Читать книгу Mission to Kilimanjaro - Alexandre Le Roy - Страница 16

Where is Vanga? The Town and its Population.

A Magician’s Secret. Rescuing an Innocent.

On Strike. A Prison Door.

We got to Vanga after marching for four hours across lonely lagoons, muddy marshland, and remnants of forests.3 Vanga is a small town belonging to the old Vumba country, which is still represented here by an old and powerless chief, a Diwani, whose name is Mohammed. He said that his family came from Jeddah in Arabia and claims to be the ruler of all the people of the coastline as far as Pangani, despite the claims of the Sultan of Zanzibar, the Germans, and the British. Alas! What a lot of princes there are throughout the world who lack nothing except the actual power to rule.

In fact, who really owns Vanga? When Britain and Germany divided the country, this was a major problem for the two of them. Recourse was had to the map, as though it were a source of scientific certainty. Then it was found that the map put Vanga to the south of the river Umba, therefore in German territory, but in the actual layout of the land, Vanga was north of the river, in the British zone. The first explorer who had drawn the first map, had thought that a stretch of water was the river’s estuary, but in fact it was only a lagoon! There was a very definite disagreement, but the two sides did not want to resort to war, so they agreed to seek arbitration, and the chosen arbitrator was the commander of a French warship at harbor in Zanzibar.

He asked, “Is there salt water in Vanga?”

“Plenty,” replied the German representative.

“Then it is British.”

However, the German did not accept this.

“Then,” said the Frenchman, “let us rely on the judgment of Solomon. When the tide is in, and Vanga is surrounded by water, it will be British. When the tide is out, it will be German.”

This proposal was not, however, accepted, and it was decided that River Umba, which enters the sea half an hour’s walk south from the town, would be the boundary between the two spheres of interest. Vanga then belongs to the British, or to the Sultan of Zanzibar, who is under British protection. His representative there is the governor, an old Baluchi soldier, who cannot be called educated, as he does not know how to read, but who seems honest.

The town is built on a stretch of ground rather higher than the lagoons which surround it. At the season of very high tides, it is surrounded by water on all sides, and any Europeans who wanted to come there to spend their salaries would find it quite unattractive. It contains at the present time perhaps 2,000–3,000 inhabitants, namely Arabs, Swahilis, Africans, some free but many more slaves, with an Indian who is in charge of the customs office, and some Hindu traders. Small East African boats come into the harbor often. Some years ago a wall of stone, with a quadrangular shape, was built to defend the town against raids by the notorious Mbaruku, the terror of all the coastal area.

We camped in the shelter of coconut trees, at a cool, dry place where the wind from the sea played gently around us. We stayed there for two days.

Such as it is, with its unsatisfactory harbor and its malaria, Vanga has a certain relative importance. First of all, it is, as we have said, the town which marks the southernmost point of British territory, and an agent of the Imperial British East African Company lives opposite it, at Chuyu. Then, between Mombasa and Tanga, it is the coastal town which has most local boat traffic, indigenous traders, and people from the hinterland—Digo, Segeju, Pare, Taita, and Kamba—each coming with his products, his needs, his style of clothing, and his own facial appearance.

Naturally, our arrival, which was, as always announced by our men giving a volley of rifle shots, created some excitement in the place, and we were soon surrounded by a crowd of curious well-wishers, who helped us to set up camp: men, women, goats, hens, sheep, and children.

Among them, we immediately picked out a big fellow, who had a very unusual air, very definitely a rural African, and, to be fair, with something likeable about him. He came from Kamba country, up north, a long way in from the coast. From the point of view of public order, he was a vagabond. By profession, he was a magician. His dress was a real warehouse of rags, bits of skins, gourds, horns, claws, shells, bit of wood, and anthropological curiosities of every kind; his stature, his manner, his head, and his rig-out, all gave him the respect of the local people. From childhood onwards, he has been a wanderer in the African world, and he can speak in detail about all the villages and encampments spread out between Mount Kenya and Kilimanjaro, and from Vanga to Kavirondo. Straightaway, he told us about a route for crossing from Vanga to Taita and from there to Taveta, where we had been planning to go, across the great desert plateau, which has already been mentioned. This route has not been explored; in any case, we would not take it. But with regard to the man who had come to speak to us, I thought perhaps we could take him as a guide, for we really needed one.

While I was thinking this over, he took me aside, led me behind my tent, and with a very charming manner said, “Listen, I see that you are my friend and I am yours. You are a magician for the whites. I am a magician for the blacks: we must cooperate.”

“Well,” I said, “let us do so.”

“Often people ask me for some medicine for this or that. You understand.”

“Yes, to cure people.”

“Oh, no. To kill somebody.”

“Oh!”

“Yes. And I should be very happy and very grateful—if you could be so kind—if you can give me some medicine which kills people quietly, without leaving any trace, and which is always effective.”

This extraordinary request astonished and angered me. I felt it my duty to quickly give my “colleague” some sound moral teaching. But I had hardly begun when he slipped away. What a lot of strange professions there are in the world. That evening, there was a rather different situation. A young man, who looked decent and straightforward came to find me.

“I am,” he said, “from Pare,” a mountainous country lying on our route. “I am a son of Chief Kimbute, and I would be happy if you would let me join your caravan so that I can get home. If I went by myself, I would be captured on the way; with you, I have nothing to fear.”

“That is all right by me. Are you tired of Vanga?”

“Things have gone wrong.”

“How, exactly?”

“Bohero, Mbaruku’s man, came to us in Pare. He said to my father, ‘Give me some cattle as a present for our great man, Mbaruku, and an ivory tusk. I shall give them to him as coming from you and he will send you enough cloth to fill a house.’ So my father gave him the cattle and the ivory, and five men to carry the cloth. At Gasi, Mbaruku said, ‘That is fine. Would you like to make a trip in a boat?’ I was ill, but my mates said yes, so they set off, but did not come back.”

“Where did they go?”

“I was told they had gone to Pemba, which is an island, on this side. Well, I came here and an Arab comes and wants to send me to walk about Pemba, but I want to go home to Pare.”

What touching innocence and what a lucky escape! If we had not met, he also would have been sent to the unknown island where his friends had been taken by trickery and sold. Pemba is the graveyard of slaves. So we agreed that this decent country boy would stay in our camp until we left, and then would follow our caravan.

This leads me to the subject of the caravan, of which I have really said nothing. But this is not because our Mombasa recruits let the days pass without causing any problems. Just when we got started, a not very intelligent person, born at Makka (Mecca), declared, puffing and blowing, that he could not carry his load, and had to be discharged. Then there was a runaway slave, whose master caught up with him. Again, there was a porter, who had run up heavy debts, who had the misfortune to meet his creditor on the way, and so we had to leave him behind. Every day, a friendly chat turned into a quarrel, and the quarrel turned into a fight. Often, in the villages, there were cases of noisy and offensive drunkenness, accompanied by disturbances of the peace at night, boisterous buffoonery, insults, breaking of bowls, and noses pushed out of shape. Finally, on the march or in the camp, there are things said that must be hushed, things which would make gorillas or even journalists blush.

But last night, it was something rather different. All that unattractive crowd of Muslims recruited at Mombasa—our Bagamoyo men were comparatively reasonable—had decided to put us decisively to the test by going on strike, for strikes take place in Africa too. One morning, when I was distributing posho, the money for buying a day’s food, the first porter called to collect his share. One-eyed Hamisi was planning to refuse it and to ask for double the amount. I knew what was going to happen through overheard conversations and warnings given me by “someone in the know,” a member, so to say, of my secret police.

The time came for the call to be made.

“One-eyed Hamisi!”

“Present.”

“Here is your food money.”

Hamisi who had drunk rather too much with a view to getting more energy, took his money with a contemptuous air and threw it away across a group of coconut trees. “Only that? Then go and look for porters where you can find them.”

There was a moment of silence among the porters, the silence in which one can hear a pin drop. Just as Hamisi was feeling very pleased with himself for having produced his little speech, he was thrown into confusion by a couple of vigorous slaps in the face—it seemed to me a case for obeying the biblical injunction, “Be angry and sin not.” Before he could come to his senses, we were standing before the worthy governor, with the whole group of porters, who shouted, “We shall all go, we shall all go.” I had not had the time to say what had happened. When the old Baluchi made a sign, his soldiers rushed for their weapons and, three minutes later all the porters found themselves in prison. Ah, dear European readers, if you find legal proceedings are slow, let me recommend the governor of Vanga for you.

But, frankly, I was the man most embarrassed by this display of energy; for if they all leave us, how could we replace them here, where there are no porters available? Mgr. de Courmont and Father Auguste were still at the camp. As there was nobody to give me advice, I tried to compose one of those speeches termed “Conciones,” which, it seems, the generals of the classical world used to enjoy composing when faced by a mutiny of their troops. Now that I am writing the story of my adventures, I have quite forgotten the exact text of my impromptu discourse, but I do remember vaguely that, having poured out bitter reproaches on poor Hamisi who had been rather stupid, I pretended to believe that the real conspirators were more or less innocent. I claimed to have the power to keep them in fetters for the rest of their days, and to let them die on the damp straw of their unlit dungeons, but, having received a magnificent sheep from the governor, I would not deprive all of them from eating it because of one man’s fault. That sheep was very influential!

Little words with individuals, friendly tellings off, jovial poking of the tummies of some leaders—these all helped to win over my rebellious listeners. There was Ali, a former sailor, who claimed to be a French citizen through having passed a fortnight at Mayotte. We had found him, completely destitute, on our way. He now swore that he was ready to follow us to the heights of heaven or the depths of hell, and everybody swore the same. But Hamisi had to pass, as was only right, a day in prison, so true it is that history repeats itself everywhere, and that, for someone who is a bit stupid, trying his hand at revolution is dangerous.

However, we did not enjoy a long peace. In the evening of this exciting day, there was, just when everyone in the camp was going to sleep and the campfires were going out, another uproar. We got up hastily and came out of the tents. This time, it was the governor in person coming to us, with all his soldiers, and a large crowd, shouting at the top of their voices. “Are they men?” shouted one voice, “They are dirty cows. I am tied up by cows! Ah! Sakerapoute!” And Ali, for it was our great Ali, with his hands tied behind his back, fell at our feet, crying, as though he were possessed by the devil. “A French citizen. Sakerapoute! Sakerapoute!” I said,

“What are you saying, Ali? Come on, calm down.”

“Oh, I express my feelings in French, just as at Mayotte. Sakerapoute! That is what the governor said when it happened to him.”

At this, the governor, that is to say of Vanga, not Mayotte, added that the aforementioned Ali is guilty of an offense, because he was found in town in a state of evident intoxication.

“But,” I said, “you should have put him in prison.”

“That was done.”

“Well, what happened?”

“A quarter of an hour after he had been put in prison, he removed the prison door and came and banged it against my door.”

The old Baluchi was extremely annoyed by this episode, which surely throws some light on what the Bible tells us about Samson. Life is certainly not all cakes and ale, surely, when one is where the action is, and has the moral responsibility for other people. Finally, a private house was found, safer than the official jail. Ali had to spend the night there, and, in the morning, when everything had settled down, we took leave of this conscientious governor and of his dangerous town.

3. Baron von der Decken, who was German, was the first to write Wanga (with a W), W being the German equivalent of the French V, and the German V being the equivalent of the French F. But after him, all the British and French mapmakers scrupulously write “Wanga.” British residents in the country pronounce it with an English “w,” thinking perhaps that the mapmakers are better informed than the indigenous inhabitants. This is just one example of the innumerable mistakes made with place names. What is worse is that the experts are not prepared to listen to criticisms.