended into the courts of Heaven from
any temple that Sunday evening, than from our little tabernacle in the
wilderness.
Outside, darkness reigned, except for the porters’ fires, burning in
every direction, with the black figures squatting round, which gave the
whole scene a weird and fantastic appearance.
The next morning all our loads were hauled out for inspection, and owing
to the lack of porters we were obliged to choose out such as would be
required for more immediate use; the remaining boxes had to be stacked
in a rather too well ventilated shed to await reinforcements of porters.
This particular district was in rather a disturbed condition. The day
before we had arrived some natives fired upon a European and killed
him; in consequence a small detachment of soldiers had been sent out to
see into matters and had shot two natives. We were warned at night to
have our camp carefully guarded by askaris,[1] as thieves were about
in addition to any unfriendly folk who might be prowling round. So a
fire was lit just outside our tents, and sentries stationed at close
distances. They accosted every passer-by in angry tones, and those who
did not use the password “friend” stood a very poor chance of getting off.
As we stood round the log-fire at evening, the thunder and lightning
roared and flashed; and then down came the rain and pelted hard all
night. One of the tents was quite flooded; the bed and furniture were
rescued and the occupant moved into another’s tent pitched on slightly
higher ground. We had arrived in the rainy season, and were told that
we must not be surprised if we got a daily soaking. It rather damped
one’s enthusiasm for camping out and cycling. This district is called
the Kidong Escarpment, and is a ledge of land that suddenly drops some
500 feet. The railway takes a circuitous route to avoid this drop,
but at that time a most elaborate temporary line had been laid down
the precipitous bank, the cars being worked by cables. One had here
an example of the almost insurmountable difficulties that faced the
engineers of the Uganda railway, difficulties emphasised by the fact
that all material required had to be imported from India or England.
Viaducts, some of which are of gigantic height, frequently connect rock
to rock, and along these the train has cautiously to pass. At other times
the brave little locomotive pants and gasps as it toils along with its
burden; now and again it stops to gain breath, then it goes on again,
climbing, ever climbing, till it has reached an altitude of 7,000 feet.
After the burning heat of the dusty plains, along which the train rushes
with hysterical speed, filling the traveller with misgivings and treating
him to plenty of rough shakings, how welcome is the cold frosty air of
these African Highlands, which have proved no barrier to the Uganda
railroad.
[Illustration: A VIADUCT ON THE UGANDA RAILROAD.
_Photo by W. D. Young, Mombasa._]
CHAPTER II
On Land and Lake
We certainly set off for our first so-called tramp most professionally
fitted out, but this only lasted for one day. The marching Norfolk dress
was soon discarded for a loose blouse; the water bottle, which did give
one rather a heroic aspect, was quietly given over to the “boy”; that
wonderful compendium of knife, corkscrew, file, button hook, and so
forth, which includes everything that you never want and nothing that you
do, was likewise voted too heavy; even the puggaree that had offered a
suggestion of trimming to the very unbecoming bald topee, was thrown out,
and any consideration for personal appearance that might have secretly
lurked within was superseded by the one desire for comfort, as we steamed
along on our bicycles over good, bad, and indifferent roads, the sun
beating down upon us all the time.
Lake Naivasha seemed scarcely large enough to satisfy our inordinate
thirst as we pulled up; we were not a bit polite when tea was generously
doled out to us by the Europeans stationed there, for none of us refused
a fourth and fifth cup, even when we saw the supply was running short.
I got very behindhand in my journal while on the road. Never had I been
successful in keeping one for longer than a week; on the seventh day it
had become so intolerably dull that Dryasdust must even have yawned. Of
course, Africa supplies you with plenty of material, but the methodical
mind and will power are somehow wanting. Let me tell you why. At 4.0
a.m. daily one wakes up with a start, for as the sun does not rise till
6.0, night still seems to rest heavily on the land and on one’s eyelids.
But the caravan leader is beating a drum, accompanying it with a shrill
falsetto call to rise; and if one dares to stay rubbing the sleep out of
the eyes, the porters are fumbling away at the tent ropes, and before
there is time to complete one’s toilette, the whole tent flops down like
a closed umbrella. A truly undignified exit is made by a dishevelled
figure, and one turns up while breakfast is being served round the camp
fire on tin crockery.
In the dusk we push off; a real expert rider you must be to dodge in and
out of the porters who are already filing along on the narrow path, and
have a happy knack of swinging round at the sound of the bicycle bell
just as you pass—the tent-pole carrier was a veritable man-trap, and
more than once pitched machine and rider into the ditch. I am sure I
shall never complain again of English or even Scotch roads; the ridges
we have ridden over (often ending in a swamp) have helped to strengthen
one’s nerves and powers of balance. We generally reach camp before our
porters, and then seek out some shelter till our tents arrive. It is a
quaint sight to watch the long line of the caravan coming in; the men
become very excited at sight of the halting place, and as the first man
who carries a drum beats it with all his might, swinging a zebra tail
round and round his head, the men all break into song and a slow dance,
which gradually increases in volume and speed until the 65lb. box on the
head is quite forgotten, the body springs about in mid-air, and finally
throws itself down with a shout of ecstasy and an eloquent outburst of
self-praise and congratulation.
[Illustration: A GROUP OF MASAIS.
_Photo by D. V. F. Figueira, Mombasa._]
When tents have been pitched and bodily restoratives have been applied
in the form of cool baths, a good meal and a sleep, the only possible
hour for journalling has come. But who could resist the desire to peep
outside the tent door, and then into the new and fascinating features of
folk, animals, birds, and country that surround the colony of tents? So
my pen remained idle for many days on the road, and as we were constantly
going forward, it was not easy to go back and pick up broken threads.
The day from Lake Nakuro must have a few lines to itself. The usual 15
miles’ journey had appeared exceptionally short on account of the good
roads, and there being no houses or even signboard to tell you “this is
camp,” we rode past it unconsciously. While resting mid-day on the banks
of a shady nook for a cup of tea and biscuits, two bicycles unfortunately
fell over on my gear case and completely smashed it up. This made riding
a little difficult for the remainder of the day, as the skirt would keep
catching in the chain, and the gear-case strapped across the handle-bars
did not allow much knee space. Very hot, dusty, hungry, and tired at 3.30
p.m., we came across a small Indian encampment which had journeyed up
country for railway survey with a large number of pack mules. The campers
told us we had come 34 miles. This rather alarmed us, for we wondered how
our porters could cover that distance. It was a ghastly spot. The ground
was strewn with numbers of bleached skulls and bones, which we afterwards
learned were part of an Indian troop that some time previously had
travelled down country under Mr. Grant, and had died for want of water.
After waiting some time scouts were sent out to search for our men,
but as night fell they returned with the tidings that our caravan was
camped some 15 miles away, and was too exhausted to push on. Having
eaten nothing since 4 o’clock a.m., with the exception of that mid-day
impromptu lunch, I must confess that our first consideration was for
food. Fortunately one of our party had shot during the day a bustard.
This was speedily prepared and cooked in a pot lent us by the Indians. A
few biscuits and some tea still remained in our canteen, and so sitting
round an ember fire inside the stockade constructed for the mules as
protection from the lions, we enjoyed, perhaps as never before, a
hearty, simple and crude meal, without chairs, spoons, forks, or even
chop-sticks. We tried to effect further loans, and through the generosity
of our new friends succeeded in procuring one small tent for the night.
It _was_ small, 6 feet square, and we five ladies had to pack into it.
We did manage it by strictly adhering to the agreement of sleeping on
one’s side and not attempting to change over. There were no blankets,
but certainly none of us felt the need of them! The gentlemen kept guard
round the watch fires all night, but I think they got in more sleep than
we did.
In case such a thing should ever happen again, the men of our party were
evidently determined to be prepared, for on the following afternoon we
saw them shouldering their guns, and after hearing a few distant sounds
of shot, two zebras and three antelopes were carried into camp; and
before we had finished admiring and pitying these splendid fallen lords
of the country, they were carried off and skinned. The next sight we
caught of them was in the form of long, gory strips festooned from branch
to branch of a tree close by. The porters, hawk-like, were standing
round, as hungry East Enders outside fried fish bars. Perhaps they
can be partially excused when we consider the monotonous, unpalatable
millet which constitutes their daily diet. At 7 p.m. a drum was beaten,
and every man presented himself in as famished a condition as he could
assume. They stood like soldiers waiting to be decorated with the V.C.
In a few minutes the tree was quite cleared, and outside each tiny tent
was fixed on sticks venison and wild beef roasting over the fires. The
sounds of revelry had scarcely died away when the morning call drum
sounded.
[Illustration: THE NEW BOAT ON VICTORIA NYANZA.]
The people who live in the district through which we had hitherto passed
are called the Masai tribe, a nomadic folk who travel about from one
place to another, according to the pasture the land offers for their
goats and sheep. They have distinctly warlike propensities, and a warrior
chief is often met having a few armed followers, who, like their master,
smear their bodies with grease and red earth, only wearing a small strip
of cloth, or an animal’s skin over the shoulder, and sometimes a few
feathers in their matted and oiled hair. The fierce opposition they
showed to the pioneer Missionaries is now no longer displayed; in fact
they appear somewhat timid and reserved.
The general physical feature of the land is soft, gently undulating
country. But for the lakes Naivasha and Nakuro, and the River Gilgal,
there is a marked scarcity of water. Not until we reached the Eldoma
Ravine did we pass anything worthy of being called a forest. At that
point we had risen 7,000 feet above sea level, and exquisite stretches of
tangled forests of cedars and bamboos afforded a welcome relief after the
dried up and treeless track we had been accustomed to. Cycling was quite
impossible owing to the many trees that had fallen across the road, and
the deep ruts made by the ox waggons which had passed along in the wet
season; one waggon, carrying along parts of a new boat to be floated on
the Victoria Nyanza, was overthrown and broken up by one of these ruts
the day we passed through the forest.
In spite of the weariness that often overcomes one travelling day after
day under such a fierce sun, how glad I am that the railway had left
us 300 miles of tramping before we reached the lake! Those who come
up country now the railroad is completed will never experience the
fondness, and shall I call it proprietorship, that one seems to feel for
the land when each step has involved labour, every little change from
the prairie grass and thorn bushes been noticed and welcomed, and each
new district and tribe prayed and longed over to be claimed for Christ.
How can I describe the scene that stretched before me as I stood on the
Nandi plateau overlooking the tranquil silver lake, the Victoria Nyanza,
lying 3,000ft. below. The sun was slowly sinking towards the west, and,
as it did so, drew the attention to the other side, our land of promise,
Uganda. As the distant horizon and sky were flooded with a gentle red and
golden light, salvation and victory seemed written in the handwriting of
God upon the walls of that country.
Turning round towards camp what a contrast the scene presented. Hundreds
of natives had congregated together dressed in animals’ skins, and armed
with shields and spears, which they were flourishing in the air with
wild dancing and shrill war song—they were going out to fight with a
neighbouring tribe. In the morning I had had an undesirable encounter
with some of them. Having taken my writing case and pocket Bible to a
hill a short distance away from where we were encamped to get a view of
the wonderful panorama of plain and lake beneath, I had been somewhat
startled by a number of men suddenly appearing from what at first were
quite undistinguishable grass huts. Void of clothing they had painted
their bodies with bright red earth, and had made various designs with
grease on their limbs. Their hair was long and twisted into streaks by
means of goat’s fat, and each man carried a spear and shield. Soon a
small crowd had gathered round, and I must confess to a certain feeling
of uneasiness at the isolation of my position. However, I determined to
evince no fear and tried to make the best of it. I undid my writing-case
and showed it to them, and my watch. They literally shrieked with
delight and surprise when they saw the hands run round. The gilt edges of
my Bible attracted them, so handling it reverently I tried to tell them
it was God’s Book, and drawing one of the children to me by signs, sought
to convey to their minds that God loved us. I do not know if they caught
my meaning, but I do know that God caught up the prayers that ascended
for them.
[Illustration: A NANDI FAMILY.
_Photo by W. D. Young, Mombasa._]
The same evening a violent storm broke over us. One of our tents was
literally washed out, not having had a deep ditch digged round in case of
emergency.
After moving off again and descending very precipitately to the level of
the lake, the heavy rains were found to have made marching exceedingly
difficult. We had to plough through thick black mud till we reached
Port Florence, a distance of twenty-one miles. At one point on the road
a stream about thirty yards wide had to be waded, as our porters were
unavailable for carrying, having all gone on in front. The water in some
parts was a foot deep, and it was by no means an easy thing getting
through it when there were inches of mud from which the boots very
reluctantly parted.
News had reached us that the steamboat _Ruwenzori_ which had been sent
to meet us and take us across the lake had been wrecked on the way, so
we had to put off in an Arab dhow, a sailing boat used for transport
purposes only, and one that offered no passenger accommodation.
Three thousand square miles! Can you imagine a lake about that size? And
yet on our maps it is no larger than a boot button. Quiet and peaceful
as is its normal condition, there are times when its mighty waters are
lashed into uncomfortable anger, and casting up foaming crests break on
the shore with the force and roar of an ocean’s storm. Abundant in its
resources, it can afford to be generous in its supplies; with prodigality
it pours its fulness into its offspring, so that distant Egypt subsists
on its benevolence—the Nile.
Although only 7 p.m., darkness had already set in as we made our way down
to the rough landing-stage to be shipped for Uganda. The dhow looked
uncomfortably small for its crew, seven English passengers, twelve
“boys,” and all their cargo. It could not get up to the little wooden
pier, so we rowed out in dug-out canoes by the light of a hand lamp. This
took time, and it was nearly midnight before everything was on board.
A small portion towards the stem had been reserved to our use for
sleeping, feeding, and living purposes. One of the ground sheets of the
tent was fixed up on four insecure poles to form an awning over us.
Our sacks containing camp beds and blankets were placed about to act as
bolsters as we lay down on the bare boards in the vain hope of sleeping.
But they were the most bony bolsters I have ever known, for on whatever
corner you took up your position, there was a point of the bedstead
running into you. We were all glad when a sharp breeze sprang up in the
early morning, and the sails that had been nodding all night braced
themselves together for work.
Mid-day we passed a small island which is inhabited by fisher folk. They
trap the fish by means of baskets with inverted necks like a safety
ink-pot. Someone suggested pulling into shore in a canoe that was passing
at the time for the purpose of buying some fish, but the people had
misinterpreted our intentions and had armed themselves with spears, and
were waiting for us entrenched behind large rocks. So it was decided to
lunch off tinned sausages that day! Our prospects of landing and enjoying
a change at night from the hard boards of the dhow were shattered by the
captain assuring us that he could not possibly waste such a splendid wind
as was blowing, but must push on. Accordingly, mattresses and pillows
were pulled out and spread on the deck, so that our couch might be a
trifle more comfortable than on the preceding night.
The wind did blow, and the dhow pitched to and fro like the tub of
Diogenes. He must have been a better sailor than most of us were, else he
could never have steered his craft.
It was wonderful how the food was cooked. The Swahili boys are prodigies,
and can somehow manage under any condition. Finding a large iron tray
they built up their wood fires on it in the bow of the boat and with the
usual three stones they boiled their kettle, saucepan or other kitchen
requisites.
The scenery round the shores of the lake is exceedingly pretty. The land
gently slopes upward. Here and there a belt of forest stretches down to
the water’s edge; the grass huts huddled together in small communities
just appear peeping out from the creeks and woods, and birds of gorgeous
colours fly about or build their nests in the branches overhanging the
water’s edge.
On the third day of our trip we were becalmed, and it was decided to
land on an island for the night so that we might get a complete change
of toilet and rest. There was no canoe at hand to take us ashore, so a
raft was constructed of poles and two large Masai hide shields which had
been given me up country. We crossed over, two by two, carefully balanced
in the centre of the raft, with shoes and stockings in our hands. The
men managed to get a few things across, but the raft would not bear the
weight of the tents. A ground sheet was once more utilized by tying it
to branches of trees to form a covering over our camp and beds at night.
Looking through the mosquito net I saw the stars peeping down, and the
fireflies and glow worms lighting up the air and shrubs, and heard the
croaking of the frogs and the night bird cooing in the trees. It seemed
like a page out of childhood’s fairy book.
There was no chance of getting off in the morning, and we made a tour
of the island. It chanced to be the one on which the _Ruwenzori_ had
been wrecked. The captain and his native crew had succeeded in getting
safely to land, but were in a sad plight without shoes and socks and
provisions. It was most fortunate our party happened to have lighted
on that particular island, and so were able to replenish the meagre
stores of these shipwrecked mariners. The natives flocked together when
they heard of the arrival of white men, and begged them to shoot the
hippopotami that had been destroying their cultivation. They showed us
round their village, in the centre of which was their devil temple. The
head priest alone was allowed to enter. Round the courtyard were placed
flat and upright stone slabs; these were the seats of the priests, who
sat round in a semi-circle when their head priest was inside invoking the
evil spirit. The only one in our party who knew their language spoke to
them, and they all united in asking that teachers might be sent to them
to instruct them in these “good words.” Now there is no need to send to
them, for since then the island has been depopulated by the sleeping
sickness. Not one inhabitant remains—and they died with their request
unanswered!
On the morning of the eighth day we were all eagerly examining the
fringe of land lying straight ahead. The opera glasses spied out a few
dark figures moving about close to the landing stage. In imagination
and Pears’ Soap advertisements I had often seen the picture, the blue,
transparent water, a stretch of sandy shore—the background of banana
trees and palms, a few grass huts, and a dark-skinned figure standing
out in bold relief with the broad smile displaying a row of white teeth.
“Otyano Munange” (How do you do, my friend?) and a prolonged exchange of
grunts greeted us as we stepped from the dhow on to the shores of Port
Munyonyo.
During the few minutes of waiting for our boxes to be unloaded I moved
toward a little hut from which the sound of voices was coming. Peeping
in at the low doorway, I saw a man dressed in white linen (evidently the
head of the household). He was sitting, reading aloud to a group of men
and women gathered round him. The Book was the Gospel of St. John.
Surely this was Uganda, where the people who sat in darkness have seen
a great light. It is wonderful what the Bible has done for them. Its
influence penetrates the entire country, and its very utterances are the
language of the people. Its expressions of greeting and farewell are
used, and with reverence.
How our bicycles did run away with us over those seven miles to Mengo.
After mounting them, we were followed by numbers of natives, and from
every direction they came out of their shambas to greet us, falling down
on their knees and saying, “You are our prayers, thank you.”
On hearing of our arrival, our missionary friends had all started off
to greet us. They described it as a little bit of England to see seven
cyclists coming along with an impress of home which the five weeks’
knocking about had not quite obliterated. The first one to meet us must
have been guilty of scorching, as he was far ahead of the others, and
he was determined to give us a real taste of Uganda right away, for he
produced from his pocket some bananas (shall I own it, rather squashy)
wrapped up in a newspaper; they were good!
Next came along a mule, bearing towards us Bishop Tucker, who had come
out to welcome his new recruits. I do not remember quite distinctly
the other faces, for we were literally hemmed in by scores of excited
natives, hustling, bustling, clapping, and chattering, seizing our hands
and thanking us for having come so far to them, while tears of gratitude
glistened on some of their splendid, intelligent, brown faces.
CHAPTER III
Mengo, Uganda
Judging from the view obtained from this, the native capital of Uganda,
Mengo, the country seems composed of hills. On one of these stands the
cathedral and missionaries’ houses, and the splendid hospital, then just
ready to be opened (but since burnt down), and holding fifty to sixty
beds. The Roman Catholic Mission commands another hill, while on the
highest is the King’s palace. The head man of the district builds at
the top of each hill, and his dependents live round, their site being
determined by their social position. The whole district is densely
populated, but this is difficult at first to see, as the huts harmonize
with the vegetation around, or are hidden by the large banana plantations
that surround each dwelling. What strikes a new arrival are the very
wide, well-made roads that have been cut in various directions, quite a
novel feature for Africa.
Living out here is necessarily very simple. The English houses then
resembled bungalows constructed of poles and light, long reeds sewn
together by means of a black fibre: two layers formed the walls, with
dried leaves stuffed between, the roof being thatched with grass. The
floors were beaten earth, with skins or grass mats thrown down in
place of carpets. There were only outside doors, pieces of terra cotta
coloured bark cloth being hung as curtains between the inside doorways.
The apertures made in the walls for windows were closed in at night
by shutters of sewn reeds. The rooms looked distinctly rural, with
bookshelves, wardrobes, and cabinets made with packing cases of uniform
size stacked one upon another. A few native curios and chairs placed
about were rather more useful than ornamental.
[Illustration: A GROUP OF BAGANDA.
_Photo by D. V. F. Figueira, Mombasa._]
Each missionary’s house was fitted up with a spare room, but visitors
were expected to bring their own furniture and attendants, even though it
might be but a Saturday till Monday visit. If you were not a bonâ-fide
fresh arrival you had to bring your cow as well. The European’s staff of
domestics consists generally of small boys varying from eight to thirteen
years of age. These cook, wait, clean up, wash, in fact will do anything
you want them to do and a great deal more besides. As we passed the
little cook shed one evening the chef was rubbing up the roast chicken
with his grimy little hands to give the final touch before sending it to
table. The ladies employ female labour, and the girls range from three
to fifteen years of age, after which they marry. One small thing of five
years was “parlourmaid” to their household at the time of our arrival.
At afternoon tea she strolled into the room with the teapot balanced on
her head; in the same exalted position were the vegetables brought in at
dinner served up in a large plaited basket shaped like a Japanese hat,
with leaves placed under the unsweetened cooked bananas or potatoes.
The kitchen, like the servants’ quarters, is built apart from the
houses. There are no ranges or stoves. The cooking-pot, saucepan,
kettle, or frying-pan sits on three bricks or large stones between which
the firewood is rammed. The cooking-pots make successful ovens for
bread-making if a tray of fire is placed on the top.
The day after our arrival being Sunday we had an early opportunity
of witnessing a little of what Christianity has done for Uganda. The
unreached tribes we had passed through in their nakedness and savagery,
propitiating demons, and offering human sacrifices, are what these
people were before the Gospel reached them. Now, as the huge church
drum, echoing from hill to hill, called to morning prayer, a continual
stream of people was seen pouring into the large “basket” cathedral. As
we entered at 9 a.m. what an impressive sight awaited us! Perhaps the
first thing that attracted one’s attention was the veritable forest of
poles that supported the roof; but, then, looking down, the eye travelled
over a sea of black woolly heads—of about two thousand men dressed in
spotless white linen on one side, and of women draped in the bark cloths,
so soft and restful to the eye, on the other. There were no chairs or
pews, but each one brought a goat skin or grass kneeling mat. With no
muffled, inarticulate voice did they join in the service, but as they all
united in the Lord’s Prayer a noise as of thunder sounded throughout the
building. When the time for reading of the Scriptures had come, there
was a general unbandaging of Gospels or Testaments, which their owners
securely bind round in strips of calico to protect them.[2]
In the afternoon we paid a visit to the young king Daudi Chwa. His palace
is approached by passing through an endless number of courtyards formed
by woven cane fencings ten feet high. In some of these are circular
reed houses for his courtiers and servants; the last one is the royal
enclosure. Three round buildings stand here, coloured grass plaitings
over the entrance distinguishing them from others. In one, the audience
chamber, sat the King, then aged four years.
There was no furniture in the apartment; fine grass was carefully and
uniformly laid on the ground, over which mats were placed on a slightly
elevated reed dais. He was an important-looking little lad; his curious
get-up made him appear twice his age. In spite of the great heat, a man’s
European shirt fell in folds to his feet, and over this was an English
greasy black morning coat, made to fit a man of abnormal proportions.
Five women and two chiefs waited upon him. Not a word did he speak, but
stared uninterruptedly, and when on leaving we had reached the last
courtyard, I was peremptorily recalled. It was my velvet collar band he
wanted to inspect.
The form of native government is very highly developed and remarkable,
for a tribe that had had no contact with the forms of government adopted
by civilized nations. The feudal system is practically that in vogue
throughout the country, which is divided up into shires or districts
placed under a chief called the Saza, who has his own sub-chiefs. He
has the power of settling trifling local questions, but everything of
importance has to be transferred to the King.
The English Government had recently levied upon the whole Protectorate
a hut tax of 3 rupees yearly. This creates a new demand, and has had a
salutary effect on a people whose needs are so few, and these so easily
supplied, that they have had little necessity for learning the dignity of
work.
Tourists could easily spend some days profitably in Mengo, where there is
much of real interest to be seen. I will give my few days of excursion
trips, as there is no Baedeker on the subject.
First day.—Grand reception by natives.
Second day.—Visit to Cathedral, Schools, and Industrial Department of the
Church Missionary Society, open each day from 8.0 to 4.0. Pay respects to
His Majesty Daudi I., King of Uganda.
Third day.—Uganda “Picture Gallery” in the Bishop’s Palace (constructed
of mud and wattle). Every picture produced by the Bishop’s own brush
while journeying through the country. They were so beautiful and give
such a faithful idea of the country I simply longed to despatch the whole
lot home.
Fourth day.—Three miles’ walk to the ruins of Mackay’s Church and house.
Banana plantations now extend over his once carefully cultivated garden,
a few scattered bricks (the first and only introduction of bricks up to
that time in Mengo) point out the place where the foundation of the great
invisible Church of Uganda was laid. As one stood there one almost felt
surrounded by that crowd of witnesses of whom the world was not worthy.
Just to the front is that sacred spot where the first native converts
were martyred for their faith.
Fifth day.—Visit to the Hospital. I went with the doctor to observe and
take notes for future use. The day’s work commenced with a half-hour’s
service held in an open outside court. The gate was closed then against
those who might come for the medicine without the morning prayers. Some
150 patients were seeking attention this day, and they were allowed into
the tiny consulting room five at a time. They evidently have a good idea
of anatomy, for they have a word for nearly every bone and gland. Their
faith in the white doctor speaks eloquently of the cures he has effected.
One man was quite hurt because the surgeon would not take out his liver.
On the same day can be fitted in a bicycle ride to the native potteries.
Outside a small hut we found two men squatted moulding the soft clay
with their hands; a well rounded flint gave a polish to the pot, while a
strand of coarsely plaited grass stamped on the soft clay gave a border
impress. A huge wood furnace was burning in an adjoining court into which
the vessels were placed and baked. We were so interested in this process
that the sun had set before we were aware of it, and our ride home was
in pitch darkness over the deep rutted roads. I had a nasty fall which
suggested that it might be wiser to walk our machines the remainder of
the distance. When we reached Mengo sharp pain and swollen ankle told
of a sprain. This kept me a prisoner for three days. It was rather
providential, for the mail from England came in, and as no letters had
reached us since leaving the home shores, just ten weeks ago, a very big
budget was handed in to me. Only those who have really experienced it can
enter into the awful home-sickness that sometimes a girl feels on her
first long separation from England. After some amount of tossing about
and roughing it, to be suddenly carried back by a letter into the peace
and quiet of the home, and to read all the interesting little natural
bits which make you feel once again among the home circle, for a minute,
when no one is looking, you may behave like a big baby.
The destinations of our party of missionaries were soon definitely fixed;
I was asked to go as one of the first women to Toro, a separate and
independent kingdom nearly 200 miles further inland to the north-west of
Uganda. It involves a journey of 12 to 14 days, as the road is rather
tough and there are no conveyances. The wonderful growth of the work
there dates from the conversion of the King Kasagama at the beginning
of the year 1896, who was the first monarch to be baptized in the whole
Protectorate. In 1897 he wrote the following letter to the C.M.S.:—
TORO, February 1, 1897.
To my dear Friends the Elders of the Church in Europe.
I greet you very much in our Lord Jesus Christ, who died for us
on the cross to make us children of God. How are you, sirs?
I am Daudi (David) Kasagama, King of Toro. The reason why I
commence to tell you that is because I wish you to know me
well.
God our Father gave me the Kingdom of Toro to reign over for
Him, therefore I write to you my brethren to beseech you to
remember me and to pray for me every day, all the days.
I praise my Lord very very much indeed for the words of the
Gospels He brought into my country, and you my brothers I
thank you for sending Teachers to come here to teach us such
beautiful words.
I therefore tell you that I want very much, God giving me
strength, to arrange all the matters of this country for Him
only, that all my people may understand that Christ Jesus He is
the Saviour of all countries, and that He is the King of all
kings. Therefore, sirs, I tell you that I have built a very
large Church in my Capital, and we call it “The Church of St.
John.”
Also that very many people come every day into the Church to
learn the “Words of Life,” perhaps 150, also on Sunday they
are very many who come to worship God our Father in His holy
Church and to praise Him. I also tell you that in the gardens
near here we have built six Churches. The people of this place
have very great hunger indeed for the “Bread of Life,” many
die every day while still in their sins because they do not
hear the Gospel. The teachers are few and those who wish to
read, many. Therefore, sirs, my dear friends, have pity upon
my people, in great darkness; they do not know where they are
going.
Also I want to tell you that there are very many heathen
nations close to my country—Abakonio, Abamba, Abahoko,
Abasagala, Abasongola, Abaega, and many others in darkness.
We heard that now in Uganda there are English ladies; but,
sirs, here is very great need for ladies to come and teach our
ladies. I want very very much that they come.
Also, my friends, help us every day in your prayers. I want my
country to be a strong Lantern that is not put out, in this
land of darkness.
Also I wish to make dear friends in Europe, because we are One
in Christ Jesus Our Saviour. Now good-bye, my dear friends. God
be with you in all your decisions.
I am your friend who loves you in Jesus,
DAUDI KASAGAMA.
How well I remember the deep impression that request made on me as I
read it, little realizing at the time that God would send me out in
answer to it. Mr. and Mrs. A. B. Lloyd were also located to Toro, and
Miss Pike, who had arrived in Uganda six months previously.
As soon as we knew our location we went off to Kampala, the market
place and Government station of Mengo, to lay in a stock of oil, wheat,
matches, bark cloths; also cowrie shells, beads, and calico, which are
the currency of the Toro district. Our purse took the shape of two large
sacks, each weighing 65lbs., and these needed two men to carry them.
Kampala was very different from Namirembe. Swahilis, Indians, Arabs, and
natives crowded the narrow, stuffy street called a market place. Open
booths extended down either side, and on shelves were displayed various
native grains and vegetable produce, while gorgeous coloured prints and
calicoes, beads, and brass wire adorned the outfitters’ shops. As we
passed along, small amused crowds followed us to see the “tall ladies.”
The law court would have shocked the members of the profession of Fleet
Street. It was a barn-like structure built of reeds; there were no
benches and witness boxes, the only official item being a coat of arms
wrought on an enamelled iron plate over the judge’s seat and table.
We heard there was a nice little white-washed mud house awaiting us in
Toro, but there were no windows or doors. The European missionary already
working there promised to make these when we supplied him with wood from
our packing-cases.
Toro was still in its very dark state, but the people were willing and
eager to learn. The Uganda of the present has been the result of years of
labour, the cost of noblest lives, the scenes of grandest heroism, the
patient, untiring, lonely work of such men as Mackay, Pilkington, and
many others. Toro appeared to have few physical dangers, but the moral
and spiritual difficulties were just the same. A fortnight’s journey
seemed a long distance to the nearest European station, especially to
one straight out from the roar and bustle of London life, the noise and
rattle of a large family of brothers and sisters.
We felt very incompetent implements, but remembered the prayers going up
for us in England, and believed that they would have power with the great
Master-Builder, the Architect of the ages—so that the habitation being
builded together for God in Toro might be “all glorious within.”
CHAPTER IV
Toro: The Land of the Mountains of the Moon
On Tuesday, April 10th, 1900, the start was made for Toro. Our caravan of
porters had been sent on before to have our first camp in readiness on
our arrival.
Bishop Tucker, who was coming our way for two days on a visit to an
out-station, set off on his mule, with Miss Pike mounted on a most
apologetic-looking donkey. The Lloyds and myself arranged our departure
two hours later, as our cycles promised a quicker method of locomotion.
Having said the last good-bye to friends, I went away for an hour’s
quiet to get strengthened for the journey. Taking out my “Daily Light” I
looked for its message, which was the promise given to Israel while in
captivity, “Thy renown went forth among the heathen for thy beauty, for
thou art perfect in the majesty (R.V.) that I have put upon thee, saith
the Lord.” What a glorious responsibility through the graciousness of God
to be allowed to proclaim the renown, beauty and majesty of Christ among
the heathen.
At 3.0 three cyclists could have been seen scorching down the hills from
Mengo with a crowd of boys and men as bodyguard, all the twelve miles to
camp. Africans seem to be possessed with an extra breathing reservoir,
for they can run almost any distance without stopping to regain breath.
It was dark or semi-obscure in the small forest opening where we found
our encampment. Miss Pike was unceremoniously seated on a big box
swallowing pints of tea! The porters had tried to erect our tent, but had
not learned the knack, and we had to creep into flabby folds of canvas.
It looked like a native who wants his one daily meal—it sadly needed
inflating. Oh, dear! How did we manage that night! It became dark so
soon, everybody had to fish about with candles among a medley of boxes,
porters and food. Our Baganda boys were certainly not trained like the
Swahili attendants who came up with us to Uganda, in the mysteries and
arts of camping out. European equipments were unsolved conundrums to
them. Our four youths looked hopelessly vacant, jabbering about round the
tent, doing nothing but getting into one’s way. When we did sit down to a
personally-superintended cooked meal, the “waiter” knocked the wash-hand
basin of water over my pillows, which had to be round a fire all night to
dry. The “boys” can learn to do things fairly nicely if you have patience
to allow them plenty of time for an idea to filter through their minds.
They wanted an hour for preparing our table at each meal, which was only
furnished with the simplest and most limited number of things. Sitting
down before the food box they took out every tin and contemplated each
one for some minutes before deciding whether salt was eaten with tea, jam
with meat, and so on.
The next morning at 4.30 we were all astir again, and as soon as our
belongings were packed up, were on our way. How I wish I had the power
of descriptive writing to enable others to peep into one of the many
exquisite belts of forest that crossed the road at constant intervals.
They surpassed any Kew tropical greenhouse. Unlike the tangled disorderly
forests passed on our way to Uganda, date palms, trees, climbers, flowers
such as orchids, sunflowers, wild pea and tomatoes flourished there in
perfect life and vigour.
Emerging from the cool shade of these trees, our track passed through
stretches of papyrus and pampas grasses eight to fifteen feet high. It
was almost impossible to see the path of about one foot wide which had
become overgrown and covered by broken tiger grass. Cycling was anything
but easy. We had to butt our sun helmets into the long, wet waving grass,
blindly careering forward. There is absolutely no level ground between
Toro and Uganda, but a succession of hills over the tops of which the
road has been cut. The descents, sometimes very steep are dangerous on
account of the thick muddy swamps that frequently wind round the bases
of the hills. The bridges over these swamps often get washed away in
the rainy seasons. One almost feels the treacherous malaria, as heat
waves sweep heavily along, while being carried through these “Sloughs of
Despond” on the shoulder of one of the strongest porters. I suppose one
of these was responsible for the heat sickness that I woke up with one
morning. A long tiresome march lay ahead, so the hammock was insisted
upon, and six men, lent by the chief of the village, came as carriers. It
was rather ludicrous to watch the sympathy of the natives. I could have
imagined myself dying; but the shock they sustained when the first little
bit of decent road was reached! In half-a-minute the awe-struck men stood
gasping as, calling out to be lowered, the poor, dying “Mukyala” (lady)
coasted down a tempting hill. They looked quite relieved when they found
her awaiting the hammock at the foot of the next climb.
In one camp the chief came to pay us his respects and brought six old men
with him and several folks to whom he wanted to show the white ladies,
none having passed along that way before. I could do nothing more than
greet them with an extenuated string of grunts, but this pleased them
immensely. Mr. Lloyd asked if I would let down my hair, as they had
never seen anything different from their own cropped, frizzy pates, and
the short hair of a few white men. Out came the hairpins, and as the
hair tumbled down a loud laugh of delight and surprise came from every
onlooker. A lesson in hairdressing followed, and each twist, turn and pin
was watched with lively excitement. A spoonful of salt was given round
to every visitor before leaving. Their eyes glistened, their hands were
lifted to their mouths, the tongues protruded, and, oh, the delight of
that moment! They smacked their lips and relished it as much as I enjoyed
sherbet in girlhood’s days. The remaining dainty morsel was tied up in a
piece of banana leaf.
The roads proved too much for my poor wheel. Until it could be
attended to by a London specialist it had to be regarded as a chronic
displacement. The strain on the fork had been too incessant and heavy
with only a front rim brake. The ruts, ditches, and obstacles had given
it a terrible shaking, and finally succeeded in literally tearing the
fork away from the bar. The remainder of the journey, about 140 miles,
had to be covered on foot. Miss Pike was in the same predicament, as the
donkey gave in even before the bicycle.
On the sixth day from Mengo we reached Lwekula and put up at a European
fort, vacated now, but built and occupied at the last Soudanese rebellion
when the Nubian troops and Mohammedan population were up in arms against
the British Government. It is a square fenced-in enclosure with sentinel
boxes at each corner and a deep, dry moat surrounding it. Two or three
reed sheds stand inside, one of which we made use of instead of our
tents, which are intensely hot during the day time. Unfortunately, Mrs.
Lloyd was taken with bad fever as we reached here, and as her temperature
remained at 104 on the third day a special runner was dispatched to Mengo
asking Dr. Cook to come out to her. The six following days of waiting
for his arrival were anxious times to us all, and we watched by her
bedside day and night. When he did come the fever refused to yield to
treatment. After a fortnight spent thus it was decided that she should
be carried back to the nearest European station three days away. Before
leaving, the doctor had an opportunity of relieving several poor native
sufferers. One was a tubercular case, which necessitated amputation of
the finger. In lieu of an operating theatre the patient was laid on the
ground and given chloroform! We enjoyed a few regular out-patient days of
hospital life again.
The knowledge that our two travelling friends must return had come to us
on my birthday, and a new weight seemed added to my quarter of a century
of life. They had been like brother and sister to me ever since leaving
England, and now it was like going away from everything that connected
one with the old land. Then I turned to my Bible, and Psalm 22 was the
birthday portion—“The Kingdom is the Lord’s” stood out as written in
gold. I could never get beyond God’s country, God’s territory. It brought
such peace, comfort, protection. No longer was it one person almost alone
in a big strange land, but a child of a King who reigneth in Africa as in
England, and never sends without Himself going, too.
The doctor left at 12.0 p.m. on April 30th to get ready the camp for the
Lloyds, and at 4.0 p.m. we fixed the invalid up in the hammock and left
the Fort with them. It was a sad and silent procession, and a talk with
Mr. Lloyd showed us how bitter was the disappointment to them both. At
sunset we stood and wished them good-bye, and it just needed all the
strength we could command to keep back the hot tears that wanted to fall
with those that shook the poor little patient. Neither of us could speak
as Miss Pike and I returned to the desolate Fort. Already two of our
companions has been obliged to turn back, and we two girls were left to
go on with a missionary who had come out to escort us to Toro.
At midnight my companion was seized with violent sickness and slight
temperature. Donning slippers and enveloping myself in a blanket, I
ran out across the Fort to rouse one of the boys for hot water. It was
awfully uncanny. The starlit sky was entirely shut out by angry clouds,
and the darkness was intolerable. Only the shrill shriek of the hyenas
broke the stillness, and I half expected the faint light from my candle
lamp to fall upon a leopard or reptile.
After two days, however, she so far recovered as to be able in a hammock
to take up the journey once more.
I am quite sure Heber had never visited Uganda when he wrote:—
“Where Afric’s sunny fountains
Roll down their golden sand.”
If he had done so it might have run:—
“Where Afric’s swamps and mountains
Meet one on every hand.”
Our experience next day especially proved this. At 6 a.m. a cloudless
sky greeted us, and damp white mists were sleeping in each hollow. At
the foot of the first hill we were confronted by a long swamp with tall
papyrus grass growing on either side. We had recourse to the hammock,
and as the water reached the carriers’ waists, one felt the canvas was
some inches in water and that it was a case of floating through the
dirty, stagnant river. I wondered if poor little Moses in the bulrushes
ever felt as we did among the papyrus. The second swamp gave us a little
variety, as the reed bridge had been broken down and the step down into
the swamp was so steep that we felt uncomfortably like sliding over the
front carrier, while the climb up at the other end gave us our first
sensation of standing on our heads.
At 11 o’clock we halted under a tree and feasted on sausages (tinned),
sweet potatoes, cornflour, biscuits, and tea. Sausages are a great
treat out here, and we only indulged as we were doing a double march to
reach Toro that day week. We then waited till 2 p.m. so as to allow the
sun to cool down a bit, and enjoyed reading an English newspaper, the
“British Weekly,” of February 16th date. After that we felt quite ready
to continue our march, reaching camp at 4 o’clock, only to find our tents
had been pitched on such a disgustingly dirty old camping ground that
they had to be taken up and erected some hundred yards further on.
Diary-making that day was impossible. Our tent, from the bottom to the
top, was literally lined with mosquitoes, and their singing quite put
in the shade the Royal Choral Society at the Albert Hall. In the two
previous camps they had covered the roof, but evidently never tasted the
joys of European flesh and feared to descend. These others were more
initiated.
Arriving at Butiti, which is only 30 miles from Kabarole, the capital
of Toro, we found a most prosperous work going on among the people. Our
kind escort from Lwekula, Mr. Ecob, was stationed there. A marriage was
solemnized in the Mission Church on the day of our arrival. We went
out of curiosity and to get a peep into the native customs. Never have
I disgraced myself by such uncontrollable laughter. First of all, the
pair were not forthcoming, and so the parson organized a search party.
A hilarious sound from the porch warned us of the bridegroom’s arrival.
He was a lanky stripling of about 17, dressed in a long white gown. His
best man wore a very hole-y shirt, Jaeger-coloured for want of a wash. An
unwound turban was thrown over his shoulder till required. The bridegroom
went forward and squatted on a grass mat in front of the chancel to await
his betrothed. Soon a slow, solemn procession coming in at a side door
brought in view the belated bride, accompanied and surrounded by about
thirty maidens. How can I describe that picture! She was ugly—as ugly as
the imagination could picture; somewhat advanced in years; her face was
marred by cutting and branding, and she was reeking with grease which was
amply smeared over face and shoulders. On her head sat a red Turk’s cap
worn as a sign of marriage or high station. This, on account of its size,
had the appearance of a candle extinguisher. Then her body was swathed in
all sorts of coloured prints and beads. After the ceremony, the couple
left by different doors, the bridesmaids holding an old torn “brollie”
over the retiring bride, who was weeping copiously. The women regard
marriage in rather a philosophical light. They say it has two arms. One
brings a home, protection, and presents of clothing and rejoicing. The
other shuts the door of liberty; it brings work, and that means sorrow.
The thought of the latter predominates on the wedding day.
When six miles away from Butiti we got our first view of the Mountains
of the Moon. I can never forget the sight that was suddenly opened up as
we turned a sharp bend round a high hill. It was 4.30 p.m. Huge peaks,
sharp and rugged, stretched from north to south in an unbroken range of
sixty-nine miles long. Heavy black thunder clouds rolled over some of the
summits, while the lightning shot out angry tongues of fire. Torrents
of rain were sweeping away to our right, while the sun beat down in
full strength upon the valleys. Above all, calm and serene, shone the
region of snow. For all ages the sun has directed its equatorial power
against that ice fortress. Storms have thundered and crushed against
its foundations, but it has ever stood as the one impregnable and
unsullied witness of holiness and purity to God, in a land where darkness
has reigned, and the storms of passion, vice and barbarity have laid
desolate.
Descending to the forest just beneath us, we sat under the shade of its
trees, keeping well in view of glorious Ruwenzori. While tea was in
preparation we just gave ourselves up to the influences of environment.
For a moment we even dared to feel poetical. Long forgotten stanzas lived
again in the memory, but were all put down as original and momentary
genius. My turn having come round, I made a rush at something with a
guilty conscience of poaching on another one’s preserves, and it ran
something like:—
“Mountains on whose rugged breast
The labouring clouds do often rest.”
But I got no further, for who should appear but someone suspiciously
like a tourist. So unusual a sight made us forget English customs, and
we waited for no introductions. We received a real warm welcome straight
away from our companion-designate and only co-worker in Kabarole.
Next morning we rose at 5.0 and saw the sun rise on the snow peaks and
then started on our last walk.
Almost immediately runners met us bearing letters from the King and
Queen, the Namasole (the King’s mother), the Prime Minister, and chiefs,
all welcoming us in words of warmest thanks. These men scarcely waited
for our verbal answer before rushing back. In fact, the road for a long
way ahead was defined by men and boys rushing toward and from us with
messages. As we drew nearer a few teachers and others came to prepare
us for the reception that awaited us, and informed us that the women
of Toro were congregated just beyond our next hill. We little guessed
what an army lay entrenched there. As we approached, one moving mass of
fluttering white and crimson gowns came bearing down upon us, rushing,
clapping their hands, and shrieking. Then crowds of black arms were
thrown wildly round our necks, and as many pates placed from one shoulder
to the other.
We talked as well as we could to them, but our progress was slow, as
every now and again they stopped us and repeated their demonstrations.
Over the next hill the male force had rallied, and here a no less hearty
though more formal welcome awaited us.
We made for the church, which was crowded, and a few impromptu prayers
and hymns of praise went up on our behalf. Then we inspected our future
white-washed home, and from that moment, all day long and every day, we
were crowded with visitors.
The royal band was sent down by His Majesty to play outside our house.
It was composed of six drummers and twelve fifers, whose instruments
are able to produce about five notes, and with these they produce
indistinguishable tunes. Their appreciation of music seems to depend on
the volume of sound produced, so in order to give us a proof of their
welcome they blew to bursting pitch. All day long we were serenaded and
at night, too. It went on into the second day, and thinking the bandsmen
might prove to have stronger lung power than we had of endurance, we set
a polite message to his Majesty asking that they might be allowed to rest
at night till daylight.
So at last we had reached our journey’s end. The sixteen weeks that had
run out since leaving home had been long and eventful. As the evening
fell on our first day in Toro, we gathered round our log fire and sang
together “O God our help in ages past.”
CHAPTER V
The Country
Toro is one of the four Kingdoms that comprise the Uganda Protectorate
and lies on the North-west boundary. The present outlook would lead one
to think that it will remain unaffected longer than the other three
neighbouring States by the inroads that civilization is making in Uganda,
which the railway has brought into such close proximity to the outside
world, while traders pass along the splendid caravan roads through
Bunyoro up to the Nile, and to the Southern cattle-rearing Kingdom of
Ankole. There is nothing to attract them to Toro, as the journey is a
real physical effort, and there is no commercial prospect of mineral
wealth or remunerative industry to justify the long journey. The ivory
that formerly brought the Arab traders into the country is now almost
entirely preserved by the British Government. So, unless Toro is visited
by more successful prospectors than those who have already casually
looked round, who shall discover some hidden mine of wealth, in all
probability it will remain undisturbed in its present state of rusticity.
But it is a wonderful country, and one that must ever fascinate a lover
of nature and its freaks. The mountains are in themselves a unique
feature. One can scarcely reconcile the co-existence of an equatorial
sun and eternal snows, yet so it is. Strange mountain tribes in quite
primeval state live among its forests and creeks, while just on its other
side extends Stanley’s Great Forest with its pigmy inhabitants.
On all sides one sees the results of the operation of mighty unseen
forces. Numbers of extinct volcanoes are visible from our hill, the
craters of which form the beds of lakes now, with vegetation and forest
growth stretching down their sides to the water’s edge.
They must have enjoyed a good long sleep, as no hints of their activity
are traced in the native traditions, which go back to a corresponding
Adamic period. There are quite a number of legends, however, which
invariably associate them with evil spirits that are supposed to live in
the craters. This is believed even still by some of the raw peasants.
One day a woman told me that her two little boys had been playing in the
courtyard while she was at work, and the “Muchwezi” (evil spirit) from
the Crater hill two miles away had come and run off with her elder child.
For two years he had remained lost to them, when suddenly he returned
clothed in a strip of bark-cloth and a charm round his neck peculiar to
that evil spirit. He was sworn to divulge nothing of what had happened to
him while being with the evil spirits in the crater, under the penalty of
being caught away again by them.
[Illustration: THE MARKET PLACE.
_Photo by D. V. F. Figueira, Mombasa._]
Here let me recount a rather unique picnic we had at one of these crater
lakes three miles away. It happened on a Monday—the Missionaries’
off-day—when general repairs and washing are usually done, or visits paid
to neighbouring villages. We started off on our bikes in high spirits
which managed to survive a heavy thunderstorm that overtook us half way
and soaked us through. We hung ourselves out to dry round a fire in the
hut on the lake shore, and having warmed ourselves with tea made for the
lake in search of wild-duck. We baled the water out of the dug-out canoe
and set off with three boys as paddlers. You never met with anything more
aggravating than an African dug-out; they are so badly balanced that the
least movement threatens to overturn the skiff; and as for steering,
that is out of the question. Anyhow, when we were far away from our
landing point, the canoe refused to move, except in complete circles.
We could make no headway; the united efforts of all—barring myself, who
did not row—failed to move the boat except in rapid revolutions. Then a
storm blew up and darkness seemed to be suddenly settling down on us.
One of our party, who knew from experience our danger, was in a terrible
fright. I tried hard to tune up to “Excelsior” and “Midshipmite,” which
eventually evidently appealed to the kind heart of the elements, for
the boat moved and we were safely landed. But the return home was the
difficulty. The moon went in as soon as it appeared, and as it was so
dark a different route was suggested, in order to escape the river which
we had to cross on our way out. About half way we found out that the
recent storms had washed away the bridge we had relied upon to get us
across the river and so were obliged to trust to other means. Miss Pike
headed the procession on a boy’s shoulder, but as the water came up to
the lad’s armpit her position was far from enviable. Then I ventured on
the donkey, sitting in a sort of tailor fashion, but, alas! the water
refused to let me off scot free. After that, in a miserably drenched
condition, with our flapping skirts like reservoirs of water, we trudged
on through long grass and thick mud, and at last reached a succession
of deep swamps. One of these looked so tragic and interminable that the
men insisted on crossing hands and taking me through in dandy-chair
style. I shall not forget that experience. Like Christian of old, one
of my carrier’s strength and courage failed him, and half-way I became
suddenly aware that he was rapidly disappearing under water. A violent
yell brought small boys to the rescue, who, supporting me, managed to
extricate him from the mud depths, and a second start was made; but just
as we were reaching the other side the same poor, unfortunate man landed
in more mud, into which he sank. Before I could release my hold, I saw
him go completely under the water, and felt myself rapidly descending
into the depths over his head. The situation was so ludicrous that the
awful after-effects were forgotten in the peals of laughter which no one
could restrain, in spite of the poor man’s miserable condition and my own.
To resume our description—on the east of Ruwenzori the land presents an
unbroken stretch of undulating country; on the west side the land falls
rapidly and forms the Semliki plain, so called after the river that winds
zig-zag through it, uniting the Albert Edward Nyanza on the south to the
Albert Nyanza on the north.
Descending to this plain round the north end of the mountain range, the
configuration of the land indicates two distinct ancient water levels;
this is confirmed by the quantities of small shells that are often found
in scattered heaps among the sandy soil, similar to those now found on
the Lake shores.
With the exception of the fringe of the Congo Forest that enters the Toro
boundary, and the Bamboo Forests that grow so thickly on the slopes of
the mountains, Toro is not abundant in trees and timber. Wide veins of
woodland winding along the river courses, however, form welcome relief to
the prolific elephant grass that covers hills and valleys. Looked down
upon from a distance these extended forests present a rich variety of
tints. Winter is never seen, for when old age strikes the branches, the
tree breaks forth into its second childhood under the influence of the
sun’s rays. But on entering beneath the shade of these tempting oases,
one realizes a feeling of disappointment, for everything appears to have
outgrown its beauty. Powerful and unkempt creepers and rubber plants have
wound their long bare limbs like poisonous snakes round the barks and
branches of the trees till the vegetation has ceased to breathe in their
grasp, and has withered away. Then the mischievous little monkeys as
they frolic and scamper about leave such litter behind!
Toro is almost entirely void of isolated trees. The annual grass fires
that are lighted to clear the country for the sowing of the crops have
given them no chance of an existence.
Banana groves are gradually springing up over the country, for the Batoro
are emulating the example of the Baganda in adopting the unsweetened
banana called “Matoke” as their staple food. Formerly they lived entirely
on “Bura,” a small millet which possesses a very low percentage of
nutritive quality. The only thing that commends it is the infinitesimal
amount of labour needed for its cultivation, and this is the chief
consideration of these folk. They grind the grain between two stones
which gradually crumble away in the process, making the food when cooked
hardly distinguishable from boiled sand.
Ruwenzori gives the whole kingdom of Toro a very plentiful water supply.
The streams, flowing down from the ever-melting snow and ice, unite
and form clear and swift rivers which provide the land with pure cold
water, but at the same time make the country difficult for travelling
about in. The crude bridges made by the natives get washed away in the
rainy season, which often monopolises nine months out of the twelve.
The mountains seem to attract every cloud that rises above the horizon.
Nature indulges in most phenomenal pranks out there. There may be a
perfectly bright cloudless afternoon, when suddenly it looks as if
all the clouds of heaven had been unchained and let loose. From every
direction they gather in impenetrable blackness, then girding themselves
with fury, they burst forth and, with a hurricane in their wake, menace
Toro with a few angry tears of passion and break with roars of thunder
and tongues of fire on Ruwenzori’s side. Failing to shake that mountain
ridge, they rebound and empty themselves upon Kabarole. In a few minutes
the whole country is a wash-out; the hills send down sheets of water, and
so do our thatched roofs. Unless these are under constant repair, all our
little black boys, when they see a storm coming, are armed with pots,
pans, basins, and dishes, and stand about in the rooms to catch the rain
water, and so save themselves the trouble of going to the spring.
One afternoon a terrible thunderstorm broke over Toro; the force of
one clap, which was simultaneous with the most vivid lightning, was
indescribable. A thunderbolt seemingly had fallen just over our heads and
sounded as if a million dynamite explosives had burst over us. Scarcely
had one recovered from the momentary shock, when the dreaded sound “Tera
enduru” was heard; this is a fire alarm which the natives produce by
clapping their lips with the palm of their hand. Hastening outside, we
saw clouds of smoke issuing from Mr. and Mrs. Maddox’s house, which
adjoined ours. Not waiting for hats or umbrellas, we hurried across to
the yard, where boys and girls were rushing frantically about; Mrs.
Maddox was in bed with fever in the very room where the fire had broken
out. Her room was blazing away, while she was asleep, unconscious of her
danger. Wrapping her in blankets, we managed to have her carried across
to our house. The lightning had struck the corner of the room, instantly
igniting the thatch, poles, and bamboo ceiling; the flash had travelled
through the room, just escaping the bed, but singeing a little Bible on
the table close by. Really, her escape was nothing less than a miracle.
In a very short time the Katikiro was on the spot with his men, and we
all worked hard at carrying out the things. To save the house was an
impossibility. It was merely a fight with time and fire—pulling down
packing cases and books, carrying out stores, boxes, bedding, clothing,
crockery, tables, and chairs, and feeling the flames were quickly
devouring all that lay in their way. When almost the last item was out,
we were ordered away, and with a crash the end of the roof fell in, while
the flames ascended in one solid, angry mass. Meanwhile, the King had
posted an army of men to guard our house, and fan away all sparks with
large banana leaves. All this had taken but fifteen minutes, so you can
imagine the rapidity with which everyone had worked. The only things
burnt were a tent and camp-bed, which had been stored in the roof, and
were quite unreachable.
Fortunately, this happened just ten days before they were due to leave
for England, so they were not homeless for long.
The whole of Toro seemed to crowd into our court, congratulating us
all on our escape, and thanking God for protecting us. You will easily
imagine how dead beat we were when the day was over, and how we welcomed
sleep; but this was not to be for long, for at 12.0 midnight the same
alarm of fire awakened us, and tearing on our dressing gowns and
slippers, we found Mr. Fisher’s women’s house a conflagration. This was
truly terrifying, as it was in such close proximity to his own house;
while, as the house was entirely built of grass and reeds, the flames
were more rapid and dense. Black figures, silhouetted against the flaming
background, were seen wildly scrambling up on to these two roofs, beating
away the flames and sparks. It really seemed an impossibility to save
either, especially when you heard people shouting “Muije okutukonyera
enju yahya” (“Come and help us, the house is on the point of burning.”)
But I am glad to say the God of Deliverances was again with us to save,
and to show forth His power. Nothing was lost but the women’s house, and
the possessions and clothing of the seven women. In the morning, this was
found to be a case of incendiarism; a small girl, who had recently left
through stealing, had set fire to the house to revenge herself on the
women.
These things are a little bit upsetting to one’s nerves; the constant
earthquakes and terrific thunderstorms keep one always girded for flight.
One afternoon the missionaries had met together for afternoon tea, and
suddenly there was a slight underground murmur, and the house shook as if
it trembled. There were three windows and one door to the room, and out
of them the three men instantly disappeared; they looked rather shaken
when they came back for their tea. It was agreed not to let out names!
On the western wide of Ruwenzori, and close to the base of that mountain
range, are boiling springs containing a considerable proportion of
sulphur. The natives have discovered their medicinal properties for skin
diseases and have digged channels so as to divert part of the water
into trenches or pits where they can sufficiently cool it for bathing
purposes. They also carry their food down to the springs, and in a short
time the plantains or potatoes are cooked and ready for use.
Lying as it does on the Equator, Toro experiences scarcely any change
of seasons all the year round, and in consequence of its being some
5,000 feet above sea level, the temperature scarcely rises above 75-80°
Fahr. in the shade, while the nights are often cold enough to justify
the log fires that the Europeans indulge in. The prodigious and constant
rainfalls just rob the country of a reputation it might have held for
possessing an ideal climate for the colonist and for agricultural
purposes. Except in the low-lying marshy districts, Toro is exceptionally
free from mosquitoes and malaria, and, up to the present, not one case of
sleeping sickness has been known.
The soil is abnormally rich. Eucalyptus seed sown in the open produces
trees of 12-15ft. in 18 months. Strawberries yield two and three
plentiful crops annually, in fact growth has often to be checked, as in
the case of cauliflowers, which need transplanting three times if fruit
is to be obtained. Excellent coffee is grown in the country, and a very
limited amount of inferior wheat. There is no reason why rice should
not be successfully cultivated in the swampy soil, and tea on the sides
of the mountains. The great obstacle to the developing of industries
at present is the difficulty of transport to the districts where there
is a profit-yielding demand. No minerals have yet been discovered with
the exception of an appreciable amount of iron, which the people have
instinctively learned to work; they are able to turn out good spear
heads, hoes, knives, and even rough needles of clumsy proportions.
This is undoubtedly one of the world’s natural zoological gardens. Huge
herds of elephants, sometimes numbering 200 or 300, trundle through the
tiger grass; leopards and lions may be heard at night roaring after their
prey, sometimes even round the capital; crocodiles and hippopotami infest
the lakes; monkeys and chimpanzees scamper about the forests; snakes lie
coiled up in the long grass; and everywhere teems insect life, from the
infinitesimal jigger to the locust. Lions are feared less by the people
than leopards. In Bunyoro, where lions showed a leaning towards human
flesh and blood, the King or Chief of the infested district used to send
out two black cows or calves, and the lions, after having tasted their
blood, no longer troubled the people, but dieted from that time on pigs
and hyenas.
Toro is still in the infancy of its development; the land, its resources,
the people, and their possibilities are fields that give promise of a
harvest of rich fruition to those who go to labour with mind and will.
CHAPTER VI
Home Life
Life in Africa offers as sharp a contrast as is possible to imagine
to the rush and bustle of the old country. Perhaps this is one of the
earliest impressions that strikes one when coming straight from a large
and noisy household in the Metropolis. The keynote of this country is
“mpora, mpora”—“slowly, slowly,” and its effects are seen and felt
everywhere. Time is of no consequence or value to the people. The wheels
of life revolve so slowly that I felt as if my whole being had been
pulled up with a jerk. The clockwork of activity had to be allowed to run
down gradually, in order to fall into correspondence with things around.
Having left England just after Christmas, with its memories of busy
thoroughfares streaming with lights from the gaily decorated shops, and
teeming with folks big and small all chattering and preparing for the
festive season, I had scarcely had time to forget all this noise and
rattle before arriving at the antipodes of existence. Step out of the
house one evening with me at about 8.0. Miles and miles of country lie
faintly outlined by the phantom light of the moon—that orb of death. No
other spark or ray breaks the long, wide expanse of darkness, and all the
land and nature lie in profound sleep: no song of mirth or infant’s cry
reaches us, everything is mute and everywhere is sleeping.
Suddenly a shrill shriek from the hyena or a leopard’s low growl drives
us indoors. Oh for the rumble of a London ’bus or the rush of the Irish
express as it passes the old home in a mad hurry night after night. There
is the faithful companionship of a scratchy pen, so that is how one
generally turns out a voluminous correspondent in these parts of silent
Africa.
Now let that same pen tell something of our home and various domestic
odds and ends. Our house was built of wood and mud daub with a roof of
thatch. The rooms, five in number, were lofty and fairly large, with
walls which could be called neither straight nor smooth—in fact they
rather reminded me of “Uncle Podger’s” wall that looked as if it had been
smoothed down with a garden rake after he had been hanging a picture.
But ours were white-washed, and this, at least, gave them a clean and
cheerful appearance. The fact was that a violent storm had slightly blown
the walls out of gear before the ground had sufficiently hardened round
the framework poles. The windows were ingeniously made of wood with
calico nailed across as a substitute for glass. We had only one door to
start with—the front door—made of the unpolished and unplaned material
of two packing cases, ornamented with the names and destinations of the
owners of the boxes. There was a verandah all round the house which kept
it cool from the mid-day sun.
Really, it was a marvellous building when you consider that the workmen
had never built anything different from the round beehive grass and reed
huts in which the people live. The poles had all to be brought in from a
forest seven miles away, and were carried in on men’s heads. The mud was
beaten by their bare feet. They had to be overlooked at every point and
turn as they have no idea of work, or even a straight line, unless the
European is actually on the spot to show them. And when that European
was absolutely alone and endeavouring to act as pastor, teacher, and
schoolmaster to hundreds of eager and teachable people, the question is
how he ever squeezed in time to build this and his own house.
Our tent furniture was far too diminutive and scanty to fill our five
rooms, so we turned cabinet-makers, and produced some highly creditable
articles, all things considered.
Piling up six packing cases of uniform size, and nailing round strips of
native grass matting, we had a splendid “Liberty” bookcase.
A “cosy corner” was made out of two more boxes turned upside down,
stuffed with shavings and covered with cretonne. It _looked_ very
comfortable but rather belied its name.
Our dining-room table consisted of the lids of cases joined up and nailed
to four posts planted in the mud floor. After a few weeks the legs took
root, and the young branches supplied novel decorations.
We framed a few large photographs in reeds and hung them where the walls
were flat enough.
The nights in Toro are cold, for although we are only 1·5 degrees lat.
North, the capital is 5,000 feet above sea level. In consequence the
houses are built with brick chimneys. With a bright log fire burning in
the open hearth and a comfortable arm chair our sitting-room looked very
cosy and bright. It is quite remarkable the amount of enjoyment one can
derive out of things which cost nothing but a little hard work and a good
deal harder thinking out.
One learns sometimes from rather trying experiences that several things
which have been regarded as absolute essentials in England can so easily
be dispensed with out here.
A lot of things brought out from home reached me in a hopelessly wrecked
condition. As I have said before, on account of the scarcity of porters
we had been obliged to leave several boxes behind. Three of the
twenty-three I had left were never again heard of. As these were food
supplies I hoped they nourished some of the half-famished natives we
passed up country. But the cases that did arrive had been exposed without
protection from the rains, and were absolutely rotten when they reached
me; the zinc linings had been destroyed by rust, and the contents reduced
to pulp. In a sort of mechanical way I sorted out the different things,
throwing aside books, letters, clothing, and nick-nacks on the rubbish
heap. Some things could never be replaced—little recollections of the
past and home-links. How reluctantly were these cast out!—but God showed
me that this was known and allowed by Him, and when once He shows us
this, the sunshine bursts forth and the heart rejoices. It strengthens
one all round when sometimes the temporal is shattered to allow the
Invisible and Eternal to appear. I should not be at all surprised that
our missionary example St. Paul had had all his loads spoilt by shipwreck
when he wrote: “I have learned in whatsoever state I am therewith to be
content; not that I speak in respect of want.”
On another occasion when our annual supplies from England were within one
day’s march of Toro the porters’ shed was burnt down and all our loads
but two were destroyed.
Now, as to food, there are just three items you can buy out here: goats,
or sheep that have not an ounce of fat except in their tails. These cost
about 2s. 8d. Chickens, which provide sufficient flesh for one person’s
meal of very normal appetite, can be purchased for fifty cowrie shells
(1¼d.), twenty eggs for the same price, but these are not often cheap, as
very frequently they are brought for sale when they will not hatch.
Of course our store room, furnished from England, is our grocer; the
garden answers to greengrocer and fruiterer, for it produces nearly
everything; crops can be had in constant succession if care is taken to
sow systematically. We also have from our cows a constant supply of fresh
butter, cream, and milk which is churned on the premises in a native
gourd. Besides this we are our own bakers. Flour is grown in limited and
fluctuating quantities in the country. This is ground up, mixed with
carbonate of soda and buttermilk, baked in a native pot with fire above
and under, and in less than an hour a very decent wholemeal loaf is ready
for afternoon tea.
The only drawback is that most of these departments of industry have to
be worked by one’s self. It is rather curious the number of professions a
European holds out here, simply because he must, there is no one else to
do it. The natives have such exalted ideas of the powers of a white man,
that they appeal to him in every difficulty.
The first week we had brought to us an umbrella to be re-covered, one
watch with broken mainspring needing repair, a lamp to be soldered, all
sorts and conditions of sick people wanting medicine, and one raving
madman!
The servant question was one that had to be faced immediately on our
arrival, so we decided to write up to the King and Namasole. In reply,
four young girls were sent down who did nothing but weep in spite of
our kindly assurances of friendliness. They had never seen white ladies
before, and were literally scared at us. They all ran away during the
first night! So we had to keep on our road-boys until we had won the
confidence of the women. We sometimes wondered if we should live to see
that time; for one day a cabbage was sent to table that had been cooked
in about one pound of soda. The cook had seen the European put a pinch
in the water, and judging the diminutive quantity was with an eye to
economy, determined on giving us a liberal treat for once!
Our best “cosy” was served up at another meal as a dish cover to the
roast chicken!
It is not often, however, that they knowingly deviate from the model
lesson given them; they sometimes err too faithfully on the other side
by reproducing the European’s mistakes and never improving on them. If
you have once taught them a heavy pastry, your pies will always have
that same unfortunate crust in spite of a more successful second lesson.
They believe absolutely in reverting to original type. However, this is
a one-sided view of the little black cooks. Imagine an English lad of
twelve serving up a six-course dinner as these little fellows can, after
some training; and with such a kitchen range, three bricks or stones and
some twigs, and a very limited storeroom. Give a Toro cook a leg of goat
and he can turn out a most satisfying meal of varieties—goat soup, goat
curry, goat stewed, goat boiled and roast; and then if you want one more
course, give him flour, eggs, milk, and a little butter, and he could
send you in goat pie and goat pudding, or pancakes, boiled or baked
batter, boiled or baked sponge pudding.
If you live on poor food in Toro, you must not blame the country or your
cook, but yourself, that you did not arm against the future by occasional
visits to your English kitchen. That is by far the best way of learning;
cookery lectures and cookery books are not much use for a country like
this; they generally tell you to “take” something you have not got and
cannot get, and on that seems to depend the success of the recipe. Often
have I recalled the long, tiring hours spent in learning to knead bread,
and then the patience of waiting for it to rise; we should be eating
tinned biscuits (like our predecessors) till this day if our bread
depended on that method out here.
Vegetables form rather an important part in the daily diet; in fact,
one is inclined to be a vegetarian where vegetables are so plentiful
and meat very tough and tasteless. On some occasions fifteen different
kinds have been sent to table at a meal. They are all cooked in one large
earthen pot, each vegetable being tied up in a large banana leaf with
water—the leaf is waterproof and made soft and pliable by passing it
through the fire.
The white ants and snakes show marked appreciation for the Europeans’
houses. In spite of digging deep trenches round outside, the ants, which
are supposed to travel only a few inches under the surface soil, manage
to get at the poles and so gradually undermine the safety of the walls.
They are the most indefatigable workers. In one night the floor of a
room will be covered with little heaps of soil which they have carried
up; a mackintosh coat was half eaten away by these little pests that
had discovered it on a peg behind the bedroom door. Sulphur, hot water,
Keating, pepper, thrown down proved quite ineffectual in driving them
off. The natives advised a European to leave the little ant-heaps for a
few days until a crop of small mushrooms appeared on the ant-heaps, and
that would satisfy the ants and off they would go to begin their work
elsewhere. The experiment was tried, with the result that on the third
day the floor was covered with tiny white fungi, and the ants really
did disappear after that. I will not attempt to explain the reason
scientifically.
More stringent measures than passive resistance were needed for the
snakes that came and built under the sitting room floor. Their appearance
was first discovered by one of them leaving his top coat behind him in
one of the rooms.
One evening we were roused from our peaceful occupations hearing two
rifle reports and a regular stampede outside our house; we rushed to
the door, but were quickly told to shut it up, as a leopard was rushing
about. Two shots had been fired, but missed it. A large search party
was formed of excited, frightened natives with spears, rifles, and long
torches, but all their endeavours were in vain. Three nights after that
another and even larger leopard prowled round the houses, entered the
donkey stables and dragged out a small baby donkey. In the morning an
awful sight met our gaze on the path outside the stabling. The two hind
legs had been completely eaten and the body torn open; the ground was
covered with blood, and many claw marks were visible. The war drum was
beaten, and, according to the law of the country, all the men turned out,
from the chiefs to the poorest peasant, armed with spears and clubs.
The excitement was intense, the King’s Hill was thronged with dancing,
rushing natives, singing war songs and making dashing onslaughts toward
imaginary foes. They all danced and rushed in step, accomplishing the
curious body dance in perfect order. They tracked the beast and Mr.
Fisher, who had led out the party, shot it as it gave one spring from its
lair. The return home was a yell of victory, all assembling under the
large tree on the top of the King’s Hill to salute the Katikiro (Chief
Minister), who sat in state to wait the arrival of the prey. Afterwards
all the wounded were brought to the dispensary for surgical attention;
one arm was so severely cut with spears and torn by the leopard’s claws
that I had to stitch it up. Leopard’s claws are very poisonous, and
inflammation immediately sets in; many cases prove fatal on account of
blood poisoning.
Just one word more before closing this. Life out here is not one of
constant “roughing it.” No girls in England could have been happier than
we were, and there are heaps of things that make up for some left in
Merrie England.
For instance, a punt down the Thames is not to be compared to a paddle
in a dug-out canoe or a sail in the same by a square of calico hoisted.
There is a delightful lake right away among the mountains, only five
miles off, and no one ever enjoyed a lunch like the one we had in the
little reed bungalow on the shore. Our first picnic there was unique.
The lunch was provided by the Government officials, and really, I had
never imagined men were so domesticated. They superintended the culinary
arrangements. The Administrator made a meat pie, the crust of which
might have been improved; another produced a sort of trifle; while a
third manufactured scones; and we tried not to notice the lack of baking
powder. But we survived all three.
CHAPTER VII
Royal Life
Kabarole, the capital of Toro, may be described as a city of hills. On
the highest of these, commanding a panoramic view of the country north,
south, and east of Ruwenzori, stands the palace of King Daudi Kasagama.
The Uganda Protectorate differs from Nigeria and the other west coast
districts, in that it possesses no old-established cities and towns.
The custom of the Kings of each of the four independent Kingdoms of the
Protectorate formerly was to remove the capital as each succeeded to the
throne. This involved a constant exodus of the people, who cleared out
bodily in order to be close to their King. Scarcely any traces can be
found of the previous capitals, as the houses were constructed merely of
reeds, poles and thatch, which offer no resistance to the destroying hand
of time; occasionally a worn grinding-stone or a broken cooking-pot is
met with among waving elephant grass that immediately assumed mastery of
the ground on the removal of the people.
In 1891 Kasagama succeeded to the throne of Toro, which was then being
plundered and ravaged by the Kabarega, the neighbouring and powerful
King of Unyoro. For some years the whole district was distressed by the
merciless tyranny of the raiders, and the people were obliged to flee to
the shelter of the mountains. Now peace and order reign, the security and
authority of the King and his counsellors have been established by the
British Government, and the country sown on all hands with the seed of
Christianity which has effected a complete reformation in the lives and
condition of the people.
The King’s house is the only brick building at present in the country.
It is two-storied, with walls two and a half feet thick. The staircase
is roughly constructed of bricks and runs outside. On the ground floor
are three rooms. The centre one, into which the front door opens, is
the reception room. The walls and ceiling are gaily hung with bright
printed calico strips of varied design and colouring, stitched together.
Over these are large, coloured Bible pictures illustrating the life of
Christ. On the floor are spread grass mats and leopards’ skins, which
are the sign of royalty. An Indian rug is placed under a table and chair
in one corner where His Majesty sits and receives his guests. The room
is supplied with no other furniture. A waiting-room leads off from this,
which is unfurnished, with the exception of a native divan made of reeds
for important or sick attendants; the others lounge about on the fine,
soft grass strewn on the floor.
Kasagama’s study is on the other side of the reception-room, and that is
where he does most of his business and carries on his correspondence.
Upon the rows of shelves fixed to the wall are to be seen small piles of
documents and letters received from his chiefs in the outlying districts,
who are just learning to write. The boxes at the end of the room contain
all his treasured presents received from the Government officials,
missionaries and friends in England. If you call in any afternoon
about five o’clock and are a friend of His Majesty you would perhaps
be allowed into this sanctum, and there might find him working away
at his typewriter or dictating to his typist, who can run his fingers
very rapidly over the keyboard. Kasagama is now hard at work writing a
history of the country. To prevent any unauthentic references to the past
he has two old men, well versed in ancient lore, to refer to.
[Illustration: KING DANDI KASAGAMA OF TORO AND HIS CHIEFS.
_Photo by D. V. F. Figueira, Mombasa._]
The Council Hall, in which Parliament assembles every Monday, is in an
adjoining country, and this is a large reed structure decorated inside
with coloured calicos like the reception room. The railed off partitions
are intended for the King’s chair, and for the Queen Mother or Sister,
either of whom is expected to attend each week. The Ministers of State
are arranged in straight rows down the building, and the people involved
in the various cases brought up for trial come and kneel in the wide
aisle which leads up to the King’s seat.
I only attended once, as women are generally debarred the privilege, but
the first thing that struck me was how very civilised is the House in
Toro and much in advance of one’s own native land, for we were not put
up in a third gallery behind wire caging to merely catch a glimpse of
the Speaker’s head, but had seats given us next to the King! However,
there was a sad need of an Opposition or Nationalists’ Bench, to add a
little gusto and sensation to the proceedings. To make up for this at
the conclusion of each case, the Royal band broke out into uproarious
melodies, and the bandsmen accompanied their instruments with caricature
Irish jigs.
A visit to the King must always include an inspection of his flower
garden, of which he is very proud. It dates back to our arrival in Toro.
As he used to drop in for afternoon tea, he would often find us armed
with rake and spade, just ready to tackle the patch of weeds outside our
house. It was a matter of surprise to the natives when they heard that
the white ladies were “cultivating,” and a still greater wonder when
they learned that they were not sowing food but flowers. Whatever was
the use of flowers? However, Kasagama thought it must be the correct
thing, so one day ventured to beg a few flower seeds to start a garden
for himself, and then very hesitatingly and half apologetically he asked
what was the exact use of flowers, as he wanted to have an answer ready
to give to questioners. However, the beauty and fragrance of our English
flowers have spoken to these people and awakened in their hearts a real
admiration and love, so that outside many a Toro homestead now can be
seen borders of carefully tended flowers; and often prettily-arranged
bouquets will be brought by them as greetings or offerings. At Easter
time one result of this is seen in the Church. On the Saturday each one
is asked to bring in the decorations and to help arrange them. The first
time this was done the chancel was simply banked with bouquets, wreaths,
and bunches of wild or cultivated flowers; palm leaves and papyrus grass,
fixed to the columns of reeded poles down the church, made continued
arches right along each aisle, while the open window sills were festooned
with wild clematis. Most of this was done entirely by the natives.
Court life in Toro has a very attractive home side to it. One can
scarcely wish for a more touching picture than when, the affairs of State
being over for the day, Damali, the young Queen, comes into the Royal
Palace with the little Princess Ruzi (Ruth). The Queen first bows before
her husband-King, and the tiny child follows her mother’s example, and in
baby language greets His Majesty. Then Kasagama for a time lays aside his
regal dignity and clasping the child in his arms fondles her and talks
and romps like a big school-boy.
The old custom of the men and women feeding apart has disappeared in the
King’s household, and every evening Kasagama and Damali dine together.
The menu never varies from one year’s end to another. Each day the King
has his own particular cut from the goat, namely, the chops and cutlets,
and the Queen has a leg. They generally manage to finish their joints,
besides the quantities of boiled plantains and various native vegetables
served up with the meat.
Kasagama has recently developed distinct sporting inclinations, and
although it cannot be said that he has made his name, certain it is he
has made his mark at them. Tennis was the first pastime he indulged in.
One court was enough to allure anyone! A space was thoroughly cleared
of vegetation in the mission compound and beaten by foot in place of a
roller; two posts were firmly planted in the ground, a rope stretched
across and strips of banana pith knotted on to it, hanging down like
kippers put out to dry. The King was rather too powerful with his
racquets; scouts had to be posted like fielders at cricket. Seeing the
ball coming he made a desperate plunge toward it and either missed it
altogether or slogged it as if intended for Ruwenzori’s snows. So he
gave that up for football; the dimensions of the ball I suppose appealed
to him as being more adapted to his size. He is now a great player; his
grief is that he has never experienced the excitement of a scrimmage, as
the men are afraid of hustling their King; the only member of the team
who apparently does not mind doing so is Blasiyo, the pigmy! Another
reason is that there is little chance of getting too close, as he is
followed about the field by one attendant who holds an umbrella over his
head and another man careers about with a chair, so that His Majesty can
rest when the ball goes in an opposite direction of the field to where he
happens to be.
In all Church work, Kasagama has been a leader and example to his people.
Almost daily, at 8 a.m. as the people gather from all directions for
Bible Classes or school teaching, a procession may be seen slowly issuing
out from the reed enclosure that surrounds the royal palace. With a large
company of retainers and an armed bodyguard at the front and rear, on his
bay steed rides the King, a fine majestic figure, 28 years of age, and
6ft. 3in. in height. The Katikiro and other important Chiefs, with their
attendants, if they have not already started, come out from their houses
on their side of the King’s hill, and fall in behind His Majesty. They
are bent on no Ministerial business, but if you were to ask the King,
he would say “to learn wisdom from God, for how can I rightly rule my
country without having first received that.”
When the drum beats for Sunday services, Kasagama is nearly always at
his place in the church to join with his people in prayer and worship.
Besides encouraging his young men and chiefs to offer themselves as
missionaries to the neighbouring villages and districts, he helps in
every possible way to supply the necessary means in order that the native
organisations shall be supported by themselves. When the large reed
Church showed signs of old age, Daudi Kasagama, like his namesake David,
King of Israel, set his heart to “build a house unto the name of the
Lord.”
Calling together his Christian Chiefs, he conferred with the Missionaries
as to the quantities of material needed for a large Church, and when the
approximate number of poles was given, he divided it up asking his Chiefs
each to be responsible for a proportion.
The new “Temple” was not to be built of carefully-hewn stone, prepared
bricks, or granite pillars, but of forest poles brought from long
distances, many needing fifty men to carry them in; bamboos from the
forest-clad heights of snow-peaked Ruwenzori; grass brought in by the
women for thatching; reeds fetched from the swamps by men and children,
and red mud for the walls. Every morning the King came down to work with
his people in the erection of the building, and when the framework was
completed, helped to bring in the grass which was cut up and beaten with
the mud to form a kind of solid brick wall.
[Illustration: NEW CHURCH. KABAROLE TORO.]
At 8.0 a.m. the Katikiro, Chiefs and others made their way down to the
mud pits, into which there was thrown red earth, straw and water. About
twenty men then would jump in, clasp arms in a circle, yell a native
air and stamp the mud with their bare feet till the right consistency
was reached. By that time they had become splashed and disfigured into
fearsome representations of painted Red Indians. The mud was then put
into baskets and shouldered by a body of carriers, who marched single
file to the scene where the building operations were being carried on,
while a drummer always went on before to give a spirit of militarism to
the work.
With shirt sleeves rolled up, Kasagama and an army of mud-layers were
ready to receive the mud and slap it into the walls with a whoop and
occasional mutual congratulatory exclamation “Wehale”—“well done.”
In this manner the Church, holding eight hundred people, was completed
in six months free of debt and not having caused any expense to the
Missionary Society!
When it is remembered that until the advent of Christianity six years
previous, the King and Chiefs had never done one day’s manual work, one
can only regard this Church as a standing testimony to the reality of
a religion that can call forth such a spontaneous demonstration of the
sincerity of its disciples.
One day while watching the unmistakable earnestness of the men at their
toil, I turned to Kasagama and said: “King, your people are really
enjoying their hard work.” He replied: “Oh no, my people have not yet
arrived at liking work, but they are rejoicing because this is God’s
house.”
Pending the arrival of the Bishop, an informal dedication service was
arranged on the first Sunday of its completion. The Church was packed
from end to end, the men on one side led by their King, the women on
the other with the Queen Damali. A great stillness fell on that large
congregation as King Daudi, who scarcely ever takes an active part in the
services, rose and offered up a prayer of Consecration. In it he said: “O
God, we know Thou dwellest not in temples made with hands, but this House
has been built with our hearts’ devotion; therefore come down and take up
Thy dwelling place, that sinners entering may be saved by Thy presence.”
Kasagama in his time has played several “parts.” Two days after the
opening of the new Church, he was called upon to fill a position in a
novel function for Toro, namely, the first European wedding. A great
deal of excitement had prevailed for some time among the people, and
whisperings of the unique event had filtered through to the villages,
bringing a large number of people into the capital out of curiosity. It
was a beautiful clear morning, and before sunrise the bride designate was
needlessly reminded of the day by a loud shuffling and scurrying going
on outside her calico window. The Katikiro’s loud baritone was heard
commanding a regiment of workmen, and by way of creating an excitement in
the proceedings, he accompanied his orders by eloquent aerial cracks with
his whip of hippo hide.
In order to have a share in the festive preparations they had come down
to strew fresh cut grass all round the house, in the courtyard and along
the road to the church. On the preceding days, the chiefs’ wives, headed
by the Queen, had been with their spades levelling the mud floor in the
scarcely completed church and carpeting it with soft green grass. It was
a welcome substitute of nature for the customary red felt drugget, and
no one would have exchanged for canvas awning the archway of palm leaves
and bushy papyrus grass heads that adorned the verandah and porch leading
from the house.
All the Europeans in Toro were invited—they numbered five—and each had
an allotted task. One performed the ceremony, another stood as best
man, the organist pedalled away nobly at the portable baby organ and
even persuaded it to produce the Wedding March creditably. There was one
bridesmaid, and the fifth took the part of “guest.”
At 9.0 a.m. the church drums beat, and King Kasagama, dressed in a cloud
of white and elaborate silk draperies, came down to act “father” to the
bride. His Majesty looked almost pale with the responsibility of his new
position, and scarcely trusted himself to speak as he took his “child’s”
hand and led her from the house along the road lined with crowds of his
excited people. The church presented a sea of black faces and white
linen garments freshly washed for the occasion. Everyone was standing,
for there was no room to sit down. A Lunyoro hymn was sung, and then the
service proceeded in English till the close, when the faithful old native
deacon Apolo offered prayer in the language of the people.
The usual carriages and greys had to be dispensed with as the livery
stables were a little too far off! But a regulation reception took place
and about seventy guests crowded into the very limited space of the
European’s sitting room. A real iced cake specially imported, was mounted
on a stool draped with trails of wild clematis. Heaped up dishes of
thick sandwiches, stodgy jam tarts, cakes and biscuits, that suggested a
Sunday School treat for at least some hundreds of hungry English bairns,
proved a scarcely adequate supply for the visitors, who started on the
cake, then tucked in sandwiches, jam tarts and sandwiches again, and so
on, in a hopeless mix up. The tea was served round time after time, till
the guests, out of sheer inability, had reluctantly to refuse further
supplies. One chief, with a sigh, regretfully eyeing a dish of cake,
exclaimed: “Okwongera nukwo kufa”—“Any more would be death.”
As the guests departed, timidly limped forward old Mpisi, the first
dispensary patient. He had been silently waiting his opportunity to slip
in and give the bride his little wedding gift of five cowrie shells:
their value was one-third of a farthing, but they were all he possessed.
The honeymoon was spent “on the Continent”—the dark continent of
Africa, a trip of about 700 miles, across lake and over land, visiting
a continual succession of mission stations. It included a visit to the
Government Capital of Entebbe, where an official repetition of the
marriage service had to be performed. Fancy being married twice within
one month!
As the happy pair rode off on mules, actually the customary rice followed
them. A mob of natives enjoyed this part immensely; but some of the women
ran up, and tearing the bracelets and necklaces from their own wrists and
necks, gave them to the bride with sympathetic tears!
Even the slipper was not wanting; it was delivered to a native to throw
at the couple as they turned off at cross-roads, but not quite seeing the
point, and having a respectful regard for the shoe, he solemnly presented
it as a parting greeting from the Europeans!
CHAPTER VIII
The Women of Toro
Although undoubtedly belonging to one and the same parent stock, as a
race the Batoro are in features superior to the Baganda, but physically
inferior owing to the different conditions under which their lives
have been lived. Women, both high and low, until within recent years,
were practically the slaves of the Baganda households, and even now
are expected to do the cultivating and cooking of the food. Before the
sun has risen the Baganda women start on their digging in their banana
plantations or potato fields. This has developed their muscles and at the
same time had a healthy effect on the mind, for no one can handle nature
without consciously or unconsciously being influenced by it for good.
The Batoro women, on the other hand, have been merely the chattels of
the home. The upper classes scorned menial work and left it to their
dependents and peasant folk. The middle class did no more than was
absolutely essential, which generally resolved itself into cooking the
one meal for the day. Their homes offered no occupation for them. The
rude grass huts possessed no furnishing, for their wants were of the
simplest. Bark cloth stripped off the wild fig tree and beaten out into
a soft texture, or animals skins, provided them with clothing by day
and covering at night. Their water vessels consisted of the hollowed
out gourds that grow round their huts. One cooking pot sufficed for the
household. A plaited grass mat took the place of mattress over a bed of
reeds strung across a wooden framework and built in along the side of
the hut. Grass covered the floor of every house—seldom changed and never
aired. Soot and cobwebs hung in festoons round the inside, as there are
no chimneys in the huts to carry away the smoke from the open fire in the
centre of the floor.
In recent years the upper class women have discarded the bark-cloth as
apparel for white calico and coloured prints. When these garments show
signs of wear the general custom is neither to wash nor change them for
fear of hastening their end, but clean draperies are thrown over them
when the wearer appears in public.
Some of the women can work very prettily with grass and fibre. Having
discovered various vegetable dyes, they are able to make very attractive
designs in basket-work by dyeing the grass different colours. The fibre
they make into string and then form beautiful knotted bags in which they
have their gourds. It was only by living some time among them that we
discovered these hidden trophies of a spasmodic industry. Very few care
about rousing themselves and devoting the time and care needed for this
work; the fault of the women is their inherent laziness; the generality
of them desire nothing so much as to sit still and do absolutely
nothing. They are so fond of begging, begging, begging, but when you
suggest their _working_, off they go and you never see them any more.
Others will remain in their homes ill for days, and no one will have the
energy to come down and ask for medicine. An industrial exhibition was
suggested by two of our missionaries in 1903, and will be held every
year, it is hoped. Most ingenious bee-hives and rat traps were brought
in as exhibits, besides all sorts of grass and string work, painted bark
cloths and gourds, and so on. The novelty of the exhibition caused great
excitement among the people, and the schoolroom was packed to its utmost
capacity with competitors and others. His Majesty, Daudi Kasagama, opened
the proceedings with an earnest appeal to his people to make the show an
even greater success next time by increasing the number of exhibits and
raising the standard of proficiency.
[Illustration: THE BATORO AT HOME.
_Photo by D. V. F. Figueira, Mombasa._]
Before the advent of Christianity there had been nothing to break the
dull monotony of the women’s existence. As they sat, day after day,
huddled together in their dirty little grass homes, their conversation
scarcely ever ventured outside the well-beaten track of real or imaginary
sickness, and the usual revolting topics that polygamy and heathenism
suggest. Modesty, reserve, shame and sensitiveness were not known among
them. One’s whole nature recoils from the recollection of Africa’s lost
womanhood.
Girls are sometimes betrothed as infants but do not marry till they have
reached the age of 14 or 15. The husband is judged rarely according to
his merit—that receives small consideration—but chiefly according to his
means. The girl’s value is determined by her rank or physical appearance.
Her parents or master fix her price at so many heads of cattle or goats.
A peasant woman can be had as cheap as one goat; should the husband be
fortunate enough, in course of time, to possess a sheep or second goat,
he will sometimes take it and his wife and exchange them for a stronger
and better woman who will be able to do more work for him, or add more
variety, quality or quantity to the day’s menu. A peasant, living on the
mission hill, married one of our women, and coming to the missionary in
charge, fell down on his knees and eloquently praised him for his gift of
potatoes, bananas, and beans. The European looked rather perplexed, and
at last had to own up that the present had not come from him. “Oh yes,
Master,” answered the man, “it was you who gave me my wife.”
When we arrived in Toro in 1900 there was quite a goodly number of
baptised women, including Vikitoliya, the Queen Mother, Damali, the
Queen, several of the Chiefs’ wives and ladies of the royal households.
Several of these had been taught to read before the arrival of the
European missionary, by King Kasagama, who was baptised in 1896 during
a prolonged visit to Uganda. On his return to Toro he had become a true
missionary King, and gathering his women around him day after day in his
courtyard he instructed them in the things he had been taught, while the
men went to the two Baganda Evangelists in the little reed church.
When the European missionary arrived he found a large body of eager
women as well as men, ready to be prepared for Baptism. Vikitoliya was
one of the first whose heart responded to the new religion of love and
holiness, as she listened to the earnest words of the King—her son. She
is a woman of considerable influence and of decided intellectual ability.
Her features present none of the negrotic characteristics, but on the
contrary they are sharply defined and somewhat aquiline; her expression,
sweet and pleasing, betokens her kindness of heart and gentleness of
disposition. She has built for herself an imposing two-storied mud house
with a verandah and balcony all round. From the inside doorway hang reed
and bead curtains which she made herself after seeing a Japanese model in
a European’s house.
She lives about two miles from the capital, and in order to encourage
her people to learn to read and attend daily Bible classes she erected
on her estate a church, which holds about 400 people. I rode over there
one Sunday morning as I had been asked to stand as godmother to the first
little son of the sister of the King. When I arrived the Church was
crowded—it is a large cane building, with innumerable poles inside to
support the walls and roof. It contains no stained glass windows, but the
blue cloudless sky, tall, waving banana trees, and the graceful grasses
of the Indian corn with its golden heads of grain, made a charming
background to the aperture windows and helped the soul in its flight
toward God perhaps more than such exquisitely elaborate windows as are
seen at Notre Dame, which always struck me with their rich colouring. At
the west end stood the font, a black native pot fixed to a wooden packing
case which was draped in Turkey twill. Who could help being impressed as
the words “Suffer the little children to come unto me” sounded out in the
foreign tongue, and a sweet, wee thing, lying on white flannel worked
with pink silk, was brought forward by its delighted royal grandmother.
At the east end were spread the sacred memorials of our Redemption,
speaking with such force of that one Sacrifice which uplifts and unites
all nations under Heaven.
Vikitoliya possessed a peculiar love and reverence for our late Queen,
after whom she was named. She never tired of listening to stories of
the “great white Queen,” and it was her ambition to strive to be to her
people something of what Her late Majesty had been to her subjects.
Never shall I forget her grief and that of all the leading women when
the news of her death reached us. Immediately they came down to us to
sympathize, and were at first quite silent in their grief, then with
tears running down her cheeks, the dusky Queen subject said, “Your sorrow
is our sorrow, we have lost our Mother, our friend.” It is wonderful the
influence that such a reign of purity and righteousness has had even on
far off Africa, rousing the best chivalry and patriotism in the hearts of
its people, and inspiring them to nobler ends.
Christianity is doing for Toro what it has done for every other country
where it has effectually entered—it is raising its women from their
depths of degradation and beautifying their lives, cleansing and refining
their speech and habits. Clean, tidy homes are now seen, and carefully
cultivated land in place of the pestilential filth and gaunt elephant
grass. Happy family life is springing up among the people, and everywhere
there is a stir and progressive vigour.
Upon the Christian women as well as the men has been laid the
responsibility of doing something toward spreading the knowledge of
Christ among the surrounding heathen. At first a district visitors’
band was organized to go two and two into the near villages when the
daily classes in the church were over. They took their books, and either
collected the villagers together or entered their houses and taught them
their letters and syllables, after having read and spoken to them. I used
frequently to go out with them to see what progress they were making;
a shrieking bodyguard would at once attach itself to me under pretence
of frightening the wild animals off! Our arrival was always hailed
with delight, and a dirty mat that acts as bed, couch, and footscraper
was generally politely placed for me on which to be seated. The small
children generally showed their appreciation of the white lady by opening
their commodious mouths as wide as possible and screaming prodigiously.
It took one a very long time to find them attractive, they so sadly
needed a rub down with Pears’ soap or Monkey Brand.
Sometimes I found 100 or 150 natives eagerly struggling with their
reading sheets, all squeezed into an infinitesimally small hut. Somehow
they always found room for the European, for they were very impatient to
be questioned by her and passed on to a higher class. When the reading
lesson was over we used to have a short service with them, and it was
exceedingly impressive to listen sometimes to the young Christian women
speaking to them naturally of Christ’s love. They never attempted an
impossible address or delivered a thorough out-and-out sermon, but with
touching simplicity told in their own language what was a living and
real thing to them. It seemed impossible to believe that so wonderful a
change could have taken place in these Batoro women in so short a time.
When the visit was over, all the women, children, and some of the men
used to tear off in front to the neighbouring huts to inform them that
the European was passing, so on my homeward journey I was accompanied by
excited, chattering men and women and a crowd of naked little folk, many
of them bringing small offerings of flowers, beans, or eggs to deposit at
our door.
Although these folk can make plenty of noise they can make very little
music. They have never been educated up to it. The royal band has been
their only conservatoire of music, and their few songs were connected
with drink or plunder, themes scarcely conducive to the highest poetry.
But their singing is great. You should have heard a singing class I used
to have on Saturday mornings. About twenty of the ladies used to turn
up and exercise their vocal powers. They only knew a few of Sankey’s
most unmusical hymns, and to these they resigned themselves with a fixed
expression and still more fixed attitude, without making the slightest
facial movement. They produced a curious grunt through their nasal organ,
quite irrespective of time, key, or tune. I sacrificed myself to making
the most hideous grimaces it is possible to form my features into, in
order that they might imitate, and so bring a few muscles into action.
But neither tonic sol-fa nor any other tonic would bring about results,
so I gave up the class very hoarse from my efforts.
In August of each year is held in Toro a Teachers’ Conference. All other
work is suspended and the native teachers come in from all the villages
and distant districts. In 1901 we decided to invite the women who were
church members, so that a united Women’s Conference might be held for the
deepening of spiritual life, and discussing methods of work.
We had three separate meetings for women, at each of which a native and
a European spoke. The subjects treated were:—1st Meeting—The work of
teaching for Baptism and Communion—its methods and responsibilities. 2nd
Meeting—The work of visiting and teaching in the gardens—its methods
and its importance. 3rd Meeting—The organization of women’s work, and
farewell word.
On the last day, at the close of a very solemn afternoon gathering,
one woman rose from among the large number present, and in a trembling
voice said, “My heart pains me for those around in darkness, and I want
to go and teach them of Christ’s love.” A great stillness fell on the
meeting, and Damali, the Queen, scarcely able to steady her voice, closed
in prayer, thanking God for having called one from among them to be a
missionary and asking that others might hear the voice. On the third day
nine more women had come to offer themselves as missionaries. One was
Ana Kageye, the head woman of the Royal household, one of the leading
women of the country. Before coming to us she had been to the King, and
received his permission for her to leave him for God’s service. She had,
before her conversion, led a desperately wicked life, and, being old and
so steeped in witchcraft, one almost supposed her to be beyond the power
of reformation. She had first heard of Christ from Kasagama’s lips, and
although her eyes were then getting somewhat dim with age, she learned
from the King to read the Bible for herself. From that time a complete
change came over her whole life and appearance, so that her scarred face
became quite attractive. Since then she had proved a most indefatigable
teacher and helper in all Church work.
A class was at once arranged for instructing these candidates morning
and afternoon for six months in St. Matthew, St. John, Acts, the Pauline
Epistles, and a sketch of Old Testament history. At the end of that
period they were examined for one whole week. During that time their
excitement and anxiety were strained to their highest pitch; they refused
to eat at mid-day for fear they might become incapable of hard thinking,
and were found in their places at class nearly one hour before the
appointed time. After the first week old Ana Kageye took pity on their
troubled appearances, and insisted they should all go to her house after
the morning class and she would give them a substantial meal. Out of
twelve who were questioned two reached ninety-eight per cent. marks and
the lowest did not fall below seventy-five per cent. After that they
were brought before the Native Church Council and ten were assigned to
stations. Two (one being Ana Kageye) were located as foreign missionaries
to distant Ankole, two to a hill station four days’ journey away on a
southern ridge of Ruwenzori, and the remaining six villages two and
three days away. This was a brave step for these Batoro women to take,
after having led such indolent and sheltered lives, and in spite of the
intense joy that filled their heads, they did not leave without tears in
their eyes as they bade good-bye to all their friends for the first time.
Surely they teach a lesson to many in favoured England who have not yet
faced their personal responsibility to the unreached heathen.
All of these first women teachers did splendidly. After six months’ work
they returned for a few weeks, as no native worker is allowed to remain
at his post without coming in for occasional rest and restrengthening.
The deadly influences of heathenism might prove too strong for such young
Christians if they were to live away from helpful surroundings. Eight of
the ten again returned to their work, and the other two were married and
afterwards went out as teachers with their husbands.
Ana Kageye at first found the women of Ankole eager to learn to read, but
not so quick to believe the new religion she brought to them. One day a
young Princess fell sick, and their own cures failing she was carried up
to the European doctor temporarily stationed at the Government fort. When
it was declared by him to be almost a hopeless case the natives gave up
all idea of her recovery, saying that if the white man could not cure her
nothing would.
Good, brave old Ana then came forward and told them again of the Living
God who hears and answers prayer, and they answered together “If your God
will heal her we will believe.” The young dying Princess was thereupon
carried to Ana’s little grass house, and as night fell the fires died
down in every hut but the one in which the sick girl lay, and all night
long the faithful old servant of God, as she watched by the bedside,
wrestled in prayer for the life before her. What a wonderful act of faith
was witnessed that night in the little hut in Darkest Africa! This woman
so recently brought to know God even dared through faith to prove her God
before these heathen. As the day dawned the women gathered round the hut
expecting to mourn over the dead body, but the God of Life had come forth
and revealed His power, the girl’s unconsciousness had passed off and
she had taken the first step to recovery. The result was that after Ana
had been working there nine months she had instructed and prepared for
baptism the first five women of Ankole.
Is it not worth leaving home and friends to search among the dust and
mire of that dark Continent and find such gems, even if they be but few?
“They shall be mine, saith the Lord of Hosts, in that day when I make up
my jewels.”
CHAPTER IX
Child Life
Child life! How immediately our minds linger over happy scenes of mirth
and innocent laughter, romping, rollicking games of mischief or of fun.
Bright, happy childhood! No cloud of care and trouble has arisen on
life’s horizon, and sin has not yet tainted the atmosphere of Heaven that
still lingers round its offspring.
But where can memory rest upon such a picture as that in darkest Africa?
Look upon a tree, the tender buds of which half fearfully peep through
the bare branches just to catch a glimpse of the outer world, when a cold
frost blast of winter strikes across the frail young life and withers
it for ever. That is child life in Africa. Innocence and purity were
withered just as they dared to step from infancy. Happy, careless mirth
was crushed with the weight of the burdens laid upon the shoulders of
childhood. Their mother’s home, as has been described, was their earliest
environment, their language was learned from her, and then lovelessness
was the children’s portion, as they were sent away as servants or slaves
to neighbouring chiefs. Parents scorned the idea of bringing up their own
children; they affirmed that a child would never listen to its parent and
would refuse to work, so they exchanged their children at the age of four
or five years for others who would be as slaves to them. Even at this
tender age they were taught to gather the sticks and twigs, and then sit
by and feed the fire while the food was cooking, or they carried the
gourds or pots on their little woolly pates down to the river to draw
the daily supply of water. They were generally fearfully neglected and
underfed; their dislike to water was accounted for by the fact that they
possessed no clothing and the dirt kept them warm. If anyone had been
born with a leaning towards cleanliness his mother would have effectually
crushed this by the cold water treatment administered during infantile
ablutions. It was the custom every morning between 4.0 and 5.0 a.m., when
the cold night air still clung in damp mists to the land, to hold the
babies naked out in the courtyards, throw cold water over them, and then
leave them out to dry.
Their little insides were treated with no greater consideration. One
morning a woman brought down to the dispensary a wee morsel of three
weeks: it was a pitiful little object of mere skin and bone. The mother
explained that it had either been poisoned out of spite, or it was
possessed of an evil spirit. “See,” said she, “I have done all I could to
let out the poison or devil.” Looking at its body I saw it was covered
with a number of small, deep cuts, and the blood had been left to dry.
Low moans and a tired cry came from the poor little helpless mite as the
flies tortured its mutilated body. After questioning the mother the “evil
spirit” took the form of bananas and mushrooms that she had been bringing
the three weeks’ infant up on! Feeding bottles were an unknown luxury,
and as no equivalent had been invented, babies were compelled to lap from
the hand, an art they never properly learned and thrived very poorly
on. Some three dozen india rubber “comforters” were sent out to me, and
these I managed to fix on empty ink bottles or medicine bottles, and so a
new-fashioned “Allenbury” feeder was introduced. The demand far exceeded
the supply, so they could only be lent out by the month. “Stephens’ Ink”
would have been immensely pleased could it have snapshotted the babies
being solemnly fed in church with its bottles held to their mouths.
Certainly it was a case of the survival of the fittest with the Toro
infants, and as the “fittest” were few and far between, mortality was
very great among them.
The first two dolls that arrived in Toro met with a very mixed welcome;
the children howled and fled in terror, but their mothers showed a most
profound admiration for them. At first they held the doll very gingerly
and at a distance, as if in fear of being bewitched, but finding that
nothing happened to either one or the other, and the doll still smiled
at them like the Cheshire cat, they became great friends and begged that
they might borrow it for a few days to play with.
Whether it was the large circulation that those two dolls got, or the
gradually increasing confidence of the Toro children in the white
ladies, the fact remains that in a few months all childish prejudice had
disappeared, and often a little voice was heard asking for “a child that
causes play.” When this was known in England over 100 dolls were sent to
me from two working parties. I never saw such a wonderful doll show as
they made. They were all displayed on our verandah, and the house was
literally besieged with men, women, and children for some days.
A bride, beautifully dressed in white satin and kid shoes, who, even in
her wedding attire, cried “Mama” and “Papa,” was sent to little Princess
Ruth, but the report reached me that King Kasagama had constituted
himself guardian, and kept it locked up in his study for slack moments!
The Mother Queen wrote an imploring letter to me for a dainty little
Parisienne who arrived with her travelling trunk; and Apolo, our faithful
native deacon—confirmed bachelor—asked me in secret if men ever played
with dolls, and beamed with satisfaction as he most triumphantly carried
one off, peacefully sleeping.
The others were given out to the little girls who had been most regular
at the school, and were noted for having come with clean faces and bodies.
When the boys saw that the dolls were only given to girls, some borrowed
their sisters’ garments to try and appear eligible! I did not know till
then they were versed in such cunning! It was so pretty to watch the
joy and even playfulness that those dolls brought into the lives of
so many little ones who had scarcely known what this meant till then.
Christianity has completely revolutionized child-life in Toro. No longer
are the new-born babes given over to the Devil by causing their blood
to flow as a dedicatory offering; the teeth are not now extracted to
propitiate the Evil One, and happy family circles are seen in place of
slavery.
I am sure in no Sunday School in England is there brighter singing than
among the Toro infants when about 200 of them, with very lusty lungs,
open their rather prominent mouths and sing “There’s a Friend for little
children above the bright blue sky.”
Certainly the girls and boys make very clever little domestics. I have
sometimes wondered whether the problem of the over-taxed English market
could not be solved by exporting some of these small people. I had a
little maid named Keturah, who was 12 years of age, and she could almost
manage the work of a housemaid and parlourmaid. She kept my room in
perfect order, carefully putting away anything left about, and cleaned it
regularly every Saturday. On Mondays she carried off the soiled linen,
washing, starching, and ironing it as well as I had been able to teach
her; and she could wait at table like a Gatti’s waiter! Was that not
splendid for a little girl who had come to us without ever having seen an
English bed, garment, knife, fork, or iron?
Of course, one has occasionally to put up with small inconveniences.
One day a pair of boots were sent out to be dried by the fire, with
strict injunctions not to leave or scorch them. In a few minutes they
were brought in with a big hole burnt out of the leather, and the
sole shrivelled up beyond repair—and these were a last pair! Pocket
handkerchiefs frequently find their way into the boiled starch, a white
muslin blouse sometimes loses its identity completely by a strong dose
of the blue-bag; if it is needed for a special occasion the quantity
is increased! A flannel nightgown was boiled for three hours on one
occasion; fortunately it was a very unattractive Jaeger, but even then
it did not surrender its colour. That shade of flannel is like the
Ethiopian’s skin—I could never even get it to fade. Take my advice, and
try white instead.
But, after all, these are mere details. They are faithful little people,
and would never refuse to follow their master as he travels up and down
the country, though they scarcely ever escape malaria when marching
through fever districts, in spite of strong doses of quinine. Often
concealing a high temperature from the European, they hurry on in front
to see that his tent and a refreshing cup of tea are ready when he comes
into camp. As we travelled down to Uganda, on our way home to England,
our staff of six boys started out with us; one after another knocked
over, and had to be carried back, till we were left with only two to do
everything for us, and in spite of their being ill, they insisted on
coming as far as Victoria Nyanza. As the big lake steamer weighed anchor
and cut through the water, two little white caps were waving at the end
of the pier until we disappeared from sight.
CHAPTER X
Religion
Central Africa may be said to have no religion, if by that we understand
belief in a God. It has produced no Buddha or Mahommed to make known
to its people some revelation of a deity, neither has it possessed any
ancient writings that a Confucius could bind together as a foundation
to a nation’s creed. In its belief we see the most pitiable product
of a dark, ignorant, and degraded mind, that, left to itself, has
worked out some antidote for that which is inherent in every man—an
indefinable longing after the spiritual. Its faith bears in it the seeds
of inevitable decay, for in its tenets can be found no trace of truth,
purity, or holiness, which, varying however much they may in degree,
hold together the great religious systems of the world. It might be
described briefly as Devil-worship or the Propitiation of Evil Spirits;
it differs in its rites and rituals among the various tribes. In Uganda
the practices of the people were more extreme, perhaps, but certainly
less torturing than in the Western Provinces of the Protectorate, where
superstition led to the most barbarous infliction of human suffering from
the cradle to the grave. For every real or imaginary evil and sickness
that fell upon the individual, family, or community, branding, cutting,
and mutilation of the body took place; while, without exception, all
the front teeth in the lower jaw were extracted as soon as ever they
appeared.
These customs, practised for so many generations, have had a very
deteriorating effect on the physical constitution of the people. The
strength of the natives has been sapped, their minds degraded, and their
energies crushed. They possess very small physical resources, and fall an
easy prey to any sickness that visits their district.
A few years ago, before the teachers of Christianity reached their
country, tiny devil temples, made of grass and twigs, stood in the
courtyards of the houses, and in these were placed, from time to time,
offerings of cowrie shells or food. One day there was brought to me at
the dispensary a child who was said to be devil-possessed. The physic
prescribed was so far successful that the grateful mother brought a
little thank-offering. It consisted of ten cowrie shells tied round a
small piece of papyrus stalk. When the child had fallen ill, the mother
had tied one of these shells to the strip of grass and given it as a
propitiatory offering to the devil; as the sickness increased, each day
another shell was added, until, finding her child become rather worse
than better, she brought her down to the dispensary. And as the European
had done what the devil refused to do, the woman took the shells away
from him and gave them to the white lady!
Generally speaking, the people are in partial or total ignorance of their
belief; they have never been taught it, and practise the rituals from
habit without realising their significance. The priests prescribe what
form the offerings shall take and their claims are never questioned;
besides this, they extort heavy fees each time they are consulted. They
profess to divine the will of the evil spirit by means of charms made of
sticks, hide, horns, and the entrails of fowls and goats. When Kasagama
was brought from Budu by Sir Frederick Lugard to be re-installed in his
kingdom of Toro, from which he had fled, as a young prince, from the
raiding bands of Bunyoro under King Kabarega, a white fowl was killed
and examined. The priest declared the omen augured that success and peace
should attend his reign. But Kasagama, being unacquainted with what they
had done, nearly brought upon himself the worst misfortune by approaching
near to the grave of the fowl. Had not his attendants just stopped him
from walking over the grave a moral offence would have been perpetrated
upon the body of the fowl and its spirit would have avenged the wrong!
By carefully clearing away the accumulated legends of centuries, one
finds, however, faint suggestions of a purer belief, which reminds one of
a saying by an Indian monarch, who lived in the 3rd century B.C., “The
sap of all religions is alike.”
There are a few Batoro whose memory recalls their primitive belief,
which, despite the contortions which time and repetition have effected,
bear a recognisable similarity to Old Testament revelations.
At the beginning of all history they say God and his brother Nkya were in
the world and made all things. Nkya had three sons whom he brought to God
to be named, and in order to do so He proved the heart of each man. When
the sons were brought in at night, to each of the sons was given a pot
full of milk and God ordered them to take care of it until the morning.
At midnight the youngest dozed and some of his milk got spilled; then he
turned to his brothers and asked them to fill up his pot with a little
from each of theirs, and this they did. After a short time the elder son
knocked over his pot and all the milk was spilled out. Then he begged the
others to give him of theirs, but they refused, saying, “And what shall
we do?” When the night had passed God came and uncovered each of the milk
pots. To the second son he said, “Where is your milk?” And he answered,
“The youngest’s milk was spilled and I filled up his pot.” And to the
eldest God said, “And yours?” He replied, “I slept and mine was all upset
and I asked my brothers to give me of theirs but they refused.” Then God
cursed him and called him Kairu (a little servant), saying that he should
become his brothers’ servant. And God said to the youngest, “You shall
be called Kakama (Little King), you shall rule all people, you shall be
King, and your second brother shall live with you and be your minister.”
After this God took counsel with his brother that they should leave the
world and go to their home in heaven, for there was very great sin in the
world, and God did not wish to kill man whom he had created. So God and
Nkya left the world and Kakama was left to rule the people. The Bunyoro
trace all their Kings back to this great Monarch.
Their fifth King was named Kantu, who they say brought punishment and
death into the world. Like his predecessors, he disappeared suddenly, and
is believed to have gone up to God to beg that disease and death might
visit the people. God then spoke with Nkya, his brother, and said it
was well people should die and come to life again after four days. But
Nkya said, “Let them die absolutely.” After this the little son of the
reigning king became ill and died, and the King Isaza sent to God and
said, “My son will not wake up.” God said, “What is his sleep like?” And
he replied, “Since lying down to sleep he will not move and he does not
breathe.” Then God sent to Isaza and told him to dig a hole and bury the
child. But the King did not understand what death was, and as he sat in
his house he sought for his son and ordered for him to be brought. But
his people told him that he would never again see his son; hearing this
the King lifted up his hands and as he stood over the grave he cursed
all men for the death of his child. For this God plagued his people with
sickness, but Isaza remained unsoftened, so God sent death to his second
son.
After this the King of Hell sent messages to the King Isaza, tempting
him with gifts to make a covenant with him; and after much hesitation
Isaza yielded and set out with his companion the Moon to visit the King
of Hell. When he had gone some distance the ground suddenly opened, and
Isaza was cast down till he reached the gate of Hell, from whence he
never returned. Whereupon the moon, grieving over the loss of his royal
friend, went up into the sky and has ever remained there.
The method of these people for making a covenant was that of
blood-brotherhood.
Each of the two parties took a coffee bean, dipped it in the blood from
a small incision made in his body, then handed it to his companion to
be eaten. It was a most sacred pledge of indissoluble union, a breach
of which met with immediate death. Whoever the King chose to honour
with blood brotherhood, was raised to the highest position, regardless
of his birth or estate. This has often made clear to them the passage,
“we who sometimes were far off are made nigh by the blood of Christ.”
It is said that when the first English official passed through the
neighbouring country of Ankole, the King and people were in a state
of great consternation, speculating as to the purport of his visit.
The explanations of the Englishmen were not sufficient to allay their
suspicions, but on his agreeing to make “blood brotherhood” with the
King an understanding was arrived at and the confidence of the people
established.
Their ideas of an after life seem to have been of the very vaguest.
Their belief that the soul continues to exist after death was evident in
that they had a great fear of the spirits of the departed. A man on the
death of his wife (or one of them) did not marry again till the body had
decayed, for fear of offending the spirit of the dead. Frequently in the
villages are to be seen long zig-zag paths leading to the huts that are
supposed to baulk the spirits which only travel in straight lines.
Burial takes place immediately after death. The body is wrapped round
in bark cloths and with it are buried quantities of white calico, bark
cloths, and blankets, according to the wealth of the chief mourner. When
the head of the household dies he is buried in the courtyard of his
house, after which the hut is removed to another spot, so that the spirit
of the deceased shall not trouble the surviving members of the family.
When the King died the custom was for five women and four men of the
chief families of the land to be taken by force and buried alive with the
King, to complete the number ten, so that he should not be alone. A house
was then erected over the grave, and inside the surrounding fence the
Queen came and lived. Every day at daybreak she went with the keepers of
the tomb to clean it down and sweep out the courtyard. They lived on the
food and cows stolen from folks passing along on the roads. A man had to
forfeit all right to anything claimed for the “Gasani” (the King’s Tomb),
and could look for no reparation.
If a man dies without expressing any wish as to the disposal of his
belongings, his brothers, and not the wife and children, inherit them.
Among the Bahuma tribe the wife is included in the personalty and is
handed over as wife to the brother of the deceased. Our small milk boy,
of about fourteen years of age, came to me one day with a petition for
a rise in his wages, as he found it difficult to support his wife and
children on his present earnings. He then went on to explain that his
brother had died, leaving him to marry the rather elderly wife, who had
two children. I felt the right thing was to sympathise with him, but
quickly learned my mistake, for he was very well pleased with his legacy,
which gave him a wife to cultivate and cook for him without the usual
payment of goats and sheep.
The Batoro have little or no fear of death, in fact some seem rather glad
to create a little sensation among their friends by becoming for the
time the chief object of interest! On one occasion I was called to visit
a dying man in the Namasole’s village. With a little bag of medicine
strapped on to my saddle, I rode out to see if anything could be done.
An unusual stillness had fallen on everyone, for the sick man was none
other than the Katikiro of the place. Suddenly, as I stepped up to the
doorway of the hut, there arose a wild shriek from inside; this was taken
up immediately by everyone around and the air was rent with wailings and
loud, piercing screams—I knew at once my medicine would not be required,
but, entering, tried to quiet the frenzied mourners. I drew out from my
bag the Gospel of St. John, and read the words “I am the Resurrection and
the Life.” Immediately the tumult ceased, and everyone listened to the
message of Life spoken in the presence of Death; and as we all knelt in
prayer one realised perhaps as never before how death hath been swallowed
up in Victory. One of the greatest joys one can know is to wave the torch
of Life and Immortality across the darkness of ages that has never known
a hope beyond the grave.
The result of the people’s belief is stamped unmistakably on almost
everything in the country. With the lack of physical energy has died
the desire to master their country. The rich, productive soil, with its
abnormal generative properties, has been left uncared for and unkempt,
till “thorns also and thistles,” the insignia of a blighted world, cover
a land that might have been a veritable Eden.
Tall, tangled weeds creep up to the very doorways of the houses, while
most of the roads are merely narrow, beaten tracks. Whenever an attempt
is made to tackle an appreciable task, a few days suffices to exhaust
the labourer completely; at the end of that time he may be seen in a
state of total collapse, with a strip of rag bound tightly round the
hand, the outward and visible sign of being _hors de combat_.
In Toro one realises at times the dead weight of life and its
environment. The changes of the seasons—spring with the freshness of
infancy and vitality of youth; summer decked in the exquisite glory of
a new life; autumn and winter folding tired nature up in a long, deep
sleep—are sadly missed where the trees are always green. The sympathy
in nature is lacking; flowers lose their subtle and delicate charm; the
bright, soft sward is there exchanged for the elephant grass with its
saw-like blades. The birds have no song; the voices of music and poetry
have never been heard; and as age after age has rolled by, no lip has
breathed a prayer to its Creator. There are instances when heathenism
seems to surround one with such blackness that the soul stands as if
isolated in a foreign Land, breathing a new atmosphere in which there is
lacking the spiritual ether of one’s native land.
CHAPTER XI
Language
The language spoken in Toro is Lunyoro, and quite distinct from that used
in Uganda; but it is undoubtedly the parent dialect and almost identical
with that spoken in the Kingdoms of Unyoro and Ankole, besides being very
generally understood by the tribes beyond Ruwenzori.
For the first three years, Missionary work in these districts was
carried on in Luganda, as neither the European nor Baganda teachers
had sufficient knowledge of Lunyoro, and there were no books or
reading-sheets in the language. Luganda was understood by some of the
upper class men and a few women, but it was scarcely ever spoken, and
none of the peasants were acquainted with it. Until these people could
have their religion and reading-books in their own tongue, it seemed
as if vital Christianity must remain more or less outside their actual
lives. So towards the end of 1899 Mr. Maddox went up to Toro with the
intention of studying and reducing the language of the people to writing.
When we arrived in 1900 a little reading-sheet had been printed, and
St. Matthew’s Gospel was in hand. But there was no book or literature
to help us, and as the natives did not understand one word of English
it seemed a hopeless difficulty. Miss Pike, my companion, had studied
Luganda for six months, so was able to speak with those who knew it, and
through interpretation to those who did not. By this means she piloted us
both through those first days when the house was thronged with people
from morning till night, and they pelted us with kind remarks and every
imaginable and unimaginable question. I never felt so absolutely stupid
as when they addressed me with a torrent of eloquence, until the idea
struck me of retaliating with a continuous flow of English. It pleased
them immensely, but certainly did not check them.
The third day after our arrival, Mr. Maddox kindly gave us our first
lesson in Lunyoro. He was trying to impress on us that the words were
largely formed by prefixes and suffixes, so one had only to find the stem
and it was all right. “Tinkakimuherayoga” was obviously, said he, from
the verb “okuhu,” to give; find that, the meaning of the word was made
plain: “I have never given it to him there”! My mind was chaotic, and I
wondered if it ever would be anything else.
After a few weeks our patient teacher had to go off on an itinerating
trip, so we were left alone to flounder through the quagmires. I believe
the best and quickest way of acquiring a new tongue is to summon up all
the courage you possess and go in and out among the people until you
adopt it much in the same way as an infant does its mother language.
Undoubtedly it requires pluck. The first time I ventured forth with a
remark, peals of laughter came from my audience, which almost quenched
the one spark of courage left. Afterwards I learned this was a mark of
their appreciation!
In the fifth month, and after a great deal of hard persuasion, I decided
on attempting to take a daily Bible Class. As the 8.0 morning drum
sounded and I made my way to the church, my nerve powers fell below
zero, and I felt decidedly limp. The words “Who hath made man’s mouth; I
will be with thy mouth” pulled me together a bit, and I hurried in to my
class to find between twenty and thirty women waiting for their teacher.
Talking for one whole hour was a terrible tax on my vocabulary, and must
have been even a greater tax on the endurance of the class. I was quite
done when they were in a questioning mood; it would have been bad enough
if there had been no foreign language to understand. The very first
morning they asked me about Michael disputing with Satan over the body of
Moses!
It is rather surprising to find that such simple people possess
so advanced a form of etymology. The parts of speech and general
construction in a broad sense resemble the other dialects of the Bantu
class, but the verbs are very complex and more technically developed
than its offsprings, Luganda and Swahili. All our English tenses are
employed besides several others met with in Greek. Most of these effect
a complete change in the relative form. Verbs practically dominate
all the other parts of speech; the nouns, with very few exceptions,
are their parasites. A few straggling prefixes tacked on to the verb
root are the only attempts the nouns make toward an individuality of
their own. Adverbs and prepositions are rarely granted an independent
existence. They add to the corpulence of the verb by being absorbed
in it. The perfect harmony between nouns, adjectives, and verbs is a
veritable man-trap, for a native will rarely understand a discord,
however untutored he may be. Besides grammar and pronunciation, there
are two other important things to study—the proverbs, and the mode of
expressing ideas. The Batoro are not quite so versed in the metaphorical
form of speech as the Baganda, who are capable of carrying on a lengthy
conversation in the most mystical and involved proverbs, only quoting the
first two or three words of each, and quite expecting you to imagine the
rest. I trembled literally when this was first told me, for I had never
been able to get beyond “never too late to mend” in English proverbs.
But Lunyoro is really kinder in this respect. They do, however, exist in
spasmodic forms. If you want to really win the love and confidence of
the people you have to make a regular business of learning their catch
expressions and idioms, and dropping completely the habit of translating
English into Lunyoro, then they will confer on you their highest degree
“Oli Mutoro,” “you are a native of Toro.”
The Batoro have what I believe is a unique custom among these tribes,
that is, every mother gives a pet name to her child, and this clings to
him always; it is used when addressing as a token of love or respect
by friends and dependents. Ana Kageye constituted herself my African
“Mother,” and straight away gave me the name “Adyeri” (pronounced
Ar-de-air-y). This was very readily taken up by the people, as my name
absolutely beat them. Only the King and one or two others got so near as
“Hurudeki,” and really it took some time to answer up to “Beki” “Deki”
“Heki” “Bodeki” “Hedeki” and even “Paratata,” which were all supposed
to be “Hurditch.” Really, to save the poor family name from such rough
treatment I was not sorry to put it away entirely except in memory.
In less than five years a great deal has been accomplished in
translation, and with the exception of a few hymns, it has been entirely
undertaken by the one missionary who has also been responsible for direct
mission work. During that period the New Testament, the Prayer Book with
Psalms, two Catechisms, a hymn book of nearly one hundred hymns, and a
reading sheet for learners have been completed in the language of the
people. Since Lunyoro was adopted in place of the neighbouring dialect of
Luganda, the work has gone forward in leaps and bounds, and to it must
be attributed largely the wide spread of Christianity among the peasants
in the villages. It is not an uncommon thing to find a village that has
given up devil-worship, not through the instrumentality of a European or
native teacher, but simply through the people having learned to read the
Bible for themselves from someone who had been instructed in the alphabet
or syllables.
When Mr. Maddox was about to leave Toro for England, the King and chiefs
came together and presented to him a letter signed by a very large number
of Christian men. In it they expressed their warm appreciation of all
the work he had done for them in translating the books, and earnestly
hoped he would soon return to them again. These books form the entire
library of the Batoro. They are most insatiable readers, and as you pass
along the roads any hour in the day you will hear a voice here and there
issuing from the little grass huts reading in loud measured tones from
the Bible. It is impossible to estimate the purifying and sanctifying
influence this literature has had on the national and family life. The
conquering martial strains of the “Onward Christian Soldiers” have
displaced and driven out of the country the old songs of plunder and
bloodshed. Instead of the little children learning demoralising heathen
songs and dances they are being taught to sing such hymns as “I think
when I read that sweet story of old.” Right away among the creeks and
crevices of the ancient Mountains of the Moon, on the very borders of the
great primaeval forests inhabited by the little pigmy tribe, you hear
to-day the strains of these Christian hymns.
CHAPTER XII
Festivities in Toro
I. CHRISTMAS.
Can it be that this is the season that in one’s mind is always associated
with snow, Jack Frost, Santa Claus, shops and streets ablaze with gas
jets, holly and mistletoe, people hurrying and jostling each other good
naturedly, wrapped up in the warmest furs to keep out the crisp, frosty
air, and wishing each and all the compliments of the season. Yes, it is
really Yuletide! And yet the hills and dales are waving their ripening
grain under the deep sapphire of a cloudless sky. The dry season is near
its close, hills and mountains are scorched and parched, the banana
groves and the tiger grass of the swamps which wind like a serpent’s
trail round the base of the hills, are the only bright and green tracks
that have survived the conflict with the equatorial sun. On all sides
are to be seen tiny patches of cultivated land, even reaching up to the
lofty peaks of Ruwenzori’s range, where the people have sown their grain
(Buro), and this will soon be ready for the harvesters.
In the garden round our bungalow mud house are gorgeous zinnias,
balsams, mignonette, carnations, sweet peas, geraniums, nasturtiums,
and two little rose buds. A few steps further will bring you round to
the vegetable garden. One gardener being an Irishman, potatoes are
very much in evidence, and of course cabbages. Besides these there are
cauliflowers, green peas, beans, celery, only wanting the nip of frost
to make it excellent, lettuces, beetroots, cucumbers, tomatoes, onions,
carrots, and turnips. And yet this is Christmastime! It is little wonder
that one has constantly to revert to the calendar to be assured of this.
And so we set to work to get the little gifts together that our kind
friends from home sent us for our native friends—knives, pencils, bags,
sashes, blotters, and so on. The wee tots from the school come down for
their attendance prizes, and go away beaming with their new possession of
a pinafore. Then the oxen are killed, and on the day before Christmas all
the sick folk come to the “missionary butcher” and hobble off rejoicing
with their joint of beef wrapped up in a banana leaf. And, although
Father Christmas has assumed a black face in Africa, he does not pass by
the white man’s door, and he leaves his gifts of a grass mat, animal’s
skin, beans, beads, or bracelets, the only things with which he can fill
his Toro sack.
At 12.0 a.m. on Christmas Eve from the King’s, the Queen Mother’s, and
the Mission Hills the drums are set beating, and from the English forts
the guns are fired to proclaim to all the country that the Christian’s
day of rejoicing has dawned, for the Christ child—Immanuel—has come. Then
on the midnight air is borne the strains of “O come all ye faithful” and
“Hark the herald angels,” sung by some of those who have been redeemed
from the heart of Darkest Africa, and now step out from their little huts
to join with us in praising God.
At 8 a.m. on Christmas morning the church drum is beaten, calling the
people together, and by 9.0 the church is completely crowded out, many
being obliged to sit outside. In the schoolroom over four hundred of the
peasant folk and children have gathered, and in the dispensary the sick
have come together for morning service.
The church is beautifully decorated with palm leaves and flowers that
have been brought in by the people, and the building echoes with voice as
the audience unites, as one man, in the service.
On Afric’s sunny shore, glad voices
Wake up the morn of Jubilee
The negro, once a slave, rejoices;
Who’s freed by Christ, is doubly free.
After that we all go to our homes, the natives to make merry over their
beef and bananas, and we to prepare as near an approach to an English
Christmas dinner as is possible, and although there are no grocers’ shops
or fruiterers’ to supply the usual details, and our cook for the twelve
years of his existence has been reared in African ignorance, still one
can fare very excellently, for the guinea fowl and sausages are really
turkey in all but name. The baron of beef, although far removed from the
prize oxen of the English markets, is very good, and the home-made plum
pudding, with its few suspicious native ingredients, brings up the menu
to almost English standard.
Boxing Day is generally a grand field day, when sports are arranged on an
extensive scale, including running, pick-a-back, hurdle, three-legged,
and obstacle races. This latter involves scaling a bamboo scaffolding,
crawling through packing cases with the ends kicked out, climbing a
tree, and wriggling through a stack of reeds. Then there is a greasy
pole placed in an oblique position, at the end of which is hung a leg of
goat. Big and small, old and young attempt this, quite regardless of the
undignified tumbles each experiences. Loud was the shout of applause on
one occasion, when the Katikiro, who is of clumsy proportions, after many
falls landed safely at the top and secured the joint. A banana peeling
competition for the women comes next. The competitors, some twenty at a
time, sit in a row with their knives and twenty green bananas on a leaf
before them. When the whistle sounds they attack their task with great
excitement. Some women, in place of knives, use sharpened pieces of
wood. Those who finish first and peel the best receive prizes of calico.
Scrambles for cowrie shells generally bring the sports day to a close.
On more than one occasion Bishop Tucker has honoured Toro by dating his
annual visit about Christmas time. This was the case during our first
year in Toro. We had had a busy time previous to his arrival questioning
and examining the hundred and fifty women candidates who were to be
presented for confirmation, and when all this was completed we ran away
to the crater Lake, eight miles distant, to snatch a few days’ rest. But
on the second day we were unexpectedly recalled, as one of our fellow
missionaries had been taken very ill and was obliged to be carried into
Mengo under the care of the other one. So for the first time we two
girls were left quite alone, eight days away from the nearest European.
But we were too occupied to realise it. The engineers, surveyors, and
foremen (?) having suddenly left us in this manner, we were obliged to
see through the completion of the jobs they had taken in hand in order to
get things into shape before Christmas. Here at last we found a chance
of putting to use our youthful study of Euclid. With a measuring line
and sticks we felt distinctly professional as we tried to mark out a new
road, but we found that if only the ground space had been long enough to
test it our two straight lines would certainly have enclosed a space. So
perhaps Euclid’s axiom is only an absurdity after all!
Then the house where the Bishop was to be entertained needed repairs.
The roof was in such a state that one evening, while we were tidying up
inside, a big storm visited us and simply poured down through the reed
ceiling into the sitting-room. Fortunately there are no carpets in these
parts, for the floor was covered with puddles in a very few minutes. But
the water soon drained off into the holes the white ants had made; they
must have suffered from rheumatism that night!
It was a difficult matter to find workmen just then, for most of the
chiefs had gone off, each with some hundreds of men, to capture young
elephants. Sir Harry Johnston had offered a certain sum for each young
elephant brought in alive, as he was hoping to have them trained for
transport use. A few days after the first party had set out, a loud
report of distant yelling and screaming reached the school, where daily
classes were going on. Nearly everyone ran out to discover the cause of
the uproar. A large crowd was seen approaching, beating drums, blowing
pipes, dancing, and shouting. There seemed no apparent occasion for such
a row till one spied a tiny, hapless baby elephant, with ropes round its
body and four legs, limping along among its captors. It died, like all
its followers. But for a few days just then Toro threatened to become
a most undesirable menagerie, for, besides these elephants and various
monkeys, the King had collected, and sent to the Commissioner, one of the
largest, most repulsive, and horribly human-looking chimpanzees. The mode
of capture had been rather unique. The tree in which it had taken up its
position in the forest was isolated by the capturers cutting down all the
surrounding ones for some distance. Then, placing a circle of men with
spears to guard the boundary, they felled the only standing tree, and as
it suddenly crashed down with its coveted and unsuspicious object, a net
was thrown over the black monster, that was then hustled into a large
cane cage standing in readiness.
One of our runaway Missionaries managed to get back to Toro just in time
for the Bishop’s arrival three days before Christmas. We went with the
King’s wife, his mother, his sister, and about 250 women, and waited for
his arrival on the brow of a hill. All the men, headed by the King and
Katikiro on horseback, had preceded us. When the Bishop came up, riding
on his mule, he was literally besieged, and we could scarcely move on
for the crowd. The days that followed were big days. Three hundred and
sixty-four candidates came forward for confirmation.
It was a truly wonderful sight to see the church with over 500 men and
women assembled for Holy Communion. My mind travelled back in thought
to six years ago, when outside the houses had stood the devil temples.
Generation after generation had passed, the Prince of Darkness exercising
undisputed sway and holding the people in the most degraded and merciless
allegiance. Now his power had been completely shattered, his temples
cast down, and a great Invisible Temple was being builded together for a
Habitation of God through the Spirit.
Together at the Communion rails knelt the King in his royal robes, and
close by was one of his peasant subjects dressed in a small goat skin.
There was old Apolo Mpisi, the dispensary patient, with a beaming and
peaceful countenance—this was his first communion. Among others, hobbled
up an old lady on crutches, who had had her leg amputated during a visit
from Dr. Cook, of Mengo. The responsibility was a solemn one of feeling
that we had done something toward preparing many of the women for this
holy ordinance. When we shall stand together, all united before the
Throne in Heaven, will it not be glorious to have had a share, however
small, in leading forward some of the multitude from Africa!
As the powers of Heaven looked down upon Toro that day, surely they
broke forth into a song of victory. Blessing, and glory, and wisdom, and
thanksgiving, and honour, and power, and might be unto our God for ever
and ever, Amen.
II. CORONATION CELEBRATIONS.
Although so far from things that stir and thrill the great heart of the
British Empire, Toro must not be considered behind in loyalty to that
centre of its Government. Certainly it exercised its utmost ingenuity to
follow close in the wake of the plans and excitement that occupied the
mind of every English subject for commemorating the great event of the
Coronation of its King—Edward VII.
Our mails from England for months seemed to have no other subject to talk
about. Our minds pictured it all—sombre London stripped of its usual calm
sobriety, decorated in full war paint. We were seized with a violent fit
of patriotism, and because we could not join in the London throng, or
even go to the grand festivities that were prepared by the Government at
Mengo, we determined to do our best for Toro.
First of all, some days before the event, invitations were sent out to
the four other Europeans, and to the royal native court, for a coronation
dinner. Ordering the donkey to be harnessed, someone was despatched to
our village shop to purchase red, blue, and white calico, with which were
made two long lines of streamers for decorating our station, and a large
Union Jack to cover the Table in the Church. Some of the people came down
to decorate the outside, while we decked the church inside with the royal
and imperial colours. At 8.0 a.m. on Coronation Day over 1,000 people had
gathered in and outside the church for a brief service. After prayer and
Scripture, a Royal decree was read that had been sent out from England
and translated, and this was followed by a brief address on the event of
the day. Then we all rose and united in the good old National Anthem,
that had been translated and type-written for the occasion.
That was the first half of the day’s proceedings. The second half
started at seven, when the dinner came off. The table was decked out
with a table centre of red geraniums, white balsams, and cornflowers,
the serviettes were folded as crowns, and the first course consisted of
crown-shaped patties covered with the yoke of eggs, and studded with the
white to represent crown jewels! King Kasagama and Queen Damali, dressed
in draperies of silk and white linen, arrived with the other native
guests, who had hung about the outside courtyard so as to avoid being
the first arrivals. It was marvellous how easily and quietly our native
guests manipulated the European table equipments; half concealed glances
were cast in our direction every now and again. The serviettes rather
puzzled them—were they to be left on the table or used as handkerchiefs?
When the plum pudding came in, all ablaze, with a little British flag
stuck at the top, three hearty cheers greeted it, the King joining in
with boisterous glee.
On the table there were three dishes of strawberries, the first we
had been able to produce in Toro, and we were keen on introducing
them into the country generally. Preparing a plateful with sugar and
cream, I respectfully begged his Majesty to try a real English luxury.
He glanced timidly at them, and showed the usual disinclination that
is always evinced when given a new English dish to sample. He assured
me that he was so satisfied that anything more was impossible, but,
passing the plate to the Katikiro, told him to try it. The poor man,
looking the picture of misery, begged to be excused, so it fell to the
lot of the unfortunate chief minister to submit himself to the task.
With a pitifully resigned expression he took one strawberry on a spoon,
then another, and another, till he called out “Excellent, excellent,
the best of all.” Forgetting his recent excuse, the King took the dish
near at hand, and simply finished off the whole lot! The day following
requests came from one and another for strawberry roots, and King Daudi
superintended the Queen as she herself planted them in a plot outside the
sitting-room window of his Majesty’s new house.
After dinner the King was determined to do his part, and insisted on
our all going up to his home. To our utter amazement we found our court
outlined with hundreds of flaming torches, ten to twelve feet long;
the bearers were waiting to conduct us to the royal palace. The whole
distance was lined with double files of torchbearers, which made the
country look like Earl’s Court Exhibition on an exaggerated scale. Big
bonfires were burning on the surrounding hills, the torches of guests
coming from all directions looked like so many fireflies. On arriving at
the Royal Court, we were met with a blaze of fire. Quickly falling into
order, the people unanimously shouted a salute to his Majesty and his
friends, as we made for the chairs all set out on leopard skins outside
the two-storied mud palace. Then the performance began. The Royal band
was then in full force. On striking up one of the most weird, discordant
tunes, nearly the whole crowd of people broke into dancing, their
fluttering, white linen garments flapping about them as wings. More and
more excited they got, till they danced so high as to appear held up in
mid-air. Then they gave way to the pipers, who performed on instruments
made from crude pieces of reed. Singing accompanied this performance—such
fantastic tunes, all praising the greatness of their King and exalting in
the prowess of his people, with ringing cheers interspersed for England,
its King, and King Kasagama. The evening closed in giving us all a
longing that the great Edward VII. might have seen how one of his kingly
subjects in the heart of Africa had commemorated that important day.
CHAPTER XIII
Tramp I. To the Albert Edward Lake
The year after our arrival in the country my companion and I were again
on the tramp toward the Albert Edward Lake, combining an itinerating tour
with a holiday. We started under not very propitious circumstances. The
wet season was not over, and promised to treat us rather shabbily, for
the rain began drifting down just as we had put off from home. We had a
small body of caravan porters numbering about fourteen in all, and an
ordained native deacon, named Apolo Kivebulaya, as protector and overseer
of the forces. He is just one of the best natives you could ever meet.
His experiences seem like a page out of apostolic history. He, with his
friend Sedulaka, came from Uganda to Toro in 1896 as teachers. When a
European was afterwards stationed there, he went further afield, even
as far as Mboga, on the boundaries of the Pigmy Forest, and there he
established a Mission Station. At first he met with a great deal of
opposition from the chief Tabala, which might have been expected from the
graphic account the late Sir Henry Stanley gives of these uncontrollable
people in his book “Darkest Africa.” Apolo’s house and few possessions
were burnt by incendiarism, and for three weeks he remained hidden from
his persecutors in a house of a woman, who had become a “reader”; but
his zeal and faith never flagged even when he was cast into the chain
gang, for there he commenced to speak to his guards, and taught them
to read the Testament, which he always carried about with him. Shortly
after these things Tabala himself got converted to Christianity through
the instrumentality of this very man, and, from being one of the fiercest
opponents, he became, and has remained since, one of the most ardent
supporters of the Christian Faith. Apolo is a well-known character
throughout the country; nothing succeeds in ruffling his quiet, contented
nature, but with a chronic beam on his old dusky face, he goes along in
his daily routine of instructing catechumens or confirmation candidates,
officiating at burials and marriages, or visiting the outlying Mission
Stations.
[Illustration: APOLO KIVEBULAYA.]
Certainly we could not have had a native escort so respected and beloved
all round these parts than good old Apolo.
In order that we should find camp comfortably fixed up on the first
day, we had despatched our belongings some time ahead. We were anxious
to wait for the heat of the day to pass before actually starting off
on our wheels. Just outside Kabarole the rain came down in torrents.
We struggled to cycle on through it, but it was tough business. The
mud, added to the hilly condition of the path, prevented us from
making much headway. My wheel was a solid tyre, generally known as a
“bone-shaker”; it would _not_ stick on the down hills, and insisted on
skidding along the narrow, slanting paths cut round them. Once I did a
most uncomfortable somersault, and having for a second time got thrown
into thick mud, relinquished the bicycle for the remainder of that day’s
journey. When we reached camp, we were in a condition better imagined
than described. Evidently the rain had rather damped the energies of our
porters, for we found the tent only just commencing to be tackled, and
mud, mud, mud, everywhere. It was certainly rather confusing; 5 p.m., and
in a tiny space surrounded by banana trees were the jabbering porters;
boxes were lying about in the mud, and a small crowd of inquisitive
natives stood round gaping with astonishment. One of them kindly offered
to turn out of his tiny hut to allow us to change our soaking clothes,
and our stay there turned out to be somewhat longer than we bargained
for, for one of our porters came to us with a cheerful grin saying that
he had left the ground sheet of the tent behind. Stacks of soaking
grass had been laid down over the wet mud inside the tent, and our low
camp beds were almost sitting in it. So we had them removed into the
hut, and there we passed the night. Oh, these native huts! There are no
apertures for light excepting the low entrance; this one was partially
divided into two apartments by means of a reed screen, and in one of
these we slept; in the other, our girls cooked and knocked about. There
was just squeezing space for our two beds. Above mine was a ledge, where
some fowls were roosting and strutting about, shaking down the soot
and cobwebs that hung round the inside of the hut. We scarcely dared
attempt to close our eyes, as rats were scampering about very excitedly
all night. We cleared off as soon as we could in the morning, hoping
to settle on a more congenial spot next time. The road left much to be
desired: it was a constant succession of hills and deep ridges, with a
few swamps to add variety to one’s mode of travelling. Feeling scarcely
like wading through these, I mounted the shoulder of a stolid porter,
who stumbled through the mud and water above his knees. It is a tragic
experience to balance yourself up so high, and only a woolly pate to
tenaciously hold on to, especially when your carrier gets stuck in the
mud, and extricating it, with an unexpected jerk, nearly sends his burden
and himself head-first.
[Illustration: THE ALBERT EDWARD LAKE.]
At every halting-place food was brought to us by the natives for
our porters; they generally offer it as a gift, but would be very
disappointed if they did not get something of greater value in exchange.
One has to be provided with a purse of curious dimensions, for at
some villages reading sheets, hymn books, or gospels are the payments
most valued; in others, calico, cowrie-shells, pice, or even beads
of the particular design which happens to be the latest fashion in
clothing there at the time. The scenery on our second day’s travel was
exhilarating; the road lay near the base of Ruwenzori’s mountains. We
steamed along on our machines with sun-hats and big sun-shades over
ridges and through mud at which even a horse would stop and consider.
Our noble Apolo insisted on keeping pace with our bicycles, and as small
batches of natives passed on the road, gazing with blank astonishment
at these “running snakes,” he called out with pride and elation “Look
at the wisdom of the white man.” Just as this remark was shot out for
the third time the front bicycle tumbled clean into an ant-pit, and
was irremediably smashed up. The people did not evince any concern or
surprise: they evidently considered it a part of the show. One of the
onlookers was chartered to shoulder the fragments back to Kabarole. I am
not quite sure if he did not wonder where the “wisdom” came in.
When we were within one and a-half hours of our next camp, streams
of natives came running out to meet and welcome us. They continued
increasing in number till we reached the village, Butanuka, which seemed
well awake, what with the shrieking excitement of the people and the
howlings of the children, who yelled with fear and alarm. Really our
welcome resembled our first appearance in Toro, for here as everywhere in
these parts the people had never seen white women. The drum was beaten,
and although we were tired out and longed for a quiet rest and a cup of
tea, we were borne along with the crowd there and then into the little
grass church, where the native teacher thanked God for sending us, and
we expressed our joy at coming out to them. The chief had erected a large
grass shed where we could sit during the time of day when the sun makes
a tent absolutely unbearable. His wife brought us in her offering in the
shape of a sheep, six chickens, eggs, twenty bundles of bananas, native
spinach, and two large gourds of “mubisi”—banana juice. Butanuka is a
charming spot, surrounded on three sides by mountains. Toward the south
these suddenly terminate and expose an arm of Lake Dweru. In nearly all
the valleys are stretches of cultivated land and banana groves, while the
little brown grass huts peep out like so many eyes from among their green
surroundings.
There is a peculiar fascination in journeying through these unknown
districts of Africa. When one can talk with the people in their own
language they become an intensely interesting study. Cunning plus lying
plus theft plus indolence—these qualities seem to sum up the very
generally accepted idea of a black man. Thus the European approaches
him with a distinctly biassed opinion, and instinctively realising that
the white man distrusts him; the real self of the negro shrinks back
into itself, the fidelity, dog-like affection, generosity, and keen
penetration of his nature remain unrecognised because untouched. Dispel
all preconceived ideas, study the people’s environment, the external and
internal influences that sway them, approach them not as “niggers” but
fellow creatures, and the European will never need to complain of the
black man’s presumption, but will find it even possible to accept the
inspired statement “God ... hath made of one blood all nations of men.”
During our three days’ stay at Butanuka we were besieged with callers.
The sick came in for medicine, readers to be questioned for baptism, and
others desirous of being written down for instruction. A teacher from a
neighbouring village was sent to us with an eager request that we should
visit them. We agreed to squeeze it into one afternoon. Although the
teacher had only been there at work one month we found quite a lively
interest had been awakened among the people. The chief of the village,
who was captain of the King’s soldiers, came out in big style to welcome
us. After a little service and a great deal of medicining, we were
taken to the chief’s hut, where a meal had been prepared for us. After
seating ourselves on the soft, fresh grass that had been laid down on
the floor we started operations. First of all water was brought in for
hand ablutions, then the unsweetened cooked bananas were brought in,
and a boiled chicken, all wrapped up in the banana leaves in which they
had been boiled. The chicken was broken up into tempting morsels by the
host and an immoderate helping of the bananas was plumped down in front
of each. Then commenced the process of rolling the bananas into small
balls in our hands, and punching a depression in the middle by which the
gravy could be scooped up. A sheep and three chickens were brought to us
as presents, and as we started off nearly the whole village followed on
behind. In spite of hurrying we did not reach home before the darkness
fell, and a thunderstorm broke over us, extinguishing the long, flaming
torches which the natives carried; so we had to push along as best we
could, and arrived in a wearied and very bedraggled condition.
Leaving Butanuka and keeping a southerly course we found ourselves
shut in by the big mountains that rise up so erratically from their
gently undulating surroundings. For the first time I indulged in the
questionable luxury of being hammocked. We had been experiencing some
days of heavy rains which had made the paths very muddy, and the long
grasses through which we had to push our way was very wet, so that I
determined to take advantage of the voluntary offers from some of
the young Christian men, headed by the teacher, to act as carriers.
The men gaily hoisted the hammock pole on their heads, and trying to
appear unconscious of their 10½ stone burden, rushed off at a motor-like
speed. They evidently felt a little uneasy of the possible consequences,
for the front man kept calling out to me “Do not fear, my child,” but
suddenly I was precipitated backward, the heavy pole on the top of me,
and my black “father” was sprawling unceremoniously in the mud. After
that they were convinced of the necessity of going slowly, especially as
our imperceptible path lay somewhere between tall thistles that gave us
uncomfortable pricks and scratches as we pushed our way through. When
we reached our destination for that day the hammock bearers yelled and
literally jumped with joy, regardless of my feelings, calling out “Juli
Abakuru ba Buingereza,” “We are great people of England,” as they put me
to the ground with “Well done, very well done, mistress”; but I felt in
an advanced stage of mal de mer.
That day we had a typical African travelling experience. After descending
a long, almost perpendicular hill we landed where our path lay through a
broad, rushing river, the force of which was so great that the men could
scarcely stand. The recent rains had swelled the river, which, coming
from the lofty snow peaks, formed into a perfect cataract. The first man
who very gingerly went to test the strength of the water was carried off
his feet and just saved himself by clinging on to the bank at a bend.
After long deliberation Apolo, our leader, got together six or eight
very powerful men, who volunteered to post themselves where the current
was strongest and help the others along. The first load that was taken
across was our sack of kitchen utensils, which floated cheerfully down
stream for some distance. Then the men suggested taking me across in the
hammock. I generously hinted to my companion that she should go over
first, but she would not see it. So, summing together all my courage,
I got into the hammock and they plunged along, dragging their burden
through the madly rushing waters. After about three hours had elapsed
everything was safely landed on the other shore, baggage and all. The
only tragedy we had to relate was the sad fate of a chicken that, at
sight of the tempestuous waters, broke from its captivity and was carried
away by the relentless river to supply food to the hungry little fishes.
Things were not much better on the following day. We had almost walked on
to the Equator and the sun did its best to make us know it, so that at
the end of four solid hours’ marching we literally collapsed under the
shade of a big tree and sent scouts on ahead to ascertain the condition
of the River Mubuku, through which our path lay. They returned with the
news that the waters were so high that it was impossible to attempt
crossing that day. We determined not to be done if possible, however, and
pushed on to see for ourselves. The mountains seemed to close in upon us
on all sides, and from their precipitous heights rushed down numerous
rivulets, which united and formed the mighty Mubuku River. We halted on
the stony bank and viewed the situation. On the opposite side could be
seen groups of natives crouching down among the long grasses and peering
with frightened glances in our direction. It was evident that we must
wait till the waters had abated somewhat, so pitched camp close by and
made the best use of our time by rallying the villagers round us, who
gathered together in swarms. There, as everywhere, the cry was, “Give us
a teacher.” The desire on the part of these people for instruction is
quite remarkable, but to speak intelligently to them is very far from
easy. They have never thought in the abstract, so it is essential to
clothe every spiritual truth in parables or concrete qualities. One must
get back further than the A.B.C. and adopt the kindergarten method. If
one does not reach them it is because the teacher has forgotten how to be
a child, or has failed to make the invisible visible. God in revelation
and God in manifestation employed parabolical means for presenting to the
natural man in his infancy truth which is infinite and incomprehensible.
When once the desire for reading has been actually awakened in these
people, nothing will deter them from mastering the letters. If they
possess nothing with which to purchase the five cowrie shell reading
sheet, they will be quite willing to bring in firewood or do any work
in order that they may obtain it. One old woman at this particular camp
brought her spade and cleared a small space round our tent, and when we
gave her the longed-for wages she started right away to struggle with the
Alphabet, although her eyes were dim and her bristly hair was tinged with
white.
Thus, when no teacher can be sent to the people, they are not left in
total darkness, as the Bible is slowly penetrating the entire land and
being read eagerly by its people.
The next morning we found the waters had gone down sufficiently to
enable us to venture cautiously. It was not, however, a very desirable
experience; about twenty men supported the hammock while the waters
were foaming and roaring beneath and coming right over the sides of
the canvas; two men who were attempting to lift it out of the water by
holding on to the sides were carried away by the strength of the current,
then all the remaining availables made a hasty grab at the other side,
with the result that I was on the point of being overturned and pitched
out. I just managed to save myself by hanging on to the pole, but got
drenched through.
The following morning we started off at 7 a.m. The scenery was enchanting
and the air very invigorating. We continued steadily marching until
11.30, passing through hamlets absolutely deserted on account of the
destructive visits of the elephants, which had torn up the banana trees
from the roots, trampled down the Indian corn, and razed to the ground
the little grass houses of the people. They themselves had fled in
terror, leaving the wild pigs to feast on their potato patches.
The four and a half hours’ walk gave us a decided hankering after an
A.B.C. or Gatti, also a change of clothing, as our boots felt like water
cisterns and our skirts were weighted with mud and water that literally
trickled off the edges. The porters put our boxes down under a tree and
went off in search of what they could pick up in the way of food, while
we fished out some dry things and indulged in a meal of goat soup and
cold chicken. Our guide told us another hour and a half would find us in
camp, but at the end of two hours hard walking and no signs of our tent
being visible we inquired how much further had we to go. “Oh,” said one
of the porters, “it is impossible to halt here, three hours more will
bring us to water and food.” This fairly did for us; we had somehow doled
out our walking powers without reckoning for this extra distance, and we
felt decidedly despondent. The natives always underestimate distance in
order that the very prospect should not have a discouraging effect on a
pedestrian’s spirits.
The scorching sun had made us very thirsty, and we worked our teapot very
hard that day; the mosquitoes gave us a lively time of it, but faint,
yet pursuing, we dragged on, reaching our welcome little tent at 6 p.m.
But oh, what a resting place. A strong smell of stale fish pervaded the
air, mingled with all the odours peculiar to African huts, where cattle,
sheep, chickens and people all huddled together. We found our tent
pitched in the middle of a court completely surrounded and suffocated
by fishermen’s huts, for we were close to the lake shore. The only
compensation for this and the mosquito discomforts was the enjoyment
of tasting fresh fish once more. The lake fish somewhat resemble fresh
haddocks and are of delicious flavour. On our arrival men were sent to
catch them, and in half an hour they were served up steaming hot from the
stewpan! Their method of fishing is primitive in the extreme. They have
wicker baskets open top and bottom, which are shot down in the water;
when they have enclosed a fish its kicking about is heard on the sides of
the basket; then they thrust in their arms and draw out the captive.
Nyagwaki, the mission station for which we were making, is situated
on one of the southern points of Ruwenzori. A short, steep climb next
morning brought us face to face with streams of people, who came hurrying
down the mountain side to greet us and to help push us up the rougher
places. When we reached the summit of the hill on which stands the
village, a truly marvellous view stretched beneath.
Evidently the Albert Edward Lake once extended over the miles of plain
which lie to the north of it, for bare, flat islands appear here and
there in the large arm of the lake that lies almost surrounded by plain.
It is just as one might imagine the world looked when Noah came out of
the ark with his family. At sunset the view was most impressive, the lake
lay shimmering like a sea of gold, while the evening mist that gently
touched the land made it appear as though it were blushing as the sun
kissed good-night and disappeared behind the distant hills.
A very vigorous work we found was going on here; the little mission
church, with its capacity for about 200 people, was well filled, and
several came to be written down for baptism. An occasional visit to these
isolated stations from a European missionary does much toward encouraging
the young teachers and Christians who often are subject to severe and
subtle temptations to fall back into the old heathen practices by which
they are surrounded. The Chief of the village, Kasami, had been brought
into touch with Christianity when visiting Kabarole during a visit
from Dr. Cook. There he had undergone an operation for opthalmia, and,
having received “new windows,” he returned to his country to use them in
learning to read.
Our experiences on the homeward journey were much the same, although we
took a less circuitous route. Almost without exception, we got soaked
through and through twice daily: first with the heavy dews, which
necessitated a mid-day halt and change if malaria was to be avoided, then
again, in the afternoon came the rains, which fell regularly from 1.0
p.m. and onwards. Our first thing on reaching camp was to have a large
fire kindled and all our wardrobe hung round to dry, singe, or stiffen.
Our boots suffered terribly—and so did we when we struggled into them
each morning.
One day, after five hours’ marching, the thunderclouds came tumbling
together and sent down torrents of rain. We tried to squeeze up under a
tree, but this soon offered no shelter, and even our mackintoshes could
resist the water no longer. It was impossible to cook any food as the
fire would not light; meanwhile our thirst became tragic, until the idea
occurred to us of standing under each other’s umbrella and quaffing the
streams that ran from the spokes! Hunger at last drove us on toward camp,
despite the rain, but the roads required one to be rough shod. Faithful
Apolo insisted on grabbing my arm with such a grip that when it finally
lost all power of feeling, a row of bruises presented themselves to prove
the conflict passed through.
For a whole week we had been passing elephant tracks, which the porters
declared were quite freshly made, but once only were we fortunate enough
to see these magnificent monsters. At mid-day the porters had spied
three some distance off, slowly tramping along in the tall grass, but we
only saw their heads and tops of their backs. At 5.30 p.m., however, that
same day, a herd of fifteen passed comparatively close to us. In single
file they solemnly marched over the brow of a hill, silhouetted against
a gorgeous sky. A yell from one of the porters brought their heads round
in our direction, when we saw that five had immense tusks. It was an
imposing sight, the whole was so perfectly harmonious; there is something
vast, untrammelled—a strange abandonment and magnanimity of nature in
scenes like this, that even an Englishman must feel small!
Antelopes, birds, and butterflies of the most brilliant colouring
abounded in these parts, and these make up for the less attractive shades
of an African tramp.
We arrived home very much braced up (the malarial germs had not a chance
of settling down), and feeling that we had perhaps been enabled to
accomplish something toward the carrying out of the marching order, “Go
ye into all the world.”
CHAPTER XIV
Tramp II. Holidays
August, I believe, is generally admitted to be the month of domestic
monsoons. Bradshaw, Baedeker, and time tables are the hardest-worked
books in the house at that time; trunks and boxes are all upset; and
every conceivable seaside town and village is considered and rejected
in turn as a possible antidote to the general disgust with which we
regard home at that time of the year. Even in the remote corner of the
world known as Toro, my companion and I managed to create something of
the old disturbance by announcing that we wanted a holiday. Perhaps the
conventionalism of our up-bringing was to blame for the suggestion,
but I believe we were honestly a wee bit tired after eighteen months
of wrestling with the language and becoming acquainted with such new
conditions of life and work. But the fuss that Uncle Podger created
whenever he undertook to do a little job was nothing compared to the
business our little holiday involved. First of all we had to get the
permission of the Missionary in local charge, and he had to write in to
headquarters at Mengo to find out if the Committee were agreed on the
point. Then the whole district had to be carefully considered as to the
spot most likely to offer real rest and enjoyment without encountering
any perils of microbes, perils of hunger, perils by animals, perils by
heathen, and perils by cannibals! That seemed a difficult matter, but
when it was at last all fixed up the drum was beaten to rally together
porters; food boxes, tent and furniture were packed up into parcels, and
two cows were ordered to the front to complete our daily rations. Swarms
of people came down to wish us good-bye; one dear old lady declared she
was consumed with grief, and another that she was on the point of death
because of our leaving, but we told them all to cheer up and hurried away
to assure ourselves that we were really off. We found ourselves with
two military attachés, who had been told off by the King with strict
injunctions to guard his European friends on their travels. But rarely
have I set eyes on more spindle-like specimens of humanity; if it had not
been for the thick puttees, heavy jerseys, and cartridge belts with which
they were laden, one would scarcely have noticed their presence.
It had been decided to make for the southern shore of Lake Albert, which
as the crow flies appears to lie about forty miles north of Kabarole. The
first day we struck camp at the crater Lake only a few miles away. This
spot has a peculiar charm; a turn in the road brings one suddenly in view
of this still sheet of water, and there is something rather uncanny about
the dead waters lying in sepulchres of the past. I am not surprised that
the natives associate them with stories of devils and hobgoblins. One
side of the crater has been worn away, leaving an outlet for the water
that has accumulated in its mouth, and this flowed out a few hundred
yards before it found its level. Numbers of duck play about the waters of
the lake, and beautiful purple and pink water-lilies grow close to the
banks. We found a regular orchestra of frogs croaking _forte fortissimo_
as an all-night serenade. It was just one of those days when the world
feels flooded with self-satisfaction and peace and God seems “to rest
in His love” as we started off early the next morning. Having the loan
of a Muscat donkey given me, I hurried off to get ahead of the caravan
and reach of listeners, and then gave full vent to my feelings in that
glorious hymn, “Praise my soul, the King of Heaven.” An old woman, who
had been fearfully startled at the unusual sight and sound, peered
suddenly through the long grasses on the roadside, and so stopped my
noble steed in his lively gallop. Exercising the usual native politeness,
I greeted her with “How are you, my mother?” She replied in the most
complimentary terms “How’s yourself, mother of my grandmother?” I then
asked her why she wore the shell and bit of wood threaded on string round
her neck, and she told me it was to cure a pain on the chest. The words
felt like a harsh discord. When “Heaven lies about us” and every common
bush is aflame with God, it is inconceivable how any man can remain
cognisant only of the Spirit of Evil.
Our path led us right close up to the north end of the Ruwenzori range,
where it gets broken up into a succession of pyramid peaks, ridge
intersecting ridge. Bamboo forests crowned the crests, as few points
reached a higher altitude than eight thousand or nine thousand feet. The
dry season had just about exhausted itself at that time, in consequence
of which the grass on the mountains was dried up or had been burnt away
in huge patches, exposing the bare soil and jagged rocks that frowned
down upon us with uncompromising severity. As the second day closed in
upon us, we stole out of our little tent to watch the storm freaks on the
mountain sides. An old dame, with a basket of sweet potatoes balanced on
her shaven pate, passed us, and stared hard from our headgear down to
our boot leather, with grave disapproval. She insisted most vehemently
that we must live without eating, for where could the food go when we
were tied up in the middle like that! Which reminded me of a chief who
visiting us one day just as we were going in to lunch, asked if we became
like the Batoro when they had finished eating, who resemble inflated
balloons.
Instead of being able to take a direct route to the Lake over the hills
we were obliged to get down into the Semliki plain, a long, unwholesome
tract reeking with malaria that lies between and unites with a broad
navigable river, the Albert Edward and Albert Lakes. Although actually
in sight of the broad sheet of water, to our dismay we found the only
path zig-zagged continually across the plain, so that we were actually
let in for five days floundering up and down it—pushing our way through
grass five to ten feet high always laden with moisture as we started out
each day on our tramp. The river Semliki winds along the plain like a
glittering snake: it is about thirty yards wide, and has a very rapid
flow which prevents swamps from collecting along its course. A few
straggling huts sprawled about on the banks go by the name of fishing
villages. With small harpoons the fisherfolk spear the fish, which are
chiefly of the carnivorous species. Great care has to be exercised by the
people as the river abounds in crocodiles. The inhabitants of the plain
are a timid, dull folk—they did not even venture to look up at us as we
passed them, although they had never seen a white woman. Arriving at
one village we found it absolutely deserted; the people had all fled on
hearing of our approach, leaving their homes with their few possessions
scattered about. A search party was organised from among our porters, and
after a long hunt one poor, unhappy creature was brought in. He looked
as if his last moment had come when he was brought to us, but when he
heard his own language spoken and learned our peaceful intentions he went
off and hauled in the others who were soon on the most friendly terms
with us. Towards evening they all came round us as we had prayers with
our boys and porters. They were delighted with the singing, and without
waiting to be correctly taught the tune of “Jesus loves me” they rushed
into it, all together, and soon fell into unison. The original air was
quite unrecognisable, but one must forget to be orthodox sometimes out
here. Singing never fails to arrest the minds of the people, and offers
an opportunity of telling them something of the Great and Loving Creator
whom we laud and worship. Christ alone who is Wisdom can give one the
confidence to attempt, in one short time, to draw aside the veil from the
eyes and reveal the Father to those who have never heard His Name. Yet
once having seen Him, one dares not allow that opportunity to pass by.
Within the last few years this plain has been placed among the game
preserves of the Protectorate; it will consequently be a tantalizing
route to the sportsmen, as it abounds in antelopes of several
kinds—harte-beestes, wilde-beestes, water-buck, wild boars, and birds of
exquisite colouring. We could get practically no food for our porters,
and on the second day’s fast, regardless of laws and regulations, we
ventured out with a gun to try and bring down something. But it was
impossible to get anywhere near the animals, as our scouts got so excited
that they frightened them away before we could get within shooting
distance. Then we tried the plan of despatching one of our noble soldiers
with a number of men from one of the villages to the nearest market in
order to buy food. The men procured some potatoes, and started back with
them, but, as the military went on slightly in advance, they all decamped
one by one, carrying off the food with them. They had evidently taken in
the measure of their leader!
The following day, Sunday, we could not do otherwise but press on, while
our men were without food. At mid-day we reached a most indescribably
desolate stretch of country; for many miles there extended scrub,
interspersed only by thorn bushes and tall cactus trees. Being thoroughly
exhausted with fatigue, we struck camp by three lonely huts that
unexpectedly were dumped down in this wilderness, without any sign of
cultivation around. The people were wretchedly emaciated and seemed to
have no spirit or strength to provide themselves with nourishment. They
declared nothing would grow, and they were obliged to live on what they
hunted or the food which occasionally they could get in exchange for
animal flesh or hides.
The only prolific life was mosquitoes. We got out our prayer books
towards evening to sing one of the well-known hymns, but our spirits
were at low ebb and would not rise. Two hungry-looking vultures sat on a
naked cactus tree opposite our tent, watching our effort; they did not
encourage song! I do dislike those birds so!
The fact was we were all feeling the dreariness of our surroundings, and
needed a good, sound chop!
During a holiday, perhaps more than at other times, one just longs for
a Sunday back in the dear country. The exposure and frugality of camp
life makes one appreciate the shelter and calm of the home life. That
all seemed so far off, and yet the setting sun said it is but two hours
away. It is always thus when we look up. Here below it is distance, time,
and change; up there it is infinity, Eternity, God; and our citizenship,
after all, is in heaven. Our earthly life, home, and loved ones are
gradually passing beyond the arc of time, and hereafter we shall find all
again, perfected and completed, like the rainbow, round the Throne.
We were really getting very alarmed on our porters’ account, but they
were very plucky about it, and, seeing our concern, assured us they could
go without food nine days! Nevertheless, they all sent up a shout of joy
on the third day when a fairly flourishing little fishing village was
spied close by, on the south end of the lakes. It consisted merely of a
few scattered huts, but food was plentiful. As we arrived, the fishing
smacks (dug-out canoes) had just come, bringing in a two days’ haul.
The fish, which resembled large cod and dabs, looked delicious, and was
a rare treat after the everlasting goat and chicken. In the evening the
proprietor of the boats came, asking if we would like to be paddled out
on the lake. It was a case of paddling, for the canoe let in the water as
quickly as two men could bale it out. Stacks of grass were laid at the
bottom of the canoe for us to sit on, but we got horribly wet. The beauty
of the scenery made us forget this, however. From the eastern shores
rose, sheer out of the lake, cliffs rising to 800 or 900 feet, with thick
vegetation growing down to the water’s edge; and round the wooded banks
on the west the most gorgeously-coloured birds and herons sported about.
The wide, tranquil waters, like a great sleeping ocean, rested in a dead
calm. Suddenly, without the least warning, five huge hippopotami raised
their ugly heads out of the water and snorted at us furiously, which made
us beat a hasty retreat. But they were evidently keen on catching another
glance at the Europeans, for in the middle of the night, when the whole
camp was peacefully sleeping, we were awakened by feeling the ground
literally shaking under us. A premonition of impending destruction seized
us; then the ropes of our tent cracked, and we made for the poles, which
were tottering. But the tent withstood the attack, and with loud, hungry
snorts our clumsy mammoth intruders trundled off, under cover of night,
to seek their prey.
The people round the southern end of Lake Albert are extremely primitive.
In their homes is no indication of the least exercise of intelligence to
furnish themselves with any tool, utensil, or garment. Only a very few of
the men and women adopt clothing; their food consists almost entirely of
fish, which they hang out in the sun to dry. Those who possess a boat,
a cooking pot, or a food basket have obtained them from other folk in
exchange for fish, or inherited them from their ancestors. There are
times when one asks if the soul of these people has ceased to pulsate,
all human instincts are so crushed in them. But even here were the
temples of a deity—in the centre of each courtyard stood a rickety wee
grass hutch, in which offerings of food had been placed. Carlyle has
rightly said that man was made a worshipping creature.
At evening prayers we called the people round us, and tried to talk
with them. One typical grey-haired old heathen appeared interested, but
hurried the audience back to their homes as soon as possible. When we
proposed moving off to a village higher up on the lake, he generously
offered himself as escort, and, on our reaching the spot, went from hut
to hut, as we thought, asking the people to bring us in food for barter.
He then wished us farewell and returned to his home. We afterwards
learned that he was circuit priest and had been to every home forbidding
the people to visit or listen to the words of the white ladies for fear
of offending their god, the fish of the lake, who might withhold their
only means of sustenance. Demetrius has many descendants!
Judging from the few days we spent roaming along the shores of the lake,
I should say that it would be difficult to find a more fascinating spot
for a holiday when once you get there. The botanist finds rare treasures
hidden away in the creeks and crevices of the cliffs; the sportsman has
a free hand to carry home as many hippo teeth or crocodile hides as he
may desire, and the modern historian would find on its shores not a few
materials for writing up the story of present day Africa.
Quite close to where we were camped, took place some years ago the
meeting between Emin Pasha and his rescuer, the late Sir Henry Stanley,
who had, in his search for the lost general and his column, penetrated
right through Africa from the West coast, overcoming almost insuperable
difficulties. In spite of the attractiveness of the Albert Lake it is
scarcely a cheerful place to be isolated at, and standing so near to
the same spot one felt a strong pity for that Egyptian leader as he
gave orders for his boat to be sunk to prevent the enemy seizing it, so
cutting off all chance of his own escape.
Time has wrought a phenomenal change; the country from being threatened
by strong foes on the north, and harassed by rebellious tribes within
itself, has now settled down into a quiet peace, and two English girls
were able to stroll over the same soil in perfect safety, with nothing
to fear, save perhaps that they themselves should fail to rise to the
privileges given them of living and working in such a land where lie
footprints in the sands of time.
CHAPTER XV
Tramp III. Through the Four Kingdoms of the Protectorate
The Uganda Protectorate is built up of four independent self-governing
kingdoms, besides some outlying districts to the South East, which are
under the control of Chiefs. The kingdoms are—Uganda, Toro, Bunyoro, and
Ankole. Toro is ruled over by a once rebellious branch of the Bunyoro
tribe, that many years ago drove out the original inhabitants and
established an independent kingdom. With this exception each state is
absolutely distinct from the other in the general physique and customs
of the people. All of the four reigning sovereigns have been baptised
into the Protestant Faith, and excepting in the case of Daudi Chwa, King
of Uganda, who is at present but a small lad, they are leading exemplary
Christian lives and helping forward Missionary work in every way.
A circular tour of 600 or 700 miles through these districts could
be accomplished just within one month, but this would involve heavy
travelling and give but a feeble chance of appreciating the rapid
transitions that are met with in country, animal life, and people.
It took us nearly nine weeks to go the round, as our object was to visit
all the mission stations along the route. In Toro we deviated slightly
from the direct path in order that church sites might be measured and
pegged out. The English Government some months before had granted to
the native church a certain amount of land which could be divided up and
marked out wherever required. In the kingdom of Toro about 130 plots were
chosen where, in the near future it is to be hoped, mission centres will
be planted, manned by trained native teachers. Already between 90 and 100
have been taken up and occupied, which means that the country is slowly
being net-worked with Christian testimony. Measuring and marking out land
in these parts is a rather complicated business. Once only did I attempt
to offer the help of my services, and never again. It means geometrically
describing circles and right angles through the rankest weeds and tiger
grass, stepping it out through swamp and marsh; planting young saplings
at every point as boundary marks only to find all these carefully
calculated demarcations removed after perhaps a few days, to suit the
convenience of one of the land holders who was in need of firewood, or
wished to extend his boundaries. _Quod non erat faciendum._
Starting from Kabarole, we took a south-easterly direction toward
Ankole, making the first halt at Isumba, a charming spot on the banks
of a crater lake. There are seven more of these large volcano puddles
in the immediate vicinity, lying in the heart of mountains of various
altitudes. The waters are extremely picturesque with the rich tropical
vegetation extending from the lip of the crater down to the water’s edge.
Hippopotami plunge about in the day time, while at night they lug their
heavy bodies up the steep banks and snort about from one lake to another
in search of food. The country round is very beautiful and reminds one
faintly of Cumberland—hills, mountains, forests, and lakes—the monkeys
and ourang-outangs, however, would not allow that idea to take root; they
made a fearful noise as we passed near their quarters. They were too
much for our little fox terrier, who worked himself into a great rage
at being unable to get at these intruders of the peace; he simply made
for the next native on the road (evidently thinking him one of the same
tribe), but was driven off at the point of the spear that his antagonist
was carrying.
The forest close to our camp was swarming with monkeys, which made
wide turning movements from branch to branch when disturbed. I kept on
wondering if one was not going to land on my head. The two days old baby
monkeys led their big sedate mammas exhausting scampers from tree to
tree. What a good thing it is that they improve in behaviour during the
process of evolution!
At 9.0 p.m. a message came asking me to give medicine to a sick person
close to camp. Taking our lantern we went out and administered physic,
then hastened home as lions could be heard roaring some distance away.
The oil unfortunately gave out before we reached our tent, and I must
admit to a horrid sensation of fear lest one of them should spring out
upon us from the pitchy darkness, as the roaring seemed to get nearer and
nearer.
In the morning our cowman came in with the tidings that one of these
creatures had broken through the zariba built round the cowshed and run
off with one of the calves.
While encamped there a terrible storm visited us in the afternoon. We
had watched the clouds rapidly gathering from all directions, increasing
in density and rapidity until they collided together and crashed with
terrific force on a near hill, blotting out all objects from view. Then,
with united energy, these heavily charged thunder clouds bore down upon
us with such anger that it seemed our little tents must be torn up and
twisted into shreds. All the porters had been called out to stand each
at his post to meet the enemy; and right well they did it, too, for as
the tent cords snapped we must have soon been houseless if the men had
not held on to poles and canvas. In less than half an hour the storm had
passed, and then the porters set to work, repairing ropes, hammering in
pegs, and redigging the trench round the tent.
The following day, after a hot, dusty march, we reached one of the
mission stations, and before we had the chance of a wash-up and rest, the
teacher came begging us to go to the church, where the people were all
waiting. So in we went and found nearly two hundred squeezed into the
tiny reed building (intended to hold one hundred), all roaring from the
various grades of the reading sheet. Instead of stopping the clatter when
we entered, a sign from the teacher made each one put greater exertion
into his reading and they simply yelled out their lesson to impress us
with the progress they were making.
After a short service with them, we were escorted to our tent by a
considerable following. When my medicine chest appeared the scene was
like the “Zoo” let loose. A guard had to stand round to prevent me from
being suffocated; of course the majority of the applicants were shams.
They watched to see which patient received the largest dose, then asked
him what his complaint was, and by the time they had pushed their way to
the dispenser were suffering from the same trouble, but in an acute form.
On the fourth day we reached the capital of a Saza or country Kitagwenda.
Toro is divided up into five large chieftainships or sazas, each of which
is governed by a man who has tributary chiefs. The “lord” of Kitagwenda
was ready in state to receive us as we arrived. His round reed house
is built on the brow of a hill, and is surrounded by a tall, imposing
plaited reed fence. As we slowly climbed up the broad, well-kept path,
the chief, dressed in white linen, came down to meet us with a large
crowd of followers. He was very keen on impressing us with his greatness,
so ordered a drum to precede him and one piper. The people were all
wildly excited, dancing and shouting themselves husky. While this
pandemonium was at its height, two poor, miserable-looking fat-tailed
sheep were pushed forward for our acceptance. With these Uganda sheep
all the good points were embodied in the tails. These are often as broad
as the back, and hang in festoons almost to the ground. They are poor
creatures, and are not cheap at 2s. 8d., which is their market value.
I doubt whether one animal contains as much nourishment as two pounds
of Welsh mutton. At this place two of our first trained women teachers
had been at work. They had experienced some difficulty in getting the
women interested, for digging, cultivating, and cooking had provided
ample excuse for staying in their homes. On the second day of our visit
we rallied all the women together at the tall mission church and urged
them to stand by their teachers, who had come with a message of love
and peace and would instruct them in wisdom. There and then classes
were formed, and some sixty came forward for daily teaching. At night a
body of soldiers were sent down by the chief to guard our camp against
the lions, which were very numerous in these parts. The head officer,
feeling the importance of his commission, essayed to issue his commands
in true British fashion by using a few words he had picked up from the
English lieutenant in Toro. He drilled his men just outside our tent
door, and it was evident that the language of their general, as he bawled
out incomprehensible English, was quite a conundrum to the men, and in
concealed whispers he was obliged to repeat his orders in the native
tongue.
A remarkably fine view of Ruwenzori snows was obtained at the junction
of Ankole and Toro. With no cloud to intercept, miles of glittering ice
stood out against a sapphire sky, and pushed down a hundred streams that
tumbled in impetuous speed and flowed as swift rivulets through the
forests that crossed our path. Only those who have known the weariness
of continual walking in the tropics can rightly appreciate the joy that
these forest shades and the cool, refreshing rivers bring. At no time of
the year could the country have been seen to better advantage; the grass
fires had carried off all the long withered grass, and the hills were
now carpetted with fresh, green glades. The forests displayed a strange
variety of colouring, for the young buds of spring, the luxuriant verdure
of summer, blended in exquisite contrast and harmony with the gold and
ruddy tints of autumn. Shrubs of wild jessamine and seven-petalled tuber
roses were in rich bloom on the roadside. These latter are called by
the natives “Eky skulema njoju,” “that which gets the better of the
elephants,” for although the bark is comparatively slender, it can
stubbornly resist the force of the powerful elephant trunks that make
matchwood of the larger forest trees.
Two days further marching brought us to the boundary of Ankole, and glad
were we to leave behind the rains of Toro, which had made the paths so
slimy that with difficulty we maintained the perpendicular. Our peaceable
caravan was evidently mistaken for a raiding horde. The villagers were
in a most perturbed state of mind as we pressed on; the men collected
together all their women, children, and goats and packed them off with
all speed to hide in the swamps and hills, while a few of them remained
hidden on the outskirts of the huts to sound an alarm at our approach.
The language at this point deviated from that spoken by the people of
Toro. Besides employing a few entirely different words, the Banyankole
soften down the s, j, and k, and until the ear has become accustomed
to these changes one might imagine it a distinct dialect. A rather
welcome sight was the _men_ working on the roads and digging in the
banana plantations, in place of the peasant _women_ who do all the rough
manual work in Toro. Ankole is a large ranch country. A gentle range of
mountains extending toward the east shores of the Albert Edward is the
only interruption to an extensive area of rolling land of which the whole
kingdom is composed. It is inhabited by two separate races, the Bairu,
who are the original people of the country, and the Bahima, the ruling
race. The latter are an extremely superior order of people; generally
speaking, they are of lighter complexion, and their features, in the
sharply defined nose and chin and the thin lips, are in marked contrast
to the other tribes of inland Africa. Another peculiar characteristic
is that the women live in entire seclusion and keep the face and head
covered, as in Mahommedan lands. It is generally believed that they
migrated from Abyssinia or Arabia; probably disease among their cattle
drove them from their native land, and they travelled south until they
reached the pasture land of Ankole.
At first sight the country looks scarcely inhabited—there are no
fences or patches of cultivation which elsewhere denote villages. The
population, however, is considerable, but the people are a tribe of
herdsmen, who build unpretentious little grass huts among the soft,
waving grass, and live almost exclusively on their cattle, which graze
together in enormous herds. The oxen are splendid creatures, with immense
horns; there is not so much hump with them as with the cattle of Uganda.
The unvaried diet of milk and butter has produced a people of abnormal
dimensions. The King, although only about 19 years of age, weighed 20
stone. He could not walk, but had to be carried about in a gigantic kind
of clothes-basket. One little chief waddled into our tent to salute
us who stood about three feet high and was nearly twice as large in
circumference. The higher a person is in social position the larger is
the amount of milk he must daily get down in order that he may reach a
worthy correspondence in weight. On one occasion, while walking along
the road, we heard screaming and shouting coming from a hut, and, on
going in to find out the cause, saw a young princess with her eyes
bandaged and face dripping with milk; an old hag was standing over her
with a cane, which she brought sharply down across her shoulders when
the unfortunate girl declared she could take in no more milk. Being
remonstrated with, the old woman explained how the young princess was
only going through the customary preparation for her bridal days.
As Uganda gradually opens up, Ankole will probably become the Leadenhall
Market of the Protectorate. Excellent roads have been cut for transport
to Entebbe, on the shores of the Victoria Nyanza, to Albert Edward Nyanza
and Koki, and the Government has built a strong fort at Mbarara, the
capital of Ankole, which is under civil and military control.
After years of bigoted opposition to the missionaries, the country has
now been thrown open to them. A large mud church had just been completed
when we visited there, and a large number of men and women were under
Christian instruction. For generations there had stood in the Royal
courtyard a large drum, which was absolutely believed to bring death to
the King who beat it. Immediately after the baptism of the King, he,
Kahaya, in the sight of a large crowd of his subjects, went deliberately
towards the drum; then, loosening the sticks, he stood for a moment
looking round at his people, who were expecting his instantaneous death.
With one mighty swing he brought the sticks down on the drum, which only
thundered out, as it were, the doom which fell that day on their old
heathen superstitions.
Soon after arriving at the capital we went to pay our respects to the
Royal Household.
Passing out from the new mud “palace” of the King, I went across to the
ladies’ quarters. The seven wives of His Majesty Kahaya, who at that
time was only an inquirer after Christianity, were all sitting silently
in a semi-circle round the inside of their grass hut. The atmosphere was
unbearably stuffy, and reeking with odours of rancid butter, for the
custom is to rub this well into their bodies, and, without washing off
the stale, they rub in a fresh quantity each day. They treat in exactly
the same way the bark cloths in which they entirely envelop themselves.
Not until I had become accustomed to the dim light could I distinguish
the seven shrouded, dusky figures. Then they resembled so many ant
heaps. After the usual voluminous salutations, they begged me to take
off my hat and show my hair. I agreed, if they, on their part, showed me
their faces. Immediately fourteen merry eyes popped out of the oily bark
cloths, and a row of fat, smiling faces appeared. After satisfying their
inquisitive questions about my clothes, my age, my parents, and how long
I had been married, I tried to find out a little about them. From what
I could learn, they seemed to spend all their lives huddled together as
I saw them, with absolutely nothing to do except to feed. They neither
cooked, sewed, plaited grass, cultivated, nor worked at any of the small
industries common among other tribes. The Christian women teachers were
visiting them each day, and a large number of women had shown a real
desire to read. As their minds have been allowed to lie dormant for so
long, it is a wonder that they can learn to do so really quickly.
After a few happy days spent in Ankole, we pushed on in a south-easterly
direction to Koki. Scarcity of water necessitated rather longer marches
than usual, so I indulged in the luxury of a hammock. Six men were
taken on as carriers who did not understand the art in the least. They
literally galloped away with me. The hammock swung to and fro with such
force that the ropes on the pole gradually slackened, and the canvas
hung like a sling with its burden doubled up inside. My gesticulations
and calls were quite unavailing, as the carriers ran on, singing gaily;
then they suddenly hauled the pole over from one shoulder to another,
which was more than it could stand, and, with a squeak of pain, the
ropes burst, and the hammock fell with a big bump to the ground. While
I stood endeavouring to recover from the rather boisterous mode of
travelling, the carriers walked round inspecting the shattered ropes and
congratulated each other on being such men of strength!
We had reached a wide, scorching plain with no trees or shelter save a
few tall thorn bushes, which made the ground all about like a pincushion
with the points standing out. We had come along at such a rate that
the caravan _and_ lunch basket were miles behind. One hundred and five
minutes were spent under that thorn bush waiting for the rear with
nothing to read, nothing to look at, and nothing to eat. I tried to think
a thought that might find a niche in my next journal letter, but the sun
must have nearly melted all the brain cells as it poured down its burning
rays, for nothing took shape. To punish the men for their rash behaviour
I inflicted on my carriers the punishment of searching for firewood, so
that when our detached corps joined us we soon had the kettle singing
and a chicken frizzling to replenish exhausted strength and revive our
fainting spirits. The following morning camp was awake at 4.0 a.m., and
a hurried start was made in the dark so as to get the day’s march over
before the sun had a chance of treating us as it had done previously.
But it was rather an unfortunate day to have tried the experiment, as
our path for the first three or four miles skirted a long swamp, the
haunt of mosquitoes, and these little pests had not been frightened away
by sunrise before we ventured through their domain. They swarmed round
us like locusts, and although we kept furiously beating out at them in
all directions at once, the prodigious application of Homocea afterwards
was, for the first time in my experience, ineffectual in allaying the
inflammation and irritation. We spied a few monkeys in the trees, but
instead of being up to their usual pranks they solemnly sat staring
at each other, looking deplorably sorry for themselves; evidently the
mosquitoes had proved too much even for them. I am sure they would have
been willing to pay a pied piper any fee.
After five days journeying from Ankole we reached Rakai, the capital of
Koki. The C.M.S. had two ladies stationed there and an ordained Muganda.
Koki was in former years an independent kingdom ruled over by Kamswaga,
but in recent years it has been joined to Uganda, on the King agreeing to
become a “Saza” of his stronger neighbours.
Excepting for Lake Kanyeti, which twists about among rich and varied
vegetation, the scenery is unattractive—in the dry season the chalky soil
gives an anæmic appearance to the country, and the rather too plentiful
supply of swamps necessitates a large stock of quinine being always at
hand. Kamswaga himself at that time had gone up to Entebbe on business,
but hearing of our expected arrival had left us a greeting in the shape
of an ox and quantities of food for our caravan. Visitors in these parts
were rather a novelty, and the people came down in large numbers to look
at us. I returned the visit of the wife of Kamswaga before leaving. Her
reception house quickly filled with a number of men and women, each
trying to get a word in edgeways with the “white” visitor. A handful
of boiled coffee beans in the pods was passed to me to dispense to
whomsoever I wished to honour. I was obliged to take a share, but that
was very limited, for they are as hard as nuts to crack and like physic
to swallow. On leaving they pressed round and bedecked my wrists with
all sorts of curious wire and bead bracelets which they had taken off
themselves.
The work being carried on there was, happily, prospering. The school,
daily classes, and the church, holding two hundred people, were well
attended.
A whole day’s excursion in a native skiff on the Lake gave us an
opportunity of seeing something of the village work that has been opened
up by the Mother Church of Rakai. We could not stay longer than three
days, as there was still a long programme before us. Budu was the next
district on the list to be visited.
This is the stronghold of Roman Catholicism. At every side road we found
a tall wooden cross standing and nearly everybody wore a medallion or
scapular.
At Kajuna the people were evidently not accustomed to seeing European
visitors, and they came tearing out of their houses like mad creatures,
dancing round us and clapping their hands. It was a perfect pandemonium,
and we were not sorry to escape from such a rabble.
The two missionaries welcomed us very warmly. They were hard at work
on a much needed house for themselves. The new building was a unique
structure, for it was built only of one brick—that is, the walls were
formed of solid mud beaten down between wooden boards, which were removed
when the mud had dried. The roof was thatched with strips of banana bark
knotted on rows of poles. This is supposed to offer stronger resistance
to lightning than the usual grass. A regular timber yard had been set
up in a strip of Forest close by to supply doors and windows for the
new house, and the natives were receiving from the missionary practical
lessons in carpentering as they felled the trees, adzed them out and then
sawed out planks in pits. The scene suggested pictures of Canadian life
among the Rockies. Truly a missionary in Uganda is a compendium of trades.
One of our hosts was an out-and-out Irishman, and when he was joined by
an enthusiastic compatriot the conversation waxed very warm. I wonder if
everyone belonging to the Emerald Isle regards it as the pole-star of the
Universe—the two Sassenachs did not quite agree to it.
At the time of our visit twenty-one men and women were being finally
questioned with a view to baptism. No chiefs were then under Protestant
instruction, and in consequence there was little inducement for their
dependents to associate themselves with our missionaries. It was
therefore very pleasing to find this number ready to publicly confess
their faith in baptism, for one felt they must have been prompted by an
honest and sincere conviction.
A fifteen miles march from Kajuna brought us to the shores of the
Lake Victoria Nyanza. Nearly six miles of the road was across a sand
plain, and walking it was too much for me, for the boot at each step
sank in four to six inches of burning sand. I was obliged to call the
hammock-bearers to my assistance, who panted along without a murmur; but
when they had safely landed me under the first tree of a lovely wood,
they exclaimed “We are nearly dead.”
The two boats provided for us looked very frail and small to carry two
Europeans, eight “boys,” two steersmen, two balers-out of water, twelve
rowers, and all our loads. The boats on this Lake are constructed of
boards hewn out by native knives, and sewn together with cane. There are
no seats for passengers, but sticks and grass are laid at the bottom.
There was a big gale blowing when we wanted to make a start—foam-crested
waves broke on the shingly shore as if it had been the Atlantic. One is
surprised to miss the brine in the spray, forgetting momentarily that so
immense an expanse of fretful water is other than an ocean. We waited two
hours for the storm to abate, when the boatmen came saying we could put
off. As soon, however, as we had rowed well out, the wind got up again
and blew with terrific force; immediately the lake was lashed into anger,
and had no mercy on our little craft. The oarsmen were quite unable to
keep her from being driven broadside to the storm. Sitting at the bottom
of the boat we watched wave after wave bear down upon us like a wall and
break over our heads. The boatmen assured us that we could not stand
much more, for the cane fibre that kept the boat together was rotten and
giving way under the strength of the breakers. The heavy tossing made
us feel wretchedly sea-sick, but we dared not let our courage flag, as
the men were losing heart. We had drifted completely out of our course,
but fortunately were driven toward one of the Sese Islands, which we
ultimately reached, drenched through and very exhausted. Here we pitched
our tent for the night, and as evening came a dead calm settled down on
the Lake, and insect life awoke, swarming round us in clouds. All night
we kept waking up to assure ourselves that we had not contracted sleeping
sickness, as this was one of the haunts of that disease.
The next morning dawned bright and calm, so we started before sunrise,
startling the many gulls, divers, and herons that were indulging in a
morning bath. The paddlers broke out into weird nautical songs; there is
generally one man in a boat whose special work is to lead the singing
to encourage the oarsmen. He begins with a loud shrill note, sustaining
it with a few minor variations till a short stanza of the song is sung;
then all the others join in with a deep, guttural grunt of assent to the
words; this is repeated over and over and over again until the voice
cracks. Seven hours’ rowing was as much as they would undertake in a
day, so we landed on a beautiful little island which since then has been
entirely depopulated by sleeping sickness. The sun was just about to say
good-night when we put into Entebbe on the following day. The view from
the water was quite enchanting. A bold, rocky promontory reminded one of
a bit of the borderland coast between England and Scotland, otherwise the
shore and islands were covered with the most prodigious forest growth.
As we landed from the boats and looked up at this town we really asked
ourselves if this were Uganda. There are rows of neat villas with the
strips of gardens back and front resembling the bijous of London suburban
life; splendid wide roads with avenues of trees planted; a market with
an English butcher, a dairy, an Indian bakery where delicious little
loaves can be purchased for four annas, and an aggressive Indian firm
that is the William Whiteley of Uganda, and manufactures mineral waters
at two annas per bottle, are some among the many surprises. There is
a very cosmopolitan population, and comparatively few of the real
natives—Baganda—are seen in the town. The fifty or more Europeans made
it feel very homelike after the isolated life in Toro; and yet after the
first surprised impressions had partially worn off, one was conscious
of two distinct elements running side by side—the English and the
African—without actually becoming assimilated the one by the other. The
result was that so many reminders of England brought with them feelings
of home-sickness, but the next moment one was sympathising with the
country yokel in London who pined for the rusticity of village home life.
Our four days there were spent very pleasantly. Colonel Sadler, H.M.
Commissioner, Mrs. Sadler, and several friends were most kind and
hospitable; indeed we were almost strangers to our tents.
A visit to the Botanical Gardens was most interesting. Mr. Mahon, who
was then in charge, took us round and pointed out the tea, coffee, cocoa
and cotton shrubs which gave promise of agreeing very amiably with their
newly-adopted land. Fruit trees, vines and pine apples were also being
experimented on, and the flower beds were aflame with colour. The idea
is, I believe, to test what flourishes successfully in the Uganda soil,
then to send out cuttings and encourage the cultivation of that plant
throughout the Protectorate. Colonel Coles, who is in command of the
troops, is a very keen horticulturalist, and has been most successful in
rose-growing and in bringing to perfection the native crinum lily.
Leaving Entebbe, we made for Port Munyonyo by canoe, which took six hours
in consequence of a wind working against us all the way. Reaching the
Port at 5.0 p.m. we had no time to inspect the vigorous dhow-building
that was in operation. We hurried off on our seven to eight mile walk
into Mengo, which we reached just after seven o’clock. A roast leg of
goat and steaming potatoes were being served up by our kind hostess as we
entered. I think we had rarely enjoyed a dinner more than that one, as
we had eaten nothing since 7.0 a.m. excepting two cold sausages and some
bread and milk, the only things procurable from our food basket in the
canoe.
This was the only time I had visited Mengo since first arriving in
the country, and it was interesting to find out how many of one’s
first impressions remained. Two years ago it had been to me a country
unpenetrated, its people and language unknown, and now in a limited—very
limited—degree the closed door had been pushed open and something
from within had been revealed. In that time Mengo seemed to have made
wonderful progress. A colossal brick cathedral stood on the site of
the previous wicker building; it is a striking witness of what the
Baganda can be taught to accomplish under such persevering and able
instruction and superintendence as they have received. The educational
work had developed considerably. At 8.0 one morning we went across to
Mr. Hattersley’s boys school; he certainly had his work cut out, for I
should not like to guess at the number of men and boys that were packed
into the large class rooms, through which ran rows of desks and forms
made at the Industrial Mission. At each class stood a native teacher
setting sums or copies on the blackboards. His pupils were a strange
collection, for a grey-bearded old chief would be sitting next to a
sharp eyed infant, both eagerly wrestling with pen and ink. Specimens of
writing, which had been acquired in six months, were shown to us, and
they compared very favorably with a fourth or fifth standard in England.
Every afternoon classes were held for the teachers for instruction in
blackboard writing, geography, astronomy, natural history and Scripture,
and these men were being sent out to the villages for educational work,
when their course was completed. Since that time, scholastic work has
received very special attention. A boarding high school for the sons of
chiefs was opened in 1904, and the number of lads that were immediately
sent by their fathers or guardians was a proof of its need. The Baganda
are quite conscious of the fact that the time has come to rouse and equip
themselves in order that they may be able to stand before the civilized
nations with whom they are now brought so closely in touch.
A third school is also in course of erection, which will be an
intermediate step for those desiring to train afterwards for Holy Orders.
The Industrial Department of the Mission is certainly one of the most
necessary and practical methods of helping these people who possess
no trades or crafts of their own. On passing along the road toward
the Industrial quarters, one sees a crowd of men hard at work in the
brick-fields, and others employed at rope-making. Entering the actual
work-shop compound a buzz and whirr of machinery meet the ear. The first
building is the carpenter’s sheds; here were men turning out book-cases,
chairs, tables, and really a first-class sideboard. Across the courtyard
the printers and stitchers were hard at work producing Lunyoro hymn
sheets, Luganda hymns, Luganda commentary on St. Mark, and a book of
Uganda fables by Ham Mukasa. Until within six months of our visit all
this work, including the building of the Cathedral, had been started and
supervised by one man. Uganda owes a great debt to Mr. Borup for the
invaluable help thus rendered to the country.
The hospital, which was nearing its opening day when I had first seen
it, was now in good working order and quite full up with patients; some,
alas, suffering from the dread sleeping sickness.
No one then dreamed that the fine building was on the eve of being
completely destroyed by fire. But such was the case. Within a very few
months the scene of pain, yet of peace and comfort, had given place to
one of noisy activity, for on the old spot there was immediately put in
hand the erection of the present solid brick building with an iron roof
to resist the lightning which destroyed its predecessor, and a concrete
floor that can withstand the constant traffic up and down the wards.
After a few days we again set off on the march, making for Bunyoro, in a
northerly direction. A good road had been cut for a distance of a hundred
miles by order of the Government for transport purposes toward the Nile.
On the second day we overtook an oxen wagon caravan, which was being
conducted by a young Englishman, who we found was down with bad fever and
cough. We sent him milk and meat juice, but could not dissuade him from
pushing on in the evening. The scarcity of food for porters on the road
makes delays very difficult, and in his case, travelling by night was
essential as the oxen cannot bear the heat of the day. But being jostled
along on springless carts in the damp and cold African nights did not
suggest much comfort for a patient suffering from malaria!
Next day on arriving in camp we found no less than three other European
caravans settling in. A military captain and a ship captain were coming
down from Bunyoro, and a trader was making for that direction.
Uganda is getting overrun with civilization! There is generally a
little consternation and hurried confusion when an English woman is
seen in camp. There is at once a shout for the “boy” who had relieved
the pedestrian of his coat on the march, and a long search is made for
the razor that very apparently had been some days in disuse. One of
our fellow travellers who came in at afternoon tea suggested that a
new regulation should be passed by the Government, ordering all ladies
travelling on the road to send a white flag three miles ahead to warn
fellow countrymen!
We did some fairly long marches on this road, as we were anxious to
complete our tour, and although fifteen to eighteen miles do not look
anything to the Londoner who is accustomed to record spins on his
bicycle, yet I think he would find five hours walking day after day a
laborious task, especially when it means rising at 4.0 a.m. We had been a
little unfortunate in our culinary arrangements, for our cook was taken
ill and had been obliged to return to Toro. We took on a substitute from
our porters’ ranks, who knew nothing about cooking. I carefully taught
him how to turn out a decent pancake which he seemed really to master,
but a few days afterwards he served up hard, solid, flour-and-water
dough-balls, saying he feared he had forgotten the recipe, so the process
of teaching had to be gone through over again. He never would believe
that anything could be cooked without water—roast goat he cooked in
quantities of it instead of fat, and buttered eggs were swimming in brown
swamp water! Then all our other boys got down with fever, and one day we
were without a single attendant.
When we were half-way to Bunyoro, a Nubian caravan encamped close to
us. We instantly ordered a close watch to be kept on our goods, as these
folk have the reputation of being not too strictly honest. In spite,
however, of vigilant guard, very soon things were missing. We succeeded
in rescuing some articles from one of their temporary huts, but a large
plate, which converted an open cooking pot into an African oven, was
never found, and so we were deprived of bread and all baked food for the
remainder of our journey.
The country was a monotony of undulating land, with no hills, forests, or
rivers to interrupt the continuity of sameness. For three days we were
travelling through a district of Uganda called Singo, where eight years
ago Mr. Fisher was stationed. A particularly dreary spot was pointed out
to me as the place where he lived for months quite alone, and had one
attack after another of fever. During one of those occasions, a woman,
the wife of the district chief, came a long distance twice a day to nurse
him, and, when he lapsed into unconsciousness, she took a razor and
shaved his head to ease him. He was rather a shock to himself when he was
well enough to see his own reflection in the lid of a Huntley & Palmer’s
biscuit tin—the only looking-glass then in his possession, as he had lost
most of his things through a recent act of incendiarism.
We were delighted to catch sight of the hills that lie round Hoima, the
capital of Bunyoro, on the seventh day. Mr. Lloyd, who had been Mr.
Fisher’s fellow-worker in Toro, and chaperon to the party from England of
which I had formed part, came scorching down on his bicycle to meet us,
with a large following of natives who had come to greet “their father.”
In the year 1895 Mr. Fisher had visited these people, who, up to that
time, had never heard of Christianity, and in 1898 was located at Hoima
in order to establish a European Station. Then the country was in the
grasp of famine; the people, from the King down to his peasant subjects,
came each day to the European teacher and his two Baganda assistants
begging food. Through the generosity of friends in England and Uganda,
a fund was organized, and with presents in kind from the Christians in
Uganda and Toro, hundreds of the Bunyoro were saved from starvation. With
the return of the rains, the famine terminated, but this time of trouble
had created and cemented a confidence between the natives and missionary,
who learned to know them then better than if he had lived years in the
country at the time of its prosperity. The King, his brothers, sister,
and several of the leading chiefs, became sincere inquirers after
Christianity, and ultimately acknowledged their faith in public baptism.
The kingdom of Bunyoro is one of the most ancient now existing in inland
Africa. Formerly it was the pre-eminent power of all the districts round
and including Uganda, but for many years its strength has been on the
wane through internal disaffections and external warfare. Toro, which was
once ruled over by Bunyoro, broke away from its rule, and the Baganda
gradually ascended north, appropriating to themselves large districts
of Southern Bunyoro. Kabarega, then King of Bunyoro, was for years the
terror of the surrounding weaker tribes. He was quite a remarkable
character. Realizing the gradual decadence of his kingdom, with
persistent effort and despotism he rallied his people together for one
mighty struggle to regain their lost power. Marching on the surrounding
weaker tribes, he raided, plundered, and burnt their villages, and King
Kasagama (of Toro) and his people fled to the mountains for shelter.
But in 1899 the British Government sent up a force of Baganda under
Colonel Evett, who succeeded in taking prisoner Kabarega. The latter has
since remained a prisoner in the Seychelles Islands. His son Andereya,
an earnest Christian and an able man, is now reigning in his stead.
The Bunyoro have always had a most elaborate priesthood and abundant
ritual connected with their belief; hence it will be a long time before
heathen customs and degrading forms of superstition will be effectually
up-rooted.
[Illustration: OUR HOME IN TORO.]
After the discomforts of the road it was delightfully restful to
revel in the refreshing luxury of easy chairs, sipping cups of tea,
surrounded with a hundred and one reminders of dear old England, while
a pink-cheeked, chubby baby grabbed at the flat nose of his black boy
nurse and cooed with satisfaction at having two, new, civilized admirers.
A week spent with Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd, during which time we were enabled
to visit the people and hold some meetings with them, brought us to
the final stage of our circular trip—a seven days’ march home. The
anticipation of once more seeing Ruwenzori, our mud bungalow house, and
all the Batoro folk, made one forget to write notes and comments of
those few days. But no written records were necessary to keep at least
one day green in the memory. The wet season had begun in real earnest,
which did not improve the many unbridged swamps that lay across our path
at constant intervals. One day we were plunging through grass, often
twelve feet high, for nearly three hours right off. Emerging from that,
we had to pass through a succession of nine swamps. The only possible
means of getting across was to sit on the shoulder of a thoroughly sturdy
and sure-footed porter, holding on with all one’s might to his woolly
head. At the ninth swamp I had maintained that position for ten minutes,
with feet held straight out in front, as my noble carrier stumbled among
a broken down bridge, sometimes to his armpits in black mud. Actually
weeping tears, I called down to my steed, “My friend, you must put me
down, my back is broken with weariness.” Without a word he floundered off
through the grass, having spied a fallen tree trunk on which to put down
his burden. There we stood panting, too tired to speak, but a hallooing
and a shouting at one side made us both turn round. There we saw the
other European in a most indescribably mixed-up position, being brought
along on the shoulders of two men, while two more hung on to a leg each.
With scarcely a note of warning, the front man lost his foothold and
disappeared with the second. The European immediately followed suit, but
the remaining two stood their ground, still holding on to those legs.
Never did the Mountains of the Moon appear more fascinating than when
we returned to our home under their shadow after nine weeks’ absence.
The first to welcome us, four miles out on the road, was old Apolo
Kivebulaya, the native deacon. Close by on his heels followed my little
god-son, the first baptised pigmy, who looked characteristically grimy,
but his ugly little face appeared really pleasing as he ran up and
welcomed his master and mistress back with a grin that seemed to stretch
from one ear to another. Then the Katikiro came out with thirty to forty
retainers, all of whom he had dressed up in brand new white linen turban
caps as a token of welcome to us. Last of all rode out the King. “Well
done, my friends. God be praised for bringing you back.” And we could
only in our hearts respond “Amen.”
[Illustration: TABALA, CHIEF OF MBOGA, AND SUITE.]
CHAPTER XVI
Tramp IV. Towards the Pigmies
While the Kingdom of Toro has distinctly defined boundaries on the East,
North, and South (the latter two being the Albert and Albert Edward
Nyanzas) there are no lines of demarcation that bound it on the West. It
adjoins the Protectorate to the Belgian territory that extends across
from the Congo Free State, and until that boundary is officially fixed
the Kingdom of Toro may be said to include a number of untamed savage
tribes with a portion of the pigmies, who recognise no authority and rule
outside themselves.
Immediately the Toro Mission was established its first branch station
was planted about sixty miles west in Mboga, the district that touches
Stanley’s Great Forest—the home of the pigmies. Although the chief
offered much opposition to the Baganda missionaries, yet the workers
persistently held on, realising its important strategic position for
reaching the many tribes round its borders, and it formed one of the few
last links yet to be forged in order that Krapf’s dream of a chain of
missions extending across Africa might be fulfilled. After opposition
had burnt itself out and the Chief Tabala had himself become a Christian
the work prospered vigorously, and in 1903 the number of men and women
baptised reached over two hundred.
In that year the question of boundary line between Belgian and British
territory was again raised to be finally marked out. The decision would
either result in the district of Mboga being retained by the British,
or given over to the Belgians in exchange for a strip of land farther
south, in which latter case the River Semliki would form the natural
dividing line.
It was considered expedient, pending the arrangement between the two
Governments to strengthen in every way possible the mission work at Mboga
so that it might not be shaken should it ultimately lie outside the
Uganda Protectorate.
It was, therefore arranged that in the five months remaining before
leaving for furlough in England we should fit in a visit to that
district. The time of year fixed on for starting was a little
unfortunate, as the wet season was in full working order, and that never
adds an enviable charm to the gipsy life of African travelling. It was
evident that we were getting near the end of the prescribed period of
service, for instead of gaily trudging off in stout boots and puttees, we
pushed off from Kabarole with a donkey and a hammock, the only available
modes of conveyance.
When only three miles out we were overtaken by one of Toro’s special
storms. The heavily laden clouds had been running off towards the west
when Ruwenzori stood in their way and forbade them. So, in a terrible
temper, they turned back and gave us the full benefit of their tears. My
hammock bearers did not seem to mind; certainly they had nothing on that
would spoil, and I believe these casual drenchings are the only occasions
on which many of them feel the touch of water on their bodies. I have
often seen them trying to avoid even this by taking shelter under a tree
and holding a huge banana leaf over their head, when only clothed in a
tiny goat skin. The donkey slipped along behind with its rider enveloped
in a commodious mackintosh that left only the donkey’s nose and feet
visible. In order to get to the mission station of Busaiga, where we were
to spend a day, we had to turn off for two miles along a sloppy kind
of sheep-track path, which the donkey managed better than my men, who
stumbled along in the mud, very fearful lest they should let their burden
down. The man carrying our bath went before to warn them of danger; but
we passed him half-way, for with a splash he fell. No one seemed to
regard it as anything unusual, and continued marching on. Looking over
the side of my hammock, the last I saw of him was a hopeless mix-up of
black man’s limbs and bath sitting in inches of mud.
It was very good to find a big fire burning and a hot cup of tea ready in
a well swept native house that had been prepared for us, and designated
for our temporary use. In the afternoon our tent was well surrounded by
broad grins and inquisitive eyes as we were “at home” to callers. They
continued coming in from 1.30 to 5.30, by which time the air felt heavy,
so we escaped for an evening look-out. The complete range of mountains
was clearly defined from south to north and terminated close to us, in
the Semliki plain. Towards their northern base rested a heavy dense bank
of white cloud that slowly glided along. When it had reached the farthest
shoulder of the range, it woke from its soliloquy and with a mighty
effort plunged upwards, and in a few minutes flooded the whole country
with a dense, damp mist.
The first of May dawned in all the brightness of its reputation. Lake,
plain, valleys, and mountains appeared in their brightest garments to
do honour to the day, and the air trembled in its endeavour to laud the
Creator. No wonder that the people swarmed out of their stuffy little
huts for morning service. It was then pointed out to them that their
house of prayer needed rethatching, and in less than three hours the
“restoration of the church” was completed, for streams of tiny naked
figures went off and returned with a few strands of grass balanced
on their heads; the women followed with heavier burdens, and the men
were standing ready to tie it into small bundles and stuff them into
the thatch. There was here as everywhere a great demand for “reading
sheets,” and those who did not possess five cowrie shells (half a
farthing) wherewith to purchase one brought in a bundle of firewood,
two eggs, or undertook any little job in order to earn the sum. In the
afternoon we had meetings for men and women. At each gathering over one
hundred were present, which must have included nearly all the adult
inhabitants of the place. The audiences one meets with in the villages
are distinctly responsive; they evidently have an idea that it is a
slight to leave the European to do all the talking. In the middle of your
“sermon” one native will burst out with “Aye, aye, that’s so,” and the
whole company will agree in chorus. Then, again, they will repeat after
you a whole sentence that has struck them, and when your oration is over
they all exclaim “That’s very good; well done, very well done.” It is
most encouraging to a nervous speaker.
Leaving Busaiga, we descended to a wide plateau, which was most likely
at one time a lake bed, but the water has run off and left it quite dry.
The curious parallel gorges, where villages now nestle, resemble immense
yawning cracks formed by the land calling out for water. In one of these
clefts, where there was a sleepy little hamlet, we pitched camp. The old
chief of the place was sitting in his courtyard contentedly smoking a
huge pipe. He did not take the least notice of our arrival, and, from
what he said, if we had been a party of plunderers, he would have assumed
exactly the same immovable attitude. It was a very stuffy place; the heat
seemed to fall down listlessly in the little valley and had no strength
to move off at night. As for the varieties of insects that visited us as
the candles were lit, even the most initiated naturalist must have been
puzzled at classifying them.
[Illustration: THE SEMLIKI RIVER.]
On the following day we were up at daybreak to cheat the sun, which we
expected would do its worst for us in the exposed Semliki plain. When we
reached that level, although it was only 8.0 a.m., the heat was almost
unbearable. The little donkey must have felt it rather badly, for it
upset itself in the mud, and this twisted into weird contortions the
invaluable umbrella that was being carried on its back. The Semliki River
has to be crossed half-way across the plain; its waters are of a thick
grey colouring, and in them are smuggled away crocodiles, all sorts of
fierce fish with tusk-like teeth, and fever germs. A big dug-out canoe
came over from the opposite bank to ferry us across, and then returned to
fetch our porters, ass, and cows. The animals took most naturally to the
skiff—which might perhaps be traced back to their ancestors of the Ark
period.
In the cool of the afternoon an old fisherman punted me out in his canoe.
He attracted my attention to a big crocodile drawn up on the bank—it
suddenly woke from its sleep and slipped into the water for an evening
ablution. These dug-outs are scarcely what you might call inviting. I
have never seen one that does not leak considerably, and it is difficult
to imagine yourself comfortable when seated on a few rushes at the bottom
of the boat, feeling all the time the water oozing in under you.
Antelopes simply abound in the plain. In one spot alone there must have
stood forty of these peaceful creatures. They evidently understand that
all their district is preserved against the sportsman, for they now
venture quite close to the path and look at passers by with the greatest
impertinence. Two fine creatures with handsome antlers stood defying our
caravan only about fifty yards away, and simply refused to be frightened
off.
Mboga stands on a ridge of hills about 18 miles on the opposite side of
the plain to Ruwenzori. The scenery was in charming contrast to that
on the previous day’s journey as we lifted up on to high land. Forest
arteries flowed through every bend and hollow from the great aorta of
Stanley’s Pigmy Forest that stretched away for miles behind the Mboga
Hills. The trees closely resembled the English oak and mountain ash;
there was a marked scarcity of flowers, and my butterfly net remained
quite limp as we climbed up for three hours till the Mission station
appeared in sight. The people that came out to meet us broke up into two
parts; the one went with Mr. Fisher to superintend camping operations,
and I was borne off by the others to the Chief’s reception hall to hold
audience with his mother, who had ready a big black native pot of smoked
milk to offer me. Over one hundred women then streamed in to look at
the first European lady who had visited their country. They exclaimed,
“Bwana Fisher has much grace and love, for he was the first white man
to come and tell us of the religion of Christ, and now he has brought
to us the first lady.” A large open shed had been erected by the Chief
Paulo Tabalo, under which our tent could be erected and so sheltered
from the burning heat of the day, and it also provided us with a large
airy sitting room, which was necessary for the four weeks we intended to
remain.
The first thing that was absolutely essential to take in hand was
the building of a new Church, for the reed one standing was totally
inadequate to accommodate the people. Consequently each morning after a
brief service the men and women poured across to the new site to start
operations. The men, headed by their Chief, went off into the forests for
poles, and the women, laying aside their white linen draperies, handled
their hoes, and in a few days had completely cleared the plot of all
the long grass with which it had been covered. It was quite astonishing
to see the rapidity with which everybody went to work, and although the
proposed large mud church looked rather a formidable undertaking, the
Christians insisted on building a permanent mud house adjoining the
Church, which they hoped would secure more frequent visits from the
Missionary, or procure them an ordained teacher from Uganda.
The late Sir Henry Stanley, in “Darkest Africa,” has given a most vivid
picture of Mboga in his time. It was there he met with so much trouble
and savage opposition from the natives. Paulo Tabalo tells a thrilling
story of how his father collected together a large army to oppose the
great white man on the banks of the Semliki River, but was compelled to
flee, leaving behind a number of slain.
Oppression has given place to justice, turbulence to peace, and the most
abject fear of and subordination to the Evil Spirit is gradually being
overcome by knowledge and trust in God.
Stepping out from our tent one evening, I strolled away to a near hill to
watch the sun set. As it slowly disappeared behind a low ridge of distant
mountains it scattered trails of golden light across the plain, through
which the white waters gleamed. Then for a few brief minutes the vast
Ruwenzori Range appeared completely vestured in a deep pink transparent
mist, above which shone as a coronet the pure white snows. Never again in
the four weeks we spent there was such a wonderful effect repeated.
The hushed stillness was suddenly broken by a voice that issued from a
little hut almost hidden from view. Glancing round a tall rock that stood
between, I saw a dusky figure sitting in the doorway peeling potatoes
for the evening meal. She was quite unconscious of any intruder, and as
she bent down over her work she sang in the native tongue “Like a river
glorious is God’s perfect peace.”
Mboga of the present is a “Cave of Adullam” to the numerous surrounding
tribes who have fled from the hands of plunderers and raiders and come to
settle down under the peaceful rule of the Christian Chief.
Among the thirty-six men and women who had been instructed and were then
presented for baptism there were representatives of five different
tribes, three of whom were the first-fruits from those tribes. I held a
daily class with them for three weeks, and so had a chance of comparing
the brain power of these people. Certainly the one pigmy did not by any
means stand last in the class; on the other hand, he displayed a very
keen perception and often turned round to his neighbour and tried rather
impatiently to rub in the point. On the other hand, he was entirely
lacking in concentration, and it seemed impossible to pin his mind down
to the subject under discussion. Every afternoon the people stopped
work for two hours in order to go to Church to listen to the white
missionaries’ words. On the first Sunday a hint was thrown out to them
that they should study together in their homes, and so help each other to
understand their Bibles better. The day following Paulo called his people
together in his audience hall and told them that they had listened to
very good words from their European friend and teacher, and he felt that
if they were to become strong and be blessed by God they ought to carry
out the advice given. Several of them thereupon started systematic Bible
study in their homes. Many of the Christian women came to my afternoon
class with questions prepared which they had planned out together; and
they helped each other to make notes of my answers. I was surprised at
the intelligence shown in their questionings, for they had received
practically little teaching and are not naturally sharp. They asked many
things about the Epistles, when they were written, whether on St. Paul’s
journeyings or when in imprisonment; then they wanted to know the meaning
of “Alpha and Omega” and “the woman clothed with the sun,” etc., etc.
One afternoon, just as the class was closing, I looked up, and in the
doorway of the Church stood two most repelling figures. Their hair had
grown to the shoulders and was rolled into thin streaks with an ample
quantity of white goat’s fat; they wore a mere fragment of clothing, and
held in their hands a bow and sheaf of arrows. My lesson came to a dead
standstill, and I asked the women who the two men were. “They eat each
other,” was the reassuring response. I dismissed the class right away
and made off, but found the two cannibals standing outside. Very bravely
I went up and saluted them, but they only stared and grunted, then when
I turned to hurry back to camp they came too! In spite of being told
that they only eat their own people, I did not like to run any risk, so
enticed a number of women to come with me all the way to our tent by
saying I had some pictures just out from England to show them.
As we stood there in Mboga among some of the most primitive of the
human races it was difficult to realize that they formed part of that
greatest existing empire of the world. Let us hope the time will soon
come when these people will be brought within the circle of its moral and
intellectual influence as well as the circle of its civil rule. One can
scarcely imagine that there ever existed a more unenlightened age in the
history of man than the present twentieth century among these distant
subjects of Great Britain. From the brow of the Mission hill at Mboga no
fewer than seven distinct practically untamed tribes, each with its own
peculiar customs and dialect, lie within the range of eyesight. During
the four weeks spent in these parts we had an opportunity of coming in
direct contact with some people from each of these tribes, and as we
learned something of their habits and modes of existence we realised
in a deeper sense than ever before the significance of the words, “And
darkness was upon the face of the deep.”
After one month’s life under canvas, nomadic life loses its charm,
especially when the rains are a little too generous. The last three weeks
of our stay in Mboga proved somewhat distressful on this account, for
the storms beat down upon our skeleton shed and poured in through the
tent almost daily. The wide trenches dug round our quarters were quite
ineffectual in carrying off the water which came sweeping in upon us like
a flood. Frequently we were obliged to sit on our chairs or boxes with
our feet tucked under us while the water gaily took possession of the
ground floor of the tent.
Then food was a difficulty, for no one would sell the few goats and
chickens that they possessed. After the first fortnight they assured us
that we had eaten up all the chickens in the place! (In spite of this
we certainly lost weight.) Eggs were very scarce, and were sold at the
same price as a chicken, for, they argued, an egg is a chicken, and the
ones they brought for sale nearly proved their argument! All our boys
got ill with malarial fever, and when they were at their worst a case of
cholera was brought in to me for treatment. This seemed to be an unknown
complaint in these parts, and the people had no idea of its infectious
character. Already three deaths had occurred, and two households were
stricken down with it through visiting the sick house. We immediately
ordered all the infected huts to be quarantined and the strictest
attention given to the burning of all contaminated matter. Fortunately
the disease was thus checked from spreading, but not until four had
succumbed to it.
Our last Sunday spent there was a memorable occasion, for thirty-five men
and women were admitted into the fold of Christ through the confession
of their faith in Baptism, and sixty-two from this little “lighthouse”
station united with us in Holy Communion. After the evening service two
young men came forward and offered themselves to be trained as teachers
to the villages beyond. So although darkness yet covers the land of
Mboga it might be said “And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the
waters.”
CHAPTER XVII
In Darkest Africa. The Pigmies (Batwa) and their (Bambuba) Neighbours
In attempting to describe some of the tribes that we have come in contact
with round Mboga, I feel the first place should be given to the Pigmies,
for although they are the smallest of all folk, yet they are one of the
most ancient peoples of history. Not only do they appear in the pages
of the Greek historian, Herodotus, but to-day their representatives may
be traced on the Pyramids. Beyond these bare facts of their existence
nothing was definitely known about them until the late Sir Henry Stanley
penetrated their forest home on his search for Emin Pasha, and startled
the civilised world by his marvellous accounts of these legendary folk.
Judging from their present conditions of life it is impossible to believe
that they have made any advance, physically or morally, during the
hundreds of years that have passed by since first they were known to the
outside world.
[Illustration: THE FOUR PIGMIES IN KABAROLE.]
Their home is one vast, impenetrable forest which extends about one
hundred and twenty miles north to south and nearly two hundred miles
east to west; without intermission its vegetation has assumed abnormal
proportions; out of dense, tangled undergrowth the trees have forced
their way, and, as if to find breathing space and shake themselves free
of the crush and their tiresome parasites, have reached a gigantic
height. But the rubber plants, ivy, and creepers have proved equal to the
task, and pushed their way up the tree trunks, have crawled along from
branch to branch, until only glimpses of sunshine and sky appear through
the thick foliage.
Doubtless this obscurity and the seclusion of their environment have
acted as a narcotic on the development of the people.
Although small of stature they are by no means dwarfs, for their little
bodies of four feet to four feet eight inches are perfectly proportioned.
A very close view shows them to be covered with an almost imperceptible
downy hair; on the arms this meets at the elbow as in monkeys. It may
be due to their habit of sitting with arms crossed round their neck
while the rain constantly drips down upon them through the trees. Their
features are not prepossessing—in fact they are really ugly; a very broad
bridgeless nose and two wide protruding lips appropriate as much space as
the face can spare.
They possess no permanent homes, but are constantly on the move, never
spending more than three to five days at one spot. They burrow among
the thick undergrowth, and make clearings round the trees in order to
erect their tiny grass huts, which are built in less than an hour,
with saplings stuck round in a circle and tied at the top; grass and
leaves are then thrown over as roofing. Very few adopt any clothing.
Each man travels about with a bow and quiver of poisoned arrows in
order that he may keep the family supplied in food. Although peaceable
among themselves, there is no civil cohesion among the pigmies. They
recognise no king or chief; each man is perfectly free to control his own
household. There are no class distinctions; but the best huntsman will
have the largest following because with his spoils he is able to effect
exchanges with the near neighbours of the tribe—the Bambuba, a sturdy,
thick-set race varying in height from four feet eight inches to five
feet, who live on the north-east fringe of the Forest.
[Illustration: THE BA-AMBAS: NEAREST NEIGHBOURS TO THE PIGMIES.]
Necessity has never taught the pigmies to make fires. They are dependent
on wood ashes from the Bambuba folk, which they carry about tied up in
leaves, in which the fire smoulders for hours and is kindled into flame
with a little gentle blowing. The Bambuba have learned to produce fire
by means of igniting two little bits of stick by friction. They also
make tiny torches of three or four thin twigs tied together by fibre;
these are dipped into rubber juice freshly drawn away from the plant;
then on the point of the torch is placed resin, which moderates the rate
of combustion. One of these torches will keep burning for two to three
hours. The pigmies do not cultivate the ground; they are exclusively
a tribe of huntsmen who travel about in search of their prey. Their
remarkable agility enables them to spring from branch to branch when
watching the track of an animal. Often they are obliged to follow an
elephant for hours before this forest monarch succumbs to the poisoned
dart that has lodged itself in its tough skin; then as the huge animal
rolls over like a thunderbolt falling, the little pigmies jump down
from the trees, stand on the carcase, and draw out of a crude leather
sheath their knives which have handles made of animals’ bones; they then
commence cutting up the joints. Some of these will be carried off to
the agricultural Bambuba tribe, who give potatoes, Indian corn, knives,
or arrows for the meat. The rest is taken up into the trees and dried,
after which it is either roasted or eaten raw. Although all their meat
is poisoned they do not attempt to purify it, and the blood is regarded
as a special delicacy. They do not, however, suffer any ill-effects, for
the poison is said to have lost its power when once it has acted. The
pigmies are regarded by the neighbouring tribes in very much the same
way as the wild pigs, inevitable plunderers. At night they creep up to
the potato patches, under cover of the long grass, and carry off their
booty into the copse. No one dares to venture on revenge; indeed the
surrounding tribes stand in terror of the little people because of their
wonderful powers of self-concealment and deftness with their bows.
A pigmy rarely possesses more than one wife, and never more than two. A
man purchases her with poison or fowls—a woman is valued at eighty to one
hundred chickens. The wives are treated kindly and with consideration;
only when a husband is provoked by abuse does he attempt to subdue his
fractious helpmate by a sound beating.
A pigmy baby is the funniest little atom imaginable. A woman once brought
to me her infant of three months; it was her first, and she evidently
regarded it as an exceptional beauty. It was about the size of a sixpenny
doll. I did not venture to touch it for fear of hurting it.
Having only reached the outskirts of the Congo Forest we never had
an opportunity of seeing the pigmies at home. Those we have met and
conversed with are women and boys that were stolen some years ago, and
now have no desire to go back to the forest. At Mboga we found seven
under Christian instruction, one of whom had been baptised. In Kabarole
there are two pigmy girls and one lad learning to read besides Blasiyo,
who was the first of his tribe to be baptised.
[Illustration: BLASIYO, FIRST BAPTISED PIGMY.]
He was my first God-child, the first of these wee and ancient people to
step forth from their physical and spiritual darkness and before the
listening Host of Heaven declare his belief in God the Father, God the
Son, and God the Holy Ghost, his faith for salvation, for salvation in
Christ’s sacrifice, and his desire to never be ashamed “to fight under
the banner of the Cross.” He is a quaint little figure, with a high sense
of his own importance, and is quite able to stand his ground alone when
assailed by his taller companions. Work is a great trouble to him, but
he is always ready for tricks and games. Football is his speciality,
and he never misses a chance of squeezing his way into the game, even
when the men’s team is on the ground. In order that he might have a game
with his friends whenever he could shirk his work, he invented a very
ingenious football of a goat skin stuffed with dried banana leaves. While
learning to read we took him on our staff of boys, not that he did much
work, but in order that we might try and instil clean and industrious
habits into him. His duties were to help the cook by feeding the fire
with fuel and keeping clean the pots and pans, but when he knew his
master and mistress were at lunch, he would run away from his post, and
fetch a large ivory warhorn; then, taking up his position outside the
dining-room window, would blow for all he was worth. He accompanied the
blasts with weird, swaying movements that gradually developed into wild
dancing, and transformed the little figure into a veritable imp or gnome.
His idea was that this entertainment would quite justify his act of
truancy; and he reasoned that if he could get his master and mistress to
laugh their anger would be dead, for laughter drives out wrath. When he
came to us, cleanliness was not a strong point with him, and he was for
the time being quite debarred from playing football on account of being
crippled with jiggers—an irritating, infinitesimal insect that bores in
under the surface skin of the feet, and if allowed to remain there sets
up mortification. The fact of their being there did not trouble him in
the least, but his inability to kick the football drove him to get them
extracted. A message one day was brought in that a man wished to see me
on business. Going out on to our verandah I found a powerful, muscular
figure dressed in a colobus monkey skin. He told me that his name was
Mbeba, which means “a rat,” and that he had been sent by the pigmy to
contract for his jiggers. His fee would be five hundred cowrie shells,
which was a big price, but it would be a long job. I felt it was an offer
to close on, and did not in the least regret my investment of sevenpence
halfpenny when the pigmy proudly emerged from a ten days’ operation with
his unshapely little feet considerably battered, but in sound kicking
order.
Each week it was our custom to give round to our boys fifty or hundred
cowrie shells for pocket money. These generally went to purchase pencils,
or exercise books, or were carefully put by till sufficient were
collected to buy a sheep or goat. But Blasiyo was never able to save a
shell, for his great ambition was to ride about on a horse like the king,
and as this was an impossibility he hired the tallest available man to
run him up and down the roads on his shoulder for payment of shells.
One day a loud altercation was going on in our courtyard, and I was
called out to arbitrate between Blasiyo and his two-legged steed. The
man’s grievance was that he had agreed to ride the pigmy round our
courtyard for five shells, and now he was refused payment. Blasiyo
listened until he had finished presenting his case; then, when called on
to give his defence, declared the man had not fulfilled his contract, for
he had cut off all the corners. He was told to pay down three shells, and
these he produced from under his tongue! When he had learned to read,
he was very anxious to exhibit his wonderful intelligence, and asked
that he might have a class in the reading school. Accordingly he was
enrolled as a teacher. With an air of great importance he used to strut
into school and take up his position among his scholars, some twelve to
twenty men, whom he had asked to be allowed to teach in preference to
boys. One day while going the round of the school to take the register I
found Blasiyo’s class in rebellion. The reason was that the teacher had
brought with him a little cane and whacked them all round because they
did not pay him due respect. “Without respect,” said he, “progress is
impossible.”
[Illustration: A GROUP OF PIGMY WOMEN.]
For several obvious reasons it will be impossible to send teachers to
the pigmies under present circumstances. While they continue constantly
moving about they cannot be satisfactorily reached; and no European or
native of another tribe could live in the semi-obscurity of the dense
forest, or exist solely on poisoned meat. The only hope of effectually
reaching them is to teach and train those who are living outside among
other people; for there is every reason to hope that some from among them
might be found who will in the future be ready to go back to their old
forest home and carry the torchlight of Truth to their own kith and kin.
Meanwhile it is a cause of great rejoicing that already some of these
strange tiny folk have been baptised into Christ Jesus, of whom the whole
family in heaven and earth was named.
THE BAHUKU.
In a strip of forest lying between the Semliki River and the Congo
Forest, and within four hours of Mboga, lives a savage tribe known as the
Bahuku. Among all the distinct races to be found on the western slopes
of the Semliki Plain, these people undoubtedly are the most degraded
and void of intelligence. Like the Ba-amba, many of the men allow their
heads to remain unshorn: when the hair has reached to the nape of the
neck they twist it into thin strands with goat’s fat, which is frequently
mixed with a quantity of red earth. This gives them quite a terrifying
appearance. They live in circular huts composed of closely-packed poles,
with roofs of grass and leaves. They have no means of digging up the
soil, but their method of cultivating is to cut down the grass and
shrubs, to fell the trees, and sow their crops of Indian corn, beans and
sweet potatoes among the stubble and roots.
A Muhuku may have any number of wives, but is obliged to build a separate
house for each, as the women are very quarrelsome among themselves. If
any favouritism is shown for one wife the others make no attempt to
conceal their jealousy, and sometimes poison or spear the unfortunate
woman. The custom of procuring a wife is to take her in exchange for
a sister, cousin, or any other available female relation. When these
fail, goats will be taken as a substitute. By the former method a
woman is free to leave her husband and marry another if she wishes,
but purchase by goats is binding on her; she has become her husband’s
property absolutely. Should she run away and return to her people they
are immediately suspected of bribing or stealing her. The injured husband
then sounds the warhorn, and a sharp encounter with spears and knives
takes place between the two families. When the victor has succeeded in
driving off his antagonists he claims the bodies of the slain, which are
taken to his home and feasted upon in honour of the occasion.
The warhorns of the Bahuku are regarded by them as family heirlooms, and
have been handed down from their distant ancestors. They are formed out
of small elephant tusks, which have been scooped out and shaved down to
within two or three inches of the mouthpiece. Strips of elephant hide
or lizard skin are sometimes neatly fitted round part of the horn and
sewn with gut. The centre part of the instrument, which has become much
discoloured by time, is decorated with various curious designs. These
probably were intended for hieroglyphic writing or distinguishing family
marks, but their significance, if ever there really was any, is quite
unknown to the present generations. The Bahuku are very loth to part with
these horns for fear of offending the spirits of their forefathers. A
few, however, were willing to risk their displeasures when they saw the
skinny little goats we sent out as purchase money.
[Illustration: THE BAHUKU: CANNIBAL RACE.]
Human flesh is regarded as a luxury among them, besides corpse-eating.
The upper class buy from the peasants their dead for two to six goats.
The bodies that are not sold for food are buried with a very prolonged
ceremony. A deep hole is digged and the corpse is placed in a sitting
posture with the hands crossed on the chest. It is then covered over with
earth as far as the neck; the head is left exposed for six days, during
which time the friends come and bestow on it their farewell glances. Then
the burial is completed and the grave is carefully swept and guarded day
and night until the family removes to another place.
Their religion is a form of fetishism. Tiny devil temples are built
among the long grass away from the homes of the peoples so that the evil
spirits may be kept at a safe distance. Only the men and old women are
allowed to visit these little grass temples to take offerings of food
or to practice divination. The men take with them a horn in order to
acquaint their wives with the time of their worship.
Several from among these people came and visited us during our stay in
Mboga, and although they were quite friendly, they expressed no wish for
a teacher to be sent to them. Indeed, their minds seemed so unutterably
void that they appeared incapable of receiving any new impression.
BABIRA AND BALEGA.
A few years ago, before European rule was established over the country,
Mboga could scarcely have been a desirable quarter in which to find
oneself shut up. The Bahuku, on the west, then practised cannibalism
without any restraint, and captured anyone who ventured near their domain.
Then, while the vindictive little pigmies and half-tamed Bambuba enclosed
it on the south and west, two powerful and savage tribes joined hands and
claimed the district running north, right along to the western shores of
the Albert Lake. These Babira and Balega people are very closely allied
in features and customs, but the former are numerically very inferior.
These have a peculiar practice, which I believe to be unique among
Central African tribes, that is, the women bore a hole in their top lip
and gradually increasing this until it is able to enclose a disc of wood
two and even three inches in diameter. A Mubira woman came to call on us
whose disc measured two and five-eight inches across. The size of the
wood inserted proclaims the rank of the person. Peasants are only allowed
to wear pieces of stick the same dimension as a match. The weight of the
wood causes the lip to fall down over the mouth, and, in order to eat,
it is necessary to lift up this shutter with one hand while the other
conveys the food to the mouth. Frequently the lip breaks under the strain
put upon it, in which case the disconnected ends are carried back and
tied to the ear.
While the Balega do not adopt this inhuman custom of their neighbours,
they have not reached to their degree of civilisation in introducing
clothing. The Balega women still groan under the weight of pounds of
thick brass wire wound round their arms and legs. This is supplemented by
a prodigious amount of beads.
[Illustration: A MUBIRA LADY: AN AFTERNOON CALLER.]
[Illustration: A NATIVE OF BALEGA: The first to be baptised of his race.]
Until brought under Belgian rule these people refused to recognise
allegiance to any power. Nominally they were under Bunyoro, for the
King of that country years ago went across and laid waste the whole
district plundering their sheep, cattle, and women. This was repeated by
successive kinds till the people were compelled to yield to the claims
of the Bunyoro. But their submission was compulsory and not permanent,
so that when Bunyoro was troubled with civil war and outside foes the
Balega ceased to be controlled by them. But the Bunyoro are very proud of
a legend that relates how their King Ndohura, who conquered the Balega,
while fighting them broke his stick and from it sprung up the Forest of
Kirare. Returning from the war the same King is said to have slipped on a
rock, and his footprint is to be seen to this day.
These people are very clannish and insular. Children remain under their
mothers’ roof until they marry. If, like the “old woman,” they lived in a
shoe, the mother would need a fairly roomy one, for often her offspring
number twenty to thirty. As a man possesses many wives he has a lively
time trying to keep his children in hand. When the sons marry they bring
their wives and build close to the old homestead, and generally continue
to recognise the authority of their father, and no other.
They believe in an evil spirit called Nyakasana, for whom they build a
little grass temple in the court yard of their houses. They always offer
to him the first-fruits of their potato, Indian corn and millet crops,
and when they kill a goat for meat or entrap an antelope they take to
their little temple a portion of the flesh, before tasting it themselves.
The spirits of the dead have constantly to be propitiated by gifts of
food and live stock. These are carefully kept apart, and when any member
of the family is taken ill, the offerings to the dead are brought in, so
that the sick person shall look on them and recover.
During our stay at Mboga, the first man from the Balega tribe was
baptised, and since then several teachers have gone to them from
Bunyoro and found a great willingness and desire among the people for
instruction.
Thus gradually the Light is dawning on “Darkest Africa.”
“Arise shine, for the light is come and the glory of the Lord is risen
upon thee. For behold the darkness shall cover the earth and gross
darkness the people but the glory of the Lord shall arise upon thee....
And the Gentiles shall come to Thy light, and kings to the brightness of
Thy rising.” Isaiah.
CHAPTER XVIII
A Climb to the Snows
It is impossible to live any length of time in close proximity to
Ruwenzori without being overcome with a desire to reach the land of
glittering ice that resembles an enchanted city with its pinnacles,
turrets and domes pointing upward to the sun, which with all its
equatorial strength has ineffectually endeavoured to displace the
age-long snows and ice. The highest point has, in recent years, been
estimated to reach an altitude of 20,000 to 22,000 feet. The snows are
not often clearly visible, for in the dry season the hot heavy mist that
envelops the whole country completely hides the range from view, while
in the wet season clouds frequently veil the highest peaks. From the
glaciers rush numerous streams that flow down into the Albert Edward
Lake, and out again by the River Semliki to the Albert Lake and the Nile.
In ancient times an Egyptian caravan road extended right down into these
interior districts along the route of this great natural watercourse.
Doubtless the Egyptians, and probably Solomon, drew their supplies of
ivory from the vast herds of elephants that still ramble about round
Ruwenzori with tusks some weighing 150 to 200lbs. each.
[Illustration: STIFF CLIMBING: A CLIMB TO THE SNOWS.]
The old legend that the sacred river Nile had its source in Heaven may
have originated from the reports brought back by traders that one of its
most important tributaries flowed down from a mountain that seemed to
reach into Heaven. The Baganda call the mountain “Gambalugula lufumba
ebiri,” which means “the leaf that cooks the clouds.” This has reference
to their custom of cooking all their food in banana leaves. Their
imagination regards the mountains as a big leaf which holds the clouds
over the boiling springs that bubble up from the base of the mountain,
the mists that sweep down the mountain sides is the stream from the
“cooking pot.”
Ruwenzori does not consist of one single snow peak like Kilimanjaro and
Kenia, but vast fields of intercepted snow and ice extend for over twenty
miles North and South.
The late Sir Henry Stanley heard of its existence in 1875, but not until
his second visit to its locality in 1887 did he obtain a complete view of
the snows.
Since that date several have tried to reach the glaciers, but only three
expeditions had been successful up to the time of our ascent. Others
had proved unfortunate in the time of year, for it is impossible to
accomplish the task in the wet season. Mountain sickness, and pneumonia
among the carriers had compelled others to turn back from the attempt.
Until 1904 no one had tried to reach the snows from the Western side of
the mountain range. From the east several had unsuccessfully endeavoured
to discover a route to higher altitudes, but the one along the course of
the Mubuku River was the only one that had proved practicable. During
our visit to Mboga we were very fortunate to obtain continual views of
the snow peaks, and we were convinced that an ascent from that side of
the mountains would prove more resultful. This has been conclusively
confirmed since by a recent explorer, Dr. David, who reached a point
16,000 feet high; that is, 1,200 feet higher than anyone previously. To
scale Ruwenzori’s highest point must remain an impossible task. No one
could endure the penetrating cold for the period of time required to
master the prolonged and precipitous heights. Besides a complete Alpine
outfit being required, tent and food would be compulsory, and no native
would undertake the transport of these things beyond the lowest glacier
point, and even if this difficulty could be overcome, camping space might
be sought for in vain. Judging from the angle at which my bed was placed
at one camp, I can picture an over ambitious adventurer, having pitched
his tent within 3,000 feet of the summit, suddenly finding himself and
his belongings toboganning down over the glaciers at lightning speed,
only stopping to find himself landed in a freezing morass.
[Illustration: A PEEP AT THE SNOWS.]
In 1903, Rev. A. L. Kitching, Mr. Fisher, and myself started off for a
trip to that unfrequented region. Our baggage looked more suitable for
a Polar expedition than a climb on the Equator. Every conceivable fusty
and moth eaten winter garment was hauled out and packed into a waterproof
sack; eider-down quilts, India rubber foot warmers, and bales of blankets
for ourselves and boys formed part of the caravan. The reports of our
mountaineering predecessors led us to anticipate an arduous and colossal
task, but our ambition was not to attempt more than those who had a
wider experience in mountain climbing than ourselves, but to stand on
that untraversed land of ice where scarcely mortal foot had trod, and
to inhale its cool life-giving air so that we might be refreshed for a
return to work in the hot tiring lowlands.
January was the time fixed on for the expedition. That is generally
regarded as one of the most reliably dry months in the year, but the
mountains manage to upset all one’s calculations, and in Toro fine
weather is more the exception than the rule. So we found ourselves in
a few very stiff storms before we had even reached the base of the
mountains. Our porters were aggravatingly discouraging, and on the first
day, regarding my skirt flapping about after a drenching shower, shook
their heads, and said, “Perhaps the two Bwanas will reach the snows, but
who ever heard of a woman doing it.” They did not understand that their
very argument was one of my strongest incentives! Four days of strong
marching from Kabarole brought us to a village of the Bakonjo called
Bihunga. It was about 6,000ft. high, tucked away in the very heart of
the mountains. Frowning peaks and ridge upon ridge of dense foresting
completely shut us in from the outside world. Save for the noise of
the River Mubuku, as it rushed madly down and tumbled into the valley
beneath, there was no sound to break the deep silence of the mountains.
All nature was at perfect peace with itself, and the few clouds that
seemed wearied in their flight through the hot, dry air rested for a
while on the green slopes as if to enjoy the quiet and beauty of the
scene. It was to these strongholds that the Batoro fled in past times
for security when the raiding King Kabarega of Bunyoro made plundering
expeditions into their country. Although they found safety and shelter
in the thickly-wooded crevices and creeks, the refugees searched in vain
for food, and while some were able to drag through the time of their
temporary captivity by subsisting on the roots and leaves of wild plants,
hundreds are said to have died from hunger and exposure.
The so-called village at which we halted was a collection of three tiny
circular huts, built of poles packed as closely together as possible.
Round and outside these was tied a thick padding of dried banana bark,
leaves, and saplings, as protection from the gales and storms that blew
down from the snows and whistled round these little dwellings.
[Illustration: SNOW PEAKS.]
A grandsire and his dame, two sons, one daughter-in-law, and an infant
composed the entire population. The old man, in a very contented state
of mind, sat in the doorway of his hut smoking a pipe over a foot
in length. He gave us a most reassuring smile of welcome. The two
females, heavily decked round the knees and arms with scores of plaited
and greased bracelets, immediately made off with themselves into the
thick vegetation, and only came out of their hiding by a great deal
of persuasion. We explained to the people the object we had in view,
and how we wanted to leave our Batoro porters with them to await our
return, while we took on men from among them who were acquainted with the
mountains and inured to the cold. The two young men at once offered their
services, and promised instantly to get together as many other porters
as required. We wondered how they could do this, as there was no sign of
a habitation, excepting two lonely huts on a far distant height. But,
after making a long, far-reaching sound with their lips, there suddenly
appeared, as if by magic, quite a number of figures emerging from far and
near. The Bakonjo, in the old times of rapine and oppression, had chosen
out the most secluded spot where they might safely build their homes, and
they still adopt this practice, from custom—no longer from necessity.
Among the dense forest growth it is quite impossible to detect their
huts, and as only a very small minority of the Bakonjo cultivate the
soil, there is nothing around to indicate human existence.
As is the case among most of these tribes, the women do all the digging
and sowing, but they are very few in number as compared with the men, and
in consequence are regarded as valuable property, and not to be worked
to excess. Being naturally more prone to indolence than industry, the
furnishing of the daily board depends almost solely on what the husbands
can bring in from the hunt and exchange, but they generally keep in
store a stock of arum roots (the women’s cultivation) on which they can
fall back when fortune fails the huntsmen. The men are a striking race,
their arduous searching after rats and conies (hyrax) often leads them
up to the regions of ice; this constant climbing and exposure to the
cold have developed their muscles in a remarkable manner, and with the
surefootedness of a mule and lightness of a gazelle they spring up the
steepest bank and rock, experiencing no fatigue.
Besides being their chief item of diet, the coney supplies them with
practically their sole clothing. Six or eight of the little skins are
sewn together, and worn over the shoulders, secured by a thin piece of
hide round the neck.
Although the conies have enough sense of self-preservation to burrow
among the rocks for shelter, they have not sufficient instinct to escape
their capturers when once they have tracked them down. The men sit
patiently for hours outside the conies’ entrance door, and when at last
the little creatures come out in single file to search for a meal, a
stick suddenly descends on one head after another; sometimes fourteen to
fifteen in one family are killed off in this way.
Twenty men were chosen out, from those that offered, to act as carriers,
two more were appointed guides, and two of special strength were told
off to help me over the exceptionally rough bits of climbing. While the
necessary agreements were being gone through, the sky became suddenly
overcast with dense, threatening clouds, and a loud clap of thunder,
that reverberated all round us again and again, scattered us in every
direction with great speed to our several homes. From the tiny window of
our bedraggled tent we peeped out at the storm, as the forked lightning
struck one peak after another almost simultaneously, and the thunder
concussions made the very mountains tremble.
[Illustration: SNOW PEAKS.]
An Academy picture, of many years back, illustrating Dante’s Inferno,
seemed to have assumed living form here. It was almost impossible to
believe that such a transformation could have taken place in so short a
time, for in comparatively few minutes day was plunged into night, calm
into torrential storms, and quietude into a fierce battle of the elements.
When we at last ventured to draw back the canvas doorway the rain had
ceased, and mud, mud, mud lay everywhere. The storm had left behind it
a cold, raw, dismal evening. And there drawn up in single file before
the tent were our twenty porters and guides, who, in order to appear
more pathetic, had come without their fur shoulder garments. One of the
guides stepped forward as spokesman and explained that they wanted to be
paid in advance. They absolutely refused shells and rupees, and would
only accept calico, which, they said, would protect them from the cold
on the journey to the snows. Judging from the quantity of clothes we
had heaped already on ourselves to keep off the penetrating damp wind,
their demand threatened to be a real difficulty, as we had only equipped
ourselves with a limited supply of calico. They were then asked what
length of material each required as wages, and in a half timid voice, as
if afraid of uttering such an extortion, the answer came “three hands
apiece” (one and a half yards). Our calico managed to run to that, and
thereupon each man received his advance payment. With a broad grin of
satisfaction and pride they struggled to tuck as much of themselves as
possible inside their fifty-four inches of material. The result was quite
ludicrous, but they appeared perfectly delighted. Evidently their plea
had only been a ruse to insure their wages, for none of the calico was
seen on the journey. The only personal impedimenta with which most of
them travelled were a few strands of smouldering grass encased in a bark
sheath. This was brought out immediately we struck camp, and they had
ferretted out a shelter for themselves under a rock or trees. A fire was
quickly kindled, and round this they all squatted and roasted the conies
they had entrapped during the day’s climb. At night they did not attempt
to erect a hut or covering, but maintained this same cramped position
round the fire; they interlaced arms, and each one slept with his head
resting on the next man’s shoulder. On one occasion the rain poured down
upon them all night long, and although their little shoulder coney-skins
were hopelessly inadequate to insure them against a thorough soaking,
they turned up in the morning in the most cheerful spirits, absolutely
unaffected by their uncongenial surroundings.
In preparing for the actual ascent to the snows from Bihunga we were
obliged to reduce our outfit to mere essentials. A large caravan would
have experienced considerable difficulty in the matter of food; and each
man was only able to carry a load of twenty to twenty-five pounds, which
was fastened to a strong sling of fibre and slipped round the forehead.
This method of carrying is adopted by the Bakonjo tribe, and leaves
the arms perfectly free for climbing up on fours, which is so often
necessary. I was the only member of the party privileged with a bed; the
two men had to content themselves with waterproof sacks and blankets. Our
boys judged spoons, forks, and knives as non-essentials and reduced us
to two forks and one pen-knife, so for some days we had to return to the
most primitive manners at meal-times. Our first day’s real climbing began
in a kind of retrograde direction, for we had to slide down a hopelessly
greasy track for some two hundred yards. My two supporters evidently
anticipated a lively time; they were required to render aid at once; the
fact was, my feet refused to stick, and in struggling to keep me back
with yards of calico brought round under my arms, I nearly succeeded in
dragging them down head-first. They were urged to manage better than
that, and they promised to improve, but explained how they had had no
practice at that kind of travelling, and were a little unprepared for it.
I again tried the plan of a calico body sling when a very steep bracken
ascent had to be scaled, and the sun was at its height. The men went in
front, each pulling most vigorously at the calico end which he held, but
they somehow always managed to jerk in the wrong place. Just as I had
breathlessly succeeded in securing a foothold a big pull from the front
almost robbed me of my last gasp. So I dispensed with such questionable
aid and found all the help I wanted in a long bamboo which our guide
presented to me as a kind of charm, for it had taken him up to the
glacier when he escorted Sir Harry Johnston’s expedition. At an altitude
of seven thousand feet we reached the point where tropical vegetation
assumes its most exquisite form. The river Mubuku had to be crossed and
recrossed six times in the one march, and all along its river bed was
the richest display of varied forms of vegetable life. Several species
of palm trees, a few wayward bamboos, tree-ferns, a tree resembling the
English yew, and the bright red-flowering Ekirikiti tree. The forests
passed through frequently recalled some of the most charming parts of
Devonshire; the ground was carpeted with ferns and moss interspersed with
forget-me-nots and orchids.
[Illustration: CROSSING THE MULUKU RIVER.]
At Bihunga we left behind all human habitation. Our first halt after
leaving it was under a rock at a height of eight thousand feet. From
the almost intolerable silence it seemed as if we had also got beyond
all animal life. We listened in vain for the insect’s hum, the bird’s
chirrupping, or the squabbling of the monkeys. However, similar welcome
sounds had not entirely ceased, for very occasionally a night bird
hooted, a rat squeaked, or a solitary fly cheered us with its living
presence.
Our camping space was decidedly cramped, and the tent felt very insecure,
for it was impossible to drive poles or pegs into the rocks; the canvas
merely had to be balanced by tying the ropes to large stones. Water was
also very scarce, and, in spite of a consuming thirst after our hot
climb, we were obliged to content ourselves with two cups of tea and half
that amount for a wash down.
The region of Bamboo Forests was next reached, and it was disappointing
to find that what looked so attractive from a distance beneath when
seen from within was nothing but a monotonous stretch of stiff brown
sticks surmounted by masses of green grass. The bamboos had completely
monopolised the soil to the exclusion of almost every other plant. For
hours we were pushing our way through these obstinate poles that would
not bend or budge an inch to let us through. Men went before to slash
them down, and as we stumbled over the broken stems my poor skirt was
literally torn into shreds, even though it had been shortened eight
inches the previous day. Emerging from bamboo-land we crossed a stretch
of marsh and found ourselves surrounded by frowning bare rock peaks which
rose almost perpendicularly from where we stood. Pointing up to a spot
about one thousand feet above us, our guide indicated the only possible
halting place. Although so near, it took us over two hours to reach; with
the utmost caution we had to drag our bodies up the sheer face of the
rocks. At one place we had recourse to a rough native ladder formed of
two long bamboo poles with rungs of the same tied with grass. This was
placed against an absolutely smooth-faced stretch of rock, where for a
space of ten to fifteen feet no hold could be obtained. To add to the
danger, strong mountain streams were pouring down over the rocks, not
only soaking us through, but making our grip less secure. Certainly I had
never before been in such a critical position; it was quite impossible
to get a real firm footing, and one slip might have resulted in dragging
others down into the seething waters and rocks that lay beneath.
[Illustration: KICUCEI CAMP.]
On reaching the top, vegetation assumed an entirely new form. The only
trees were gigantic heaths, but it was almost impossible to distinguish
them, for the stems were covered with a thick moss, which in some places
was 12 inches deep. In colouring it varied from a dark brown to a light
golden or deep red. The trees were almost entirely denuded of leaf, and
festoons of whitish lichen hung from branch to branch. The ground was
very marshy, for the hills that enclosed us emptied down into it numerous
small torrents. About fifteen square yards of dry land was found on which
to erect our tent and hang up the clothes to dry. Our stout marching
boots had already succumbed to the rough usage, and we each took a
strong needle and thread to see who could turn out the neatest job. In
the evening the rain poured down upon us in a deluge, and continued all
night till it even penetrated the double roof of our canvas waterproof
tent; besides this, as we were now at an altitude of 10,000ft., the cold
was indescribable. Each breath we took seemed to cut at the chest like
a knife, and, in spite of blankets and an eider-down, it was impossible
to sleep with the damp piercing cold. All the following day the rain
continued and kept us prisoners at this indescribably cheerless spot. I
had time to overhaul the shattered skirt; it looked a hopeless task, for
it really would not bear shortening again. The advice was then given me
to cut it up and put it into bands under the knees, which I acted upon
on hearing the toughest bit of climbing was yet to come. When we were
at last able to push on, and the garment was worn with puttees and a
football jersey, I felt like an evoluted man.
For three hours from Kicucu camp we did not once touch the ground; during
the whole of that time we were slowly climbing with hands and feet over
fallen heather that for scores of years must have lain in that position,
only becoming more seasoned with time. The thick moss that still clung
on to the slender bark was very deceptive, and, when mistaken for firm
soil, broke away from the tree and one suddenly found oneself slipping
down, down between branches and barks; fortunately there was a depth of
fallen forest underneath, and this saved me from disappearing beyond the
armpits. These heaths grow on the rocks in a very thin surface soil which
is not able to support them when they reach great heights, consequently
the tree falls, and in this way the irregular jagged rocks have been
bridged and joined up by the continually increasing amount of timber
thrown across.
[Illustration: MULUKU GLACIER.]
Having once disentangled ourselves from this tumbled-down forest, a
weird scene was opened out before us. Almost surrounded by a lofty ridge
of rocks was a wide river basin fed by the melting snow from above.
With the exception of one waterfall which poured down from a height of
about 200 feet, the water did not descend in streams, but fell slowly in
sheets from the surrounding rocks. The few trees visible were entirely
enveloped in the white lichen, and the ground was covered with thick drab
moss, dwarf cactus plants, and a tall green poker called by botanists
lobelia, but resembling in shape Cleopatra’s needle. The effect was
that of a world tottering in its old age on the verge of death—it was
easier to imagine it another planet, for is it possible to recognise
Earth without voice, without colouring, and almost without life. We
plunged through this morass and found the moss saturated like a sponge
with freezing water. The effect was chilling in the extreme, and before
we had crossed it half way my limbs felt quite numbed with the cold; I
scarcely knew how I dragged myself up into our last camp. The roof only
of our tent was somehow fixed up under a rock, over the entrance of which
water continuously trickled. But these little discomforts were quite
forgotten when towards sunset the clouds rolled away and the land of snow
and ice was revealed crowning near ridges and peaks with its dazzling
whiteness, while in the hollows and clefts all round lay patches of
glistening ice. Before sunrise next morning we were all astir, impatient
to reach the goal of our expectations. The air was clear and crisp,
patches of freshly fallen snow lay around us on all sides, icicles hung
from the rocks, and little frozen puddles glistened like glass. The wet
penetrating cold of the two previous days was now exchanged for the dry
frosty breezes that nipped toes, finger-tips, nose, and ears. Although
the thermometer had fallen to freezing point, no numbing sensation was
experienced; but as the blood tingled through the veins it seemed to
impart a feeling of rejuvenation, and an uncontrollable exhilaration laid
hold of the spirits. In the valley of the Muluku glacier vegetation had
once more assumed its healthy green colouring; a little silver-leafed
buttercup even ventured to peep out at us, and a tiny white flower,
almost identical with the Swiss edelweiss, concealed itself among the
rocks. This beautiful little fertile spot seemed a special pet of the
snow mountains, for they clasped it in their great white arms as if
desiring that its only life should impart some degree of warmth to their
implacable nature.
Ruwenzori certainly has not left one point of its snows unfortified
against intruders. Having taken possession of the most unconscionable
heights, all sorts of subtle man-traps have been laid up the mountain’s
sides, and even if an attempt is made to merely stand on the threshold
of its domain an almost impassible rock barrier guards the portal, just
as the adventurer imagines all difficulties have been passed. But that
realm of ice allures one on to dare much, and so while two ropes were
thrown down from above the forbidding rocks, one was hastily tied round
the body and with the other we slowly climbed up hand over hand. Twice
we attempted this performance, and twice we succeeded in mastering the
situation, and then—we stood face to face with one of Ruwenzori’s
glaciers. It was in the shape of a huge, open mouth, and as it slowly
pushed its way down into the valley, the tongue collected the few
fragments rubbed off the rocks and taken up from the soil, but the cave
itself was one spotless mass of dazzling white.
We had decided to dismiss any idea of prolonging our stay at this
altitude, realizing the terrible suffering that this involved among the
porters in previous expeditions, so, instead of using any of the precious
time in attempting to reach a higher point, which seemed futile without
Alpine implements, we explored the Muluku glacier cave, from which flows
that remarkable river that carries its cool, life-giving stream into the
scorching plain till it loses itself in the Albert Edward Lake.
Only one of our personal boys had succeeded in facing out the
difficulties of the climb. While standing on the ice with us, he took out
from his pocket a little tin pot, which he filled with ice. He explained
it was a present for his wife. Afterwards, when we had descended to camp,
he took it out to show the other boys, and, although disgusted beyond
measure at the trick nature had played him, he consoled himself by taking
the water to his wife to explain to her how it was once a stone.
Scrambling up on to the glacier, we looked beyond over miles and miles of
ice that for hundreds of years God—the Creator—alone had been beholding.
Although we were standing nearly 14,000ft. above sea-level, the highest
peak, that rose as a white dome above its companions, appeared miles
above us. It was difficult to judge of its approximate height, as so
many other points intervened, but it could not have been much less than
20,000ft.
[Illustration: BACK FROM THE SNOWS: BAKONJO PORTERS.]
Having climbed above cloud-land, there was nothing to break the reflex in
the ice of the deep sapphire sky, and as the sun poured down its white
heat, the whole world around glittered and sparkled with iridescent hues.
“A step ... opened to my view,
Glory beyond all glory ever seen
By waking sense or by the dreaming soul!
The appearance, instantaneously disclosed,
Was of a mighty city—boldly say
A wilderness of building, sinking far
And self-withdrawn into a boundless depth
Far sinking into splendour—without end!
Fabric it seemed of diamond and of gold,
With alabaster domes and silver spires
And blazing terrace upon terrace high
Uplifted ... Forms uncouth of mightiest power
For admiration and mysterious awe.”
CHAPTER XIX
Missionary Work
Missionary enterprise in Uganda has been justly described as one of
the greatest modern triumphs of Christianity. Indeed, the record of
its workings read like pages from the annals of the infant Church in
Apostolic days. But, whereas in those times Christianity had to face the
most exclusive and bigoted form of belief, Judaism, the highly developed
intellectual power of Grecian learning, and the shameless profligacy of
civilized Rome, in Uganda it has had no force to contend against save
barbaric ignorance that could not stand before the advent of Truth and
Righteousness. After the missionaries had been working some years in the
country it occurred to them that the most effectual way of reaching the
people was to try and meet their insatiable demand for instruction by
instituting throughout the country little synagogues or reading schools,
where the people could come together daily and be taught to read by
one who had received some training. A little graduated reading sheet,
consisting of the alphabet, syllables, words, the Lord’s Prayer, and a
selection of texts, was circulated by the thousand at a charge of ten
cowrie shells each. By these means within a comparatively short time the
land had been sown with portions of Holy Scripture, which were being
eagerly read by the people, who possessed no other books.
Certainly the success of Christianity in Uganda has been due to the
widespread distribution of the Bible among the people and the remarkable
desire and ability on the part of the Baganda to impart whatever
knowledge they have been able to assimilate. It has been rightly said
that every country must be evangelized by its own people. Certainly this
has been proved to be so in Uganda. A European pioneer missionary is
obliged to travel with a certain number of things, and, however meagre
they may appear in his eyes, yet to these poor Africans they represent
great wealth and create a deal of suspicion. They will gather round him
half timidly and full of curiosity, and while he is endeavouring to
deliver his message to them, their eyes are travelling from his collar
stud to his boots, then from his bath to the frying-pan, and all the time
they are thinking within themselves, “Wonderful, wonderful; the white
man is beyond our understanding quite!” When they, at last, attempt to
listen and find that he is speaking to them in their own tongue, and not
in English, in spite of the slight foreign accent, they are absolutely
incredulous, for they cannot believe that they and the European can have
anything in common. The European is white, he has wisdom—great wisdom—he
is rich, but the African is black and a fool, and a beggar; the white
man worships one great, wonderful Spirit, and the black man worships a
spirit—only it is an evil one. On the other hand, if one of the native
converts goes out on pioneer work, he ties all his possessions in a
sleeping mat, and off he starts with the little bundle on his head.
When he reaches his destination, he creates no suspicion or fear, as he
unrolls his mat, shakes out his bark-cloth covering, and takes a drink
of water from his gourd; they see he possesses nothing beyond what they
themselves own. But as he draws out of a little cotton bag a Book, they
all gather round to inspect the novelty, and he tells them that the Book
is a written voice, and the letters stand for the words uttered; he has
learned to read the signs, and he has come to teach them to do so, for
it is God’s voice that has spoken to them. Immediately their excitement
is aroused, and the teacher from that time has found his pupils. As there
is no house large enough to hold them all, they set to work to build a
reading school, and, as many come from a distance and are anxious not
to arrive late for the day’s lessons, a big drum is hung outside the
building and beaten every morning at 7.0 and 1.0 to warn everybody that
in one hour reading will commence. After a few months, when the European
visits the station on an itinerating tour, he finds a demonstrative
welcome awaiting him. Food is brought and banana juice to show their
gratitude for the teacher having been sent. Then their books are produced
in order that the European may hear the great wisdom they have learned,
and others come with questions about words they have read in their
Gospels and do not understand. Uganda to-day is calling out for European
missionaries more than it ever was, not to evangelise the heathen but to
organise, train and instruct the thousands of Christian men and women,
that they may be capable of taking their place among the civilised
nations of the world, and become a praise and a glory in their land.
It was through two young Baganda teachers that Christianity was first
carried into Toro in the year 1895. At that time the country was in a
very unsettled state. The King, Kasagama, had not long been established
on the throne, and his chiefs were not too eager to own allegiance to
him. Soon after the arrival of these two evangelists, Kasagama was
falsely accused before the British Officer in charge of the Government
Station there, and was thrown into the chain gang. On his release he was
advised to go into Mengo to the Government headquarters and have his case
gone into. His stay there ran into some months. During that time he was
deeply impressed by the change that Christianity had effected in Uganda,
and attended the Church classes daily that he might receive instruction.
When Her Majesty’s Commissioner had heard the charges and exonerated
Kasagama he was told to return to his Kingdom with full power ratified by
the British Government. Before leaving Uganda he begged Bishop Tucker to
be allowed to publicly confess his faith in Christ by Holy Baptism, and
asked that a European missionary might be sent to Toro to help him and
his people to increase in the wisdom of God. Meanwhile there was great
excitement in Toro when the people heard that their king, after such a
long absence, was coming back to them, and they collected together in
hundreds at the capital to welcome him. As he mounted the hill, leading
to his house, the people thronged him, dancing and screaming with joy and
poured into his courtyards. Then, standing up and ordering them to remain
quiet, he delivered his speech to them. He told of all the wonderful
things he had seen in Mengo, of his own confession of Christianity in
the Cathedral, and concluded by saying that he wished his country to go
forward in strength and wisdom, and this could only be obtained from
God, so he called on his people to believe in his God, to stand by him
faithfully in the united desire for the good of their country.
From that day the teachers had as much as they could do to instruct all
those who came forward to be taught; and when Bishop Tucker arrived there
the following year with Mr. Fisher, who was to establish a permanent
station, he found fifteen men and women ready for baptism.
Excepting in the case of old people, everyone in Uganda desirous of being
baptised must first learn to read. When they have passed the standard
required of them and are ready to enter a baptismal class, they are
obliged to bring with them two witnesses or sponsors who can vouch for
the sincerity of their belief by the outward conformity of their lives
to the teaching of Christianity. Then, for from three to six months
instruction is given them for two hours four days a week. At the end
of this course of teaching each candidate is carefully examined, and
should the result be satisfactory the name is read out twice in Church
and anyone is asked to bring forward a reason, if such there be, for
keeping back the candidate from baptism. Thus every care is taken to test
converts thoroughly before admitting them into this sacred rite.
Toro very soon sought to emulate the church in Uganda in recognising its
responsibility to those living in darkness around, and one year after the
founding of the work in the capital, young men came forward and offered
themselves to be trained as teachers to the distant villages. Apart from
an honest desire to enlighten those who have not received the Truth as
it is in Christ Jesus, there is little to tempt men to devote themselves
to this service—the only payment they receive is sufficient unbleached
calico with which to clothe themselves. The people in the villages who
have sent in the pressing request for a teacher are expected to build
their own “synagogue,” as well as house, and feed the teacher sent to
them. In this way the whole native church organisation throughout the
Protectorate is self-supporting. In Toro alone, seven years after the
introduction of Christianity, there were no less than eighty-five mission
stations established throughout the Kingdom, with a staff of one ordained
Muganda deacon and one hundred and five paid men and women teachers, all
supported entirely by the young Christian Church. Besides these there was
a strong band of honorary workers who taught in the capital on weekdays
or went out to the near villages on Sundays.
Once a year there is a “review of the troops,” when all the
teachers—regulars, reservists, and volunteers—come into the capital for
re-equipment and reappointment.
One of these events took place after we had been in the country only a
few months, when we were decidedly new to the way things were managed
out here, and still retained a fair amount of the provincialism of home
training; so when a teachers’ conference was announced we conjured up in
our minds a kind of forthcoming Mildmay or Keswick Convention on a small
scale, but the arrangements took a slightly different form. The first day
opened with a big feast to all the workers. The dispensary was converted
for the day into the banquetting hall; the entrance was draped in gaudy
native cloths, and the floors of the two rooms were carpeted with banana
leaves. The men were allocated to one room and the women to the other.
Long before the hour of the feast the guests had arrived and packed
themselves as closely together as was possible in circles of seven or
eight, the King and his chiefs forming one of the groups. An ox had been
killed for the feast; it was boiled in banana leaves and served up with
quantities of unsweetened, cooked bananas. Prodigious piles were placed
in the centre of each circle of guests, and then business began! Off came
their top draperies or coats, and with bare arms all eagerly outstretched
towards the food they dived into their food with astonishing rapidity
and energy. The banana mash was rolled round the fingers into balls and
stuffed down their throats without any regard being given to mastication.
The King and chiefs seemed to momentarily forget their dignity, and ate
till the perspiration rolled down their faces. Tea was served round in
kettles; every available cup, mug, basin and jug on the station had been
collected together for the use of the guests—and the two-quarts jugs were
far more popular than afternoon tea cups.
With no small compunction I submitted myself to the native custom and
joined in the feast. After a series of hand ablutions I sat on the floor
next to the King’s mother, who picked some of the choicest bits of meat
off a bone and set them before me. It was such an effort for 3.0 p.m. in
the tropics, and visions of Mildmay’s shilling tea tent, with its ices
and strawberries, made at least the first stage of the Conference appear
very different.
The King’s band, with its medley of instruments, round drums, cylindrical
drums, squat drums, horns, and reed pipes decorated with monkey tails,
performed boisterous symphonies outside. But when, after the feast, the
people were for the first time introduced to the phonograph, the Toro
band stood still in astonishment, and as an English orchestral band
roared out “Soldiers of the Queen” it felt quite eclipsed and could only
exclaim “Ekyamahano, ekyamahano” (marvellous, truly marvellous).
The following day the real Convention started, and was continued
over three days. The mornings were entirely given over to devotional
meetings, and in the afternoons the workers were asked to bring forward
difficulties met with in their work, and discussions were invited as
to what more effectual measures could be employed in organisation and
in strengthening of the various mission stations. Throughout all the
meetings a deep and earnest interest was evinced by the teachers. It was
most encouraging to watch the enthusiasm gradually growing and to hear
the young teachers talk of their work and their peculiar difficulties
relating to the subject treated.
A specially impressive service was held when all the workers gathered
in from near and far distant heathen districts met together at Holy
Communion.
Before returning to their spheres of service a large missionary meeting
was held in the church, at which most stirring accounts were given of
the victories against the powers of darkness. At the close, a collection
was taken up. For this a large packing case was placed in the centre of
the chancel to receive the larger contributions and a row of baskets for
the smaller offerings. Then the people came up in single file to place
in their gifts; one brought a tusk of ivory, another a huge bundle of
bananas, others beans, potatoes, and sugar cane, the Queen forty yards of
fine white linen, others chickens, and finally a goat was brought up and
tied to the pillar. One little boy, carried away by the impulse of the
moment, put his little fez cap into the basket, and as this was only a
loan it had to be redeemed afterwards.
The sight was very remarkable. It was as if one had been taken back to
the Court of the Tabernacle at the Feast of First fruits. The similarity
of these people’s lives with those of Old and New Testament history is
so strong that it is difficult to convey to the native mind the idea of
distance in time, and often one is asked if Joseph, the son of Jacob, was
the husband of the Virgin Mary, or if Paul before his conversion was the
first King of Israel.
The Toro Church has now reached its sifting time. The excitement and
rash enthusiasm of infancy have matured into the more evenly balanced
judgment of manhood. Its disciples are learning to weigh the demands of
its tenets, its refusal to compromise with sin and with almost everything
that has constituted their existence for centuries past, and its call
for constant activity of heart and hand as opposed to the intolerable
indolence of their nature. All these things must constantly be borne in
mind by the missionary if he is not to be unnecessarily depressed by
occasional failure on the part of the converts. One must not look for
impossibilities, and the growth of past centuries cannot be destroyed in
a day. I am not sure but that too much is expected of the young teachers.
For instance one goes out to the villages when only quite a youth with a
hereditary taint, many generations old, of the worst forms of heathenism
as against two or three years of religious instruction. He is the only
Christian in the village, and, indeed, for miles round; and there he is
surrounded by the old heathen practices and constantly tempted to return
to habits of the past, while he has not the same normal amount of moral
and intellectual strength which nerves an English lad to fight against
these external influences and internal tendencies. And yet only about
twenty per cent. of them really fail.
King Daudi Kasagama once said that the white man could never understand
how fierce was the black man’s conflict with himself at times. The one
has generations of civilization and Christianity as a rear-guard, and the
other, centuries of corruption and self-indulgence. Without trust in a
Divine keeping power, said he, one would inevitably fall. Ten years have
now passed by since the Baganda teachers left for heathen Toro, and in
that time the character of almost the entire country has been practically
transformed. British jurisdiction has established peace throughout the
Kingdom, and now that an end has been put to tribal and civil warfare,
there is nothing to distract the mind of the people from settling down
and learning to improve their land.
In the districts that have come under the influence of Christianity,
heathenism has been abolished, if not absolutely at least in the outward
form of practice. Over three thousand converts have been baptized, and
although this only represents a very small proportion of the inhabitants,
it includes mainly the more influential and leading body of men.
The desire of the Batoro for teaching and their love of reading promise
much for the future of the country if this can be satisfactorily coped
with immediately and not starved by inability on the part of the
missionaries to meet the need. It certainly cannot be said of Uganda
and Toro “of the making of books there is no end.” The Baganda are, I
believe, limited to ten books, namely:—
Holy Bible.
Prayer Book.
Hymn Book.
Oxford Bible Helps.
“Search and Find.”
Geography Book.
“Pilgrim’s Progress.”
“Kings of Uganda.”
English Primer.
Commentaries on three Gospels.
Those of the Batoro who do not understand Luganda and so are confined
to books written in their own language, only possess the New Testament,
Prayer Book, with Psalms and Hymn Book. Through the generous aid of the
British and Foreign Bible Society, the Religious Tract Society, and the
S.P.C.K., which have provided the country with almost the whole of its
literature, these books have been supplied at a cost price, much under
their cost of production and carriage, so as to bring them within the
possible reach of the people, who, as a whole, are exceedingly poor.
But even so, it is generally necessary, in the villages especially, for
the people to make real efforts to supply themselves with books they
require. A curious scene was enacted in the courtyard of our house when
the teachers came in from their stations on the first Monday in every
month to execute the orders for books or stationery entrusted to them
by their people. Our yard was temporarily converted into a live-stock
market, for the purchases were rarely made with cash. The most popular
currency was cowrie shells, which were tied up in bundles by means of
dried banana bark, but when these were beyond the means of the would-be
purchaser, he would send in by his teacher a goat, or chickens, or eggs.
A curious shaped till was needed by the salesman! One of his orders would
be for “One chicken, Matthew,” which being interpreted was “One Gospel of
St. Matthew, price one chicken.”
Another man, after purchasing a hymn book for six eggs, would ask if he
had enough eggs over to buy Bunyan. It frequently happened that a lad
had been carefully collecting the eggs from his one hen for weeks, but
as the hen had not been very obliging by the time the right number was
reached, the salesman was distinctly out of profit through his customer.
Others, who possessed nothing saleable, came in from distances of ten to
fifteen miles and asked to be hired for work during the day, in the late
afternoon they would set off on their journey home the proud owners of
the little hymn book or reading sheet which had been thoroughly earned.
At the close of one of the terms of the teachers’ preparation class,
prizes were to be given for the best answers at their examination, and
the first prize was to be the option of four yards of calico or a Bible.
The one who on this particular occasion stood out preeminently first
was a peasant youth of about eighteen years of age with exceptionally
well-formed and forceful features. His dress consisted of a coarse piece
of the bark-cloth knotted on the shoulder: having come from a distant
district he had never known the luxury of the calico garments worn by the
more fortunate town folk. As he came forward to receive his prize, the
choice between the calico and the Bible was given him. For a while he
stood handling the material, then looked down at his own shabby garment;
but it was only a momentary hesitation—laying aside the calico, he took
up the Bible and clasping it with both hands, said “My master, the Bible
has got the better of the cloth.”
CHAPTER XX
Medical Work
Realising that the acquisition of the language would be slow work, with
no books to study, and only five hours teaching a week, I had decided on
arriving in Toro to plunge into work right away. It was not a case of
going out in search of work, for outside one’s very door was the mute
call for help. When the tidings of our arrival had filtered through to
the villages, sick folk came from every direction to see if the white
women had brought medicine. In our courtyard each morning there was quite
a large company of maimed, halt and blind, who had hobbled along, or been
brought in, some from very long distances, by their friends. The very
prevalent forms of skin diseases, ulcers, and the hacking cough required
no language even for diagnosis by an amateur dispenser; other patients,
by eloquent grunts and gesticulations, managed to convey some idea of
their complaints; and the remaining class, whose language and sickness
were conundrums to the European “quack,” received a mild dose of nauseous
physic; certainly it did them no harm, and in some cases their faith in
that dose of “white man’s medicine” worked the cure.
At first I used to receive the sick folk on our verandah, but they became
too numerous, so a removal was effected. The first house of the European
missionary in Toro was still standing, but was quite uninhabitable, as
it had been made of reeds which rot very quickly. It stood in a very
forest of weeds. The long elephant grass barred all the windows and
doors against would-be intruders, snakes suspiciously lay hidden among
the thick tangled undergrowth, and a few half-choked flowers struggled
to exist as a witness to a past cared-for garden and in protest against
their present usurpers.
A few days of hard work with hoe and shovel cleared a breathing space all
round the house, the ceilings and walls were swept down and repaired,
new beaten mud floors laid in all the three rooms, shelves and boxes
fixed up as fittings, a rough table, chair, enamel wash-hand basin
brought in as furniture, and there was a splendid dispensary quite
formidable in appearance and decidedly pretentious for one who possessed
no qualifications beyond a few months hospital training. In Africa a
little knowledge is not dangerous so much as useful. The most appalling
forms of suffering are met with on every hand, and nothing but inhuman,
superstitious, and absolutely ineffectual means are employed to alleviate
it. Even if one can only cleanse and bind up the wounds and pour in oil,
the look of gratitude and contentment that reward the soothing of the
pain reminds one that it has not been wasted labour.
This first dispensary consisted of three apartments, the “consulting
room,” drug store, and waiting room, where patients assembled every
morning at 8.30 for instruction in reading and a short bright gospel
service. This primitive medical work was a distinctly effectual means
of reaching the bakopi (peasants), who had not hitherto been touched
in any large numbers. The King having been the first in the country to
adopt Christianity, the work in its initial stage had extended almost
exclusively to the upper classes, while the “foreign” language had been
an obstacle to the peasants who could not understand it.
It was frequently found that the curiosity and interest of patients in
the letters and syllables were so awakened that when there was no longer
need to attend the dispensary several passed on to the school to be
further instructed.
One of the first patients was an old man who had been receiving
ulcer medicine from the missionary then in charge. Although his hair
was sprinkled with grey, and he suffered from an impediment in his
speech, nothing would daunt him in his assiduous struggles to master
the alphabet. Day after day he came, and even when cured of his ulcer
continued coming, as he was afraid to go to the big school to learn.
Actually he did in time master words of three letters, and then, as he
was so anxious to be baptized, he was put into an old men’s daily Bible
Class for instruction. His joy was beyond description when with tears
streaming down from his eyes he came to me one day saying, “My mistress,
I have finished being questioned, and now I am going to be baptized.” I
asked him, “Mpisi, will baptism save us?” And he answered, “Oh no, only
Jesus who died for us on the Cross.” “Then what is the use of baptism?”
“Well,” said he, “Christ told us to believe and be baptized, and it shows
that we want to leave our bad habits and follow the habits of Christ.”
From that day he has rarely missed coming to the dispensary, not always
for medicine, but that he might teach the patients what he has learned.
A daily attendance of thirty to fifty sick folk soon exhausted our
limited supply of drugs, and when Dr. and Mrs. A. Cook, on an itinerating
round, paid a medical visit to Toro twelve months after our arrival
they found the medicine almost completely used up. Till the arrival of
fresh stores the patients were being kept together by supplementing the
diminished stock with table salt, mixed spice, and curry powder. This
latter I found was a much-appreciated prescription, and as none of the
missionaries were partial to it and each had a good supply among their
stores, I dispensed it generously to dyspeptic patients. You never saw
such agonizing grimaces as when they swallowed a spoonful raw, but they
smacked their lips, saying, “Omubazi mubingi muno muno,” “Medicine very
very good,” and would have finished off the whole tin if they had been
allowed.
That visit from the real “medicine-man” was a grand time for our people,
and they were not slow to show their appreciation and wonderment when
opthalmic patients found themselves with “new windows,” and surgical
subjects, the possessors of “new bodies.” After that the Toro dispensary
became amalgamated with the Mengo Medical Mission, and was regularly
supplied with medicines. The chief diseases met with out there are skin
complaints, malaria, dyspepsia, pleurisy, bronchitis, besides paralysis,
muscular rheumatism, dysentery, and pneumonia. Owing to the inexperience
of the dispenser nothing surgical was attempted in those days beyond
lancing abscesses and gums, cutting tongue-tied infants, and stitching up
leopard-torn patients. One man was brought in from a leopard hunt in a
terrible condition; limbs and body were badly damaged, while the face was
scarcely visible, the flesh of forehead and one cheek having been torn
away, exposing bone and teeth. The extraordinary thing was, that after
weeks and weeks of careful treatment, some very deep scars were the only
signs remaining of the terrible ordeal he had passed through.
These Batoro have grown absolutely reckless in the hunt. Their method
is to surround the spot where the leopard is known to lie crouched,
and slashing down the thick vegetation that conceals their prey, they
gradually draw closer and form a smaller circle round it. All the time
they scream and pour down invectives on the head of the leopard, and by
the time it actually appears in sight they have worked themselves up
into such a state of excitement that, losing all self-control, some will
actually throw themselves upon the infuriated creature. With one last
death effort the leopard throws all the strength of its fury into its
final attack; torn, and perhaps with mangled limb, the man is released
from the grasp of his foe by a hundred spears being run through its body.
The injured are then borne on stretchers in triumph to the dispensary,
and while the wounds are being attended to, the carriers and friends laud
the extraordinary prowess of the patient. Every man who is able to carry
home a blood-stained spear is sure of his wife killing the fattest goat
or cooking the best possible meal in their honour.
One day, while dispensing medicine, an unusual shuffling and pushing
seemed to be going on in the doorway, and walking round to find out
the cause, I saw a cow being pushed by force toward me. The herdsman
explained that it was very sick with “Kifuba” (chest—generally meaning
indigestion). In order to quickly get rid of this undesirable patient I
mixed up some castor oil with salt and ordered it to be administered in
one hour’s time. I thought that would allow the cow and its master to get
a safe distance off.
I rather regretted this afterwards, for very soon another veterinary case
was brought in for treatment. This time it was our own faithful Muscat
donkey; it was suffering terribly from the plague of flies that generally
appear in the dry season. The poor creature’s legs were absolutely raw,
and it had almost lost the power of standing. After the donkey boy had
applied antiseptic washing and ointment I tried to fix on bandages,
but donkey’s legs were evidently never made the right shape for that—I
could not get the bandages to stick. Mr. Fisher was then consulted on
the point, and of course, man-like, he suggested trousers. It really
sounded very suitable, so I set to work on a pair, and when the donkey
was put into them he looked most distinguished. The people gathered round
in numbers to see it, and exclaimed, “What honour the European gives
his animal!” There were several spectators who were not clothed so
magnificently, and being afraid of giving the impression of extravagant
waste, I explained to them the object of the garment and our ideas of
kindness to dumb animals. The donkey did not take at all kindly to his
first pair of trousers; perhaps they did not fit well; at all events, he
kicked them to pieces in two days. A second pair was made on a modified
scale, and whether or not the owner had cultivated more civilised
instincts, it is not easy to affirm, but they remained intact till they
were no longer needed, and the owner was able to run about and be up to
his usual pranks again.
Great care has to be exercised in administering drugs, as the people have
absolutely no idea as to how they act on the system. Medicine intended
to last for some days has often been swallowed down in one dose, as they
argue that if so much physic can cure them at all, the sooner it is taken
the better. Powders for internal use have been received with incredulity
and sometimes scorn by those suffering from skin diseases, and they will
insist on impressing the dispenser that they are quite well inside.
If, with all their persuasion, they cannot obtain some blue stone to
apply to the sore (which they simply love, as it causes them to scream
uncontrollably), then they go off with their packet of powders and show
the superiority of their wisdom to that of the white doctor by using it
externally.
One of the very few medicines that it is absolutely necessary to keep
under lock and key is sulphur, which is well known to them as an
unfailing skin remedy when mixed up with butter. Our cook once bribed one
of my little assistants to smuggle some away for him, and being misled by
the similarity in appearance, the lad gave him iodiform instead. This he
mixed up into an ointment and smeared well all over his body. As he sent
up dinner that evening iodiform was as pronounced as oil is in a German
table d’hote. It was soup à l’iodiform, viande à l’iodiform, confection à
l’iodiform, café à l’iodiform, in fact there was no getting away from it.
When we left the table in despair we were like a chemist’s laboratory.
As for ideas of hygiene, these are absolutely absent from the native’s
mind. When a person is very ill, regardless of her station in life, she
is carried into the dirtiest and smallest hut. This is soon crowded up
with well-meaning and sympathetic friends, whose one idea of condolence
seems to be to assure the invalid that she is on the point of dying.
The hut continues filling up till the only inlet for fresh air (the
cramped doorway) is entirely blocked up, by which time the condition and
atmosphere of the hut becomes so indescribable that it is a wonder anyone
comes out alive. These things suggested to my mind that a few elementary
lessons on hygiene might perhaps prove beneficial, so, taking to my
afternoon class a diagram of the human body, I described to them the
anatomy of the body, blood circulation, &c. Their interest and surprise
were great. They had always imagined that blood circulated from the head.
This was their argument for cutting their heads in cases of fever; they
reasoned that malaria was an over-heating of superfluous amount of blood,
so they must let out some. At first they were inclined to doubt the
soundness of the new theory of circulation from the heart, and asked “can
a river flow up, does it not always flow down?” “What about a spring?”
said I. They thought for one moment, and then answered “The European’s
wisdom has overcome ours.” Then a new difficulty struck them, how was it
in the case of women, for they had no hearts. Their old King Kabarega,
when he killed off his wives, had cut open some, and never found one with
a heart. So the statement had become an accepted fact with them. How
could they have believed such an error!
They also imagined that mind was tucked away in the heart, and did not
in the least associate brain with intellect. Poor woman, minus heart,
therefore minus mind, was very poorly endowed.
Their attention and interest were very keen, and did not seem to diminish
when the moral was applied in the shape of ablutions, fresh air, and the
care of the body being essentials to health.
It is sometimes difficult to arrive at an exact diagnosis of a patient’s
ailment. One will describe her complaint, pointing to her lungs, as a
voice inside that says “Chew, chew.” Another affirm that a spear is
running into every part of his body. Infants are always suffering from
evil spirits or poisoning, in cases when a dose of dill water would be
generally prescribed.
Although I have occasionally met with a native doctor in a sick house, I
have never been able to discover a native drug or remedy outside cupping,
branding, and revolting forms of witchcraft. These men make a regular
study of the art of deception and exact exorbitant fees in the form of
goats or even oxen. As an example let me give the case of a lad who was
suffering from tuberculosis. He had consulted the witch doctor, and after
having paid his fee was told that he had been poisoned. Whereupon the
“surgeon” drew his knife out from his belt and made a number of small
incisions. He then declared he could see the poison inside the youth and
took it away. But the lad was not cured and so came down to give the
European’s wisdom a trial.
This ignorant credulity of the people has sometimes proved useful to
the white man in times of extremity. In one instance a European noticed
that his daily supply of milk was continually disappearing in an
unaccountable way, and one day he determined to investigate the cause.
It had been proved that the cows were not to blame; they had given their
usual supply. The milk boy was cleared, for the boys of the household
vouched for having seen it being delivered. The discrepancy in the
amount had unmistakably occurred in the cook house, where the cook alone
was resident at the time. So the culprit was called up to be examined.
He insisted on his innocence declaring all the while that he did not
know how to drink milk. As no eye-witnesses could be called the idea
struck the “magistrate” that he would conclude the matter quickly and
unquestionably by their own means. Turning to a youth close by he said
“Just fetch me my little pocket knife to bore a hole and see if the milk
is inside the cook.” Whereupon the culprit fell on his knees exclaiming,
“Oh, master, I did drink the milk. Forgive me, I pray you.”
After the affiliation of the Toro branch with the medical headquarters
at Mengo, the work was placed on a far more satisfactory basis. A report
had to be sent in every three months with statistics dealing with
daily attendance at the dispensary, out-patients’ visits, etc. Then,
in addition to this, a list was made out yearly of drugs and dressings
needed for the forthcoming twelve months, which ensured an adequate
and regular supply of medicine. The work, however, passed through a
varied succession of small vicissitudes. Our faked-up building had to
be pulled down, as the site was needed for a new missionary’s house,
but in exchange we got a brand-new airy dispensary. We scarcely knew
ourselves with such spacious surroundings, and the two little native
assistants, who had been trained to attend to all dressings, assumed
quite a ridiculous air of professional importance, to say nothing of
the feelings of the quack doctor! But at the end of a fortnight we were
completely evicted from our grand premises—patients, staff, drugs, and
all. A violent storm had destroyed the only house that had been standing
ready to receive a fresh addition to the staff of missionaries, which was
then only within a few days of arrival in Toro. As there was not another
available inch, the new dispensary had to be speedily converted into a
domicile.
Feeling decidedly crest-fallen, my little assistants and I packed up all
the medical impedimenta and carried them over to a little reed building
that had been the reading school till the constantly increasing inside
pack had necessitated more ceremonious premises.
We completed our removal, and had not been installed many weeks when a
furious hurricane swept over the little hill capital, and succeeding in
throwing our new dispensary completely over on its side. When the debris
and roof were cleared away, a most heterogeneous collection of medicines
were revealed, all hopelessly mixed up in wild confusion. Pills of every
shape and form were scattered about, bottles of liquid drugs, and stock
mixtures had been smashed up, and the combination of odours was enough to
frighten away all the microbes for miles round. Once more, and for the
fourth time, the dispensary was transferred to different quarters, and
there it remained until the present complete medical compound was erected
at the advent of the much-longed-for and long-expected doctor in 1904.
Through the generosity of a friend in England the “Gurney Hospital” and
new dispensary were then built, together with the doctor’s house. The
former is a good-sized building consisting of two wards for thirty-four
patients, besides consulting and waiting rooms, while the broad ten-foot
verandah which runs all round allows ample space for convalescents.
At first the Batoro were inclined to be fearful of undergoing chloroform,
but King Kasagama, half out of curiosity and half out of a real desire
that his people should derive the fullest benefit from the “doctor’s
wisdom,” successfully banished these fears. One morning he came down to
the dispensary asking that a slight ulcer from which he was suffering
might be lanced under chloroform. This was kept a profound secret from
his people till it happened to reach the ears of his mother just as he
was getting over the operation. The poor old lady came bustling down in
breathless speed very fearful of the effects the “sleeping medicine”
might have had on her son. She was intensely relieved to find that
nothing worse had resulted than rather a sorry expression on the usual
smiling countenance of the patient. It soon became the topic of the hour,
and even to the distant villages the news spread. From that time surgery
was in great demand; in fact it became a kind of fashionable epidemic.
The need for medical work in these parts is seen in the one hundred to
one hundred and fifty out-patients that came up every day for doctoring,
and the scarcity of vacant beds ever since the opening of the new
hospital. Indeed it seems a practical impossibility to carry out to
these people the message of love, peace, and goodwill unless one can at
the same time do something to alleviate the terrible physical suffering
to which they are subject. Besides being a most effectual channel for
conveying balm and healing to their souls, the object lessons given
to the in-patients must accomplish much in introducing new ideas of
cleanliness and possible comfort into their own poor, dirty homes.
CHAPTER XXI
Scholastic Work
There are many people who, not being quite up-to-date in missionary
literature, have an idea that the work of a missionary in such places
as Africa is to stand under the shade of a huge sun-hat, umbrella, and
palm-tree, in the broiling heat of the day, and preach to a small crowd
of open-mouthed astonished semi-savages. The picture does not attract
them, and they dismiss the subject from their minds with “I could never
be a missionary.”
Well, although I have found in Africa the identical topee, the umbrella,
palm-tree, the broiling sun, and a few gaping crowds, yet the picture
is a painful distortion of the truth. If there is one thing that a
missionary has less to do with than any other, it is preaching—at
least, that is so in Uganda. He rather assumes the rôles of teacher,
schoolmaster, builder, carpenter, doctor, nurse, and everything else, for
he has learned that the African cannot be a saint without being a scholar
and an artisan, any more than men of other nations can.
Besides the more direct spiritual work and the medical work that are
being carried on in Toro, there are also industrial and educational
departments. This former branch has not been developed to any extent,
owing to the lack of workers, but, as far as he is able, King Daudi
Kasagama personally superintends it. Being most anxious that his people
should be instructed in useful trades, some years ago he sent a youth,
Iburahimu, into Mengo to be apprenticed for two years to carpentering at
the Industrial Mission of the Church Missionary Society. When the period
had transpired and the lad had served his time, Daudi wrote to England
ordering Rs.300 worth of tools, and, close to his own house, the King had
a large suitable shed erected. Iburahimu was then installed as Carpenter
to the Royal Household, and twenty youths, who had signed for a two
years’ apprenticeship, were placed under him for instruction.
[Illustration: A SCHOOL IN TORO.]
Any serving lad of the King who was employed on no particular service,
and refused to be taught, was put in the chain gang for three months; for
His Majesty was determined to put a price on loafing in his household.
The entire educational work of Uganda is being carried on in Church
Schools. Receiving no subsidy from the British Government, up to the
present there has been no question of Education bills, and consequently
there are no passive resisters among the Baganda!
The School system is, I believe, the one adopted by the Americans in
their board schools, where boys and girls learn together, and no social
distinctions are recognized, but in Uganda, besides non-differentiation
of sex and caste, there are also no age limitation—children, parents, and
grandparents all attend the reading schools.
On reaching Toro, Miss Pike immediately took over this department of
the work, and within a few months the School had outgrown two different
buildings, and an extension had to be contemplated in order to make room
for the 300 average daily attendances. As soon as this was made known, a
willing band of workers was collected together under the Katikiro, and
started throwing out the end of the mud building. I am quite sure no
Member of Parliament ever laboured more strenuously than this one did!
Whether it was levelling the soil, demolishing the old wall, erecting the
new, or roofing it in, he was always in the thick of it. But his dignity
would not permit him to throw aside any of his superfluous garments!
And the coarse, Jaeger-coloured vest, tweed coat and waistcoat, and top
layers of draperies proved very oppressive. Every now and again he sank
back in his chair quite exhausted, gorgeous coloured handkerchiefs were
applied as mops to his steaming brow, and two attendants stood round with
an umbrella and fan.
A mistress in these reading schools must be free from any neuralgic
or nervous tendencies. I was simply overcome with admiration at the
spirit of fortitude and calm endurance that my colleague was displaying
when I paid my first visit to the Toro seminary. Morning prayers had
been concluded, and the School had sorted itself out into about twenty
classes, which represented various grades, from the alphabet to St.
Matthew’s Gospel stage, and each was presided over by a native teacher.
The scholars were a queer medley; chiefs clothed in their white linen
gowns sat on tiny round stools, which they brought tucked under their
arm, and in the same class, struggling over the same letters, were seated
on the ground serving boys, probably their own, and raw peasants. Women
who had just left their cultivation and, strapping the baby to their
shoulders, hurried off to school, were sitting with quite small infants,
perhaps being taught their syllables by their own little daughters.
Excepting in the alphabet classes, the scholars sat in a circle round
their teacher who, with a strand of grass, pointed to the letters
which all the pupils were expected to shout out together. The one
little reading sheet only allowed those directly in front to read the
letters right way up; the others, who were careful to take up the same
position each day, learnt at all angles. Quite a large proportion of
the Batoro are able to read their books upside down in consequence.
When all the classes were fairly started and each of the three hundred
pupils was trying his best to drown his neighbour’s voice, the noise
was indescribable. Each class had its own formula which was recited
metrically. Take for instance, the one dealing with syllables of three
letters—all the pupils sang out “b—w—a, we call it bwa,” then the teacher
intoning, asked “how many letters and what are they called,” and the
answer was shouted back “letters three, b—w—a, and they are always bwa.”
Then they tackled b—w—e, b—w—i, b—w—o, in the same way and so on all
down the alphabet. While this pandemonium is going on, one after another
is sent up by his teacher to be examined by the European. The pupil
who answers satisfactorily is then given a pass to a higher form; he
returns to his old class to receive the profuse congratulations of his
contemporaries, and then marches off to his new quarters full of pride
and elation.
[Illustration: THE BAKONJO AT HOME.]
One would wonder how it is possible to ever learn to read in such a
hubbub, but the Batoro have a remarkable power of insulating themselves
from their environment, and some have been known to pass right through
the school, from the alphabet to the highest reading class in four months.
Until 1902 no other secular subjects were taught excepting writing, but
at that time it was thought advisable to increase the educational work
amongst the Christian men and women, consequently two separate schools
were arranged for them in which they could be taught writing, arithmetic,
geography, and dictation.
Miss Pike, who was then in charge of the women’s work, took over their
school, and I was responsible for the other.
My pupils consisted of members from the Toro Cabinet, House of Lords and
House of Commons! The Katikiro, our Lord Chief Justice, was nominated
school chastiser. Corporal punishment was his usual method of dealing
with a noisy scholar; with a sudden bound off his chair he made a rush at
the culprit, and if he was not quite sure who the offender was he struck
a box on the ears at all in the vicinity of the noise. The King reserved
for himself the office of school inspector, and generally looked in on
his way home from morning service at the Church.
Arithmetic was not at all an easy subject to start teaching these people,
and they could not for a long time understand figures in the abstract.
Numeration was the thing they were started on. With a blackboard and
chalk I wrote up the usual 1, 10, 100, and then attempted an explanation.
One pupil instantly interrupted with “But what are the ten?” “Oh, I said,
ten anything, ten chickens or ten eggs.” “But if it’s a chicken how can
it be an egg,” he replied. The Katikiro found arithmetic very difficult.
He stuck at “twice two” for days; he would insist that it made twenty,
and even when he was convinced otherwise, his memory refused to agree
with his conviction. But when he at last mastered the “two times” table
and numeration up to a million, he rubbed his hands with satisfaction,
and exclaimed “What wisdom!” When Kasagama heard of the different
subjects being taught he evidently thought that tailoring ought to be
included, for, one day he sent down a lad with a roll of white duck, and
an earnest request that I would teach him how to make coats. The boy was
sent away with an explanation that in our country men did the tailoring.
But His Majesty was not to be put off, and so the message came back
“would ‘Bwana Fisher’ teach him?” Our protestations only called forth
more beseeching requests, so in despair I took a pattern from a London
coat and showed the boy how to put it together. The result was far from
being complimentary to the original, but Kasagama did not take into
consideration the cut, so much as the fact that it _was_ a coat.
A few of the more promising pupils used to come together each afternoon
for extra instruction, in order that they might be able to help in
the morning school which was getting beyond the work of one person.
Elementary astronomy was added to their list of subjects, and was a theme
of intense interest and wonderment to them. One afternoon a very simple
explanation had been given them on how the world was held up in space by
the law of gravitation. After asking a number of questions they begged
me to teach them nothing more that day, for they wanted to take the
words away and think them out. One man, who was a Muganda, stayed behind
and very apologetically, as if afraid of suggesting that he doubted the
veracity of my words, he asked if the world is held up by gravitation,
how did it manage for the first three days, for in Genesis we read that
the sun, moon, and stars were created on the fourth!
Uganda to-day presents a land rising from a sleep of centuries. The
outside world in its onward march has stepped in, and with its Babel of
Tongues roused the people from their long deep slumber. Thus startled
out of lethargy, the surprised nation stands gazing in wonderment at a
great world controlled by undreamed-of mental and moral forces. And a new
desire has been born within them, a desire to bring themselves under the
same irresistible powers. The possibility is there, but the guiding of
the mind and soul of the people cannot be undertaken by itself. England
holds herself responsible for the protection of its national life, and it
is for the Church of God to-day to stand at the helm, and steer past the
rocks and shoals till the people have learned to take over the control
themselves.
FOOTNOTES
[1] Native guards or soldiers.
[2] Surely the most ardent critic of missions could not have failed to
be convinced of the reality of these people’s Christianity had he looked
at the order of this great service. Their reverent behaviour as they
worshipped in a church built with their own hands, and listened to one of
their own native clergy, must have deeply impressed even the most cynical
onlooker.
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