Читать книгу Mission to Kilimanjaro - Alexandre Le Roy - Страница 17

The Course of the Umba. Another Kind of Landscape. Bwiti. Segeju and Taita. Up and Down the Mountain. The African Savannah. At Daluni. An Elaborate Funeral.

Scarcely two kilometers from Vanga, the river Umba runs flanked by high banks on either side, the result of the great quantity of sand and silt which the river has brought down. When we were there, there was not much water, but in the rainy season the river drains water from a very large valley on both its right and its left and overflows its banks, which therefore become, especially near the estuary, very fertile stretches of ground that the local people are very careful to cultivate.

We had thought that, in travelling from Vanga to Pare, we would simply have to follow the unexplored course of the river, which would have had the advantage of providing us every day with water and food, without any serious detours. But do not be too ready to accept geographical guesswork, or maps, or scientific theorizing. We discovered that after the village of Gonja, inhabited by the Digo, both sides of the Umba are completely uninhabited, the Maasai having developed a regular habit of plundering villages that had tried to settle there.

Moreover, on each side of the river, the strip of ground that can be cultivated is quite narrow. If we followed the line of the river, we would then have been obliged to make a path through the forest, and to live on clean water, which would not have satisfied either ourselves or our men. And so, we took a southwestern route to reach the foothills of the Sambara Mountains, and pass beside them as far as Pare. Our caravan moved on slowly, and we took three days to reach the first foothills at Bwiti. Before that we had passed through Dooga and Mikonde, going through a dry land, not very fertile, with occasional brackish streams, with some hills, with great, uninhabited woodlands with stunted trees, which just about managed to grow in red soil. Here and there, a thick gneiss and shale came to the surface.

There was a lot of brushwood, thorn bushes, acacias, euphorbias, wild vines, and, sometimes, some rather beautiful Egyptian palm trees. In the valleys, where there was water, big trees were growing, as well as creepers and wild date trees. We managed to find villages where we could encamp and get what we needed to live. These were Digo villages, built here on high ground, surrounded by stockades, made of solid pieces of wood. Generally, a sycamore or tamarind tree grows near the village, providing a friendly shade for villagers who wanted to sleep, or to do this or that. In these lands of sunshine, the house is really only a place for sleeping at night, and perhaps that is why it is so simply constructed. What good would be these immovable houses of stone when there is so little to keep there, when there is no winter, and the open air is so pleasant.

For our part, we had made a final and unpleasant march across a forest devoid of living creatures—except for two magnificent herds of antelopes. As for the antelopes, we had chased them unsuccessfully, and in the chase, I lost a straw skullcap which I had had for seven years. We felt really happy when suddenly we saw a valley where absolutely everything was green. Here there was plenty of water, fresh, clean, and flowing; there was also an absolute forest of coconut palms, some rice, flowers which were bursting into bud, insects which buzzed, frogs which croaked, and, there, on our way, a plant which grew in abundance and attracted our attention. It was called Job’s Tear (coix lacrima), an unusual plant of the grass family. Previously, I had only seen the seeds, a bright grey in color, threaded into rosaries or necklaces.

Facing us there was a mountain, whose higher slopes were occupied by the Taita people, and whose lower slopes by the Segeju. We camped in the middle of a Segeju village. We had reached Bwiti. These Segeju are a tribe scattered in several different areas. Their original home is said to be on the banks of the River Tana, but they were driven from there by the Galla. They then established small communities at various points on the coast, to the north of Lamu, to the south of Gasi, and, particularly, round about Tanga in the area where we were. They are usually farmers or traders, and almost all profess Islam, but are rather selective in what they choose to practice. Their names, their house, their way of dressing, and their customs have much in common with those of the Swahili and lack anything that is particularly interesting. They received us in a friendly fashion, but insisted that we speak well of them to the German authorities at Tanga, of whom they have a healthy fear. They have made Bwiti into a trading center with a market where the local Africans come every so often to sell what they have grown and buy goods from the coast. It is the last place inland where money is useful.

The Taita who have settled here did so as refugees from raids and warfare in their homeland, and they have chosen the crevices of the mountain to make their nests. Yes, nests, for that is what they are, these little round huts, ill-balanced and wretched, which one can see on the upper reaches of the mountain. Their owners, however, live reasonably happy lives, free, if a bit hard. They have goats, sheep, cattle, beans, maize, and bananas, and they are free from the innumerable sets of commercial regulations, taxes, and service charges, as well as from the paternalism of the state and dynamite explosions.

That evening, we held a council to plan our advance. Daluni, where we had to go the following day, lies just behind the mountain which pushes into the plane, as an enormous buttress of Sambara country. Should we take the direct way over this rampart, or would it be better to go round it? At first, most of the porters wanted to go round it, but when they saw we were determined to follow the goat path which ran upwards before us, they gradually decided to go with us. We had left them perfectly free to choose, and that, no doubt, made them show how brave they were.

The next morning, everything was ready for our climb. Our first step was to cross the little stream, which flowed through the valley, bubbling merrily in the shadow of the tall sycamore fig trees, and striking its bright water against the rocks through which it has hollowed its way. We followed it for a long way and then left it to struggle up the steep slopes which we, the missionaries, managed to scale without too much trouble, while our porters, with loads of from thirty to thirty-five kilograms, found it a severe trial. But they were not downhearted. Was it to show themselves brave men, was it to play games with themselves, and was it simply to forget their tiredness? At any rate, they had the mountain echoing to shouts, jeers, laughter, and songs, which gave an enormous thrill to the women who at that moment were gathering beans, and the children who were looking after the goats. However, the sun, which in the early mornings in Europe brings refreshing light and warmth, can soon become oppressive here. More and more sweat poured down the ebony skins of our men, they were gasping for breath, and finally even the sturdiest fell silent.

But providence is rich in kindness. Just at the right moment, in a really green section of the mountainside, where moss and ferns are mingled with banana trees and thorns, lo and behold, a granite basin into which flows a stream of water, so clean, so fresh, so crystal-clear, that one would not dream of exchanging it for the same quantity of the finest Medoc wine, made by the most modern scientific techniques.

On Bwiti Mountain, a tree covered with creepers

Courage! We had reached the plateau. The same path which had led us along treeless slopes passed now through a magnificently rich forest, with superb creepers and trees, whose towering straightness recalled ships with tall masts. Marching in this exuberant forest, with its shade, its glimpses of landscapes, on this turf and among these flowers, was marvelously relaxing. Unhappily, every ascent is followed by a descent. The caravan arrives down at Daluni, having stumbled over the roots which on the far side of the mountain slowed down our march, and having banged our toes against sharp-edged rocks, sometimes running, sometimes gasping, sometimes groaning. But we were in reasonably good form, and proud of what we had done.

But I must tell you about the range of views which are available up there; it has a fierce greatness which is simply magnificent. On the plateau, the soil is humid, the air cool, and the trees and plants are superb. You can take it as an observation post, which spreads out like an enormous promontory, dominating everything around. Behind you, to the south and the west, there is the huge cluster of the Sambara Mountains; on your right, there is the shady valley of Bwiti where we passed; on your left, the valley of Daluni, which is parallel, and where we had to go down; beyond that and facing you, in fact everywhere else, and as far as the eye can reach under this cloudless sky on this land without mists, down there is an immense forest which has grown up in the African savannah. In color, this forest is of an unchanging grey, with occasional red patches and some isolated peaks thrown here and there, as it were to serve as landmarks to the elephants who roam in this lonely wilderness. Only the River Umba shows its silent course, by means of a greenish line without the smoke of any village, with no sign of growing crops, and where the waters are only of use to the wild animals who come by night from the depths of the savannah to slake their thirst.

In Europe, such a great stretch of country would always be linked to some historical memory, to some indicator of times past; there would be traditions, and legends, and, parallel to its position in space, it would provide a perspective on the past. Here, there is nothing like that, everything is in the same order of things, everything is new, and everything has lasted forever. Men have certainly passed here, but they have left nothing—no palaces, no ruins, no columns, and no tombs. There is scarcely even a straight path which, as the seasons change, shifts or disappears; there are villages which, from time to time, need to be rebuilt. There are fields carved out of the forest and which will be retaken by the forest that is Africa. Man is present there as a ship is present on an ocean, or a bird in the air. But thinking about life like that has a certain greatness, reminding us of our original poverty. Let us not be too attached to the earth; our stay on it is so short, we achieve so little on it and we leave it such sad remains of ourselves.

At Daluni, we came back to the valley where there was a young and magnificent forest of coconut palms. Under the palm trees, there were signs of an encampment, and we chose the site for our own tents. There were still fires under the ashes of the deserted hearths; in the ramshackle huts, the lice were waiting for new guests; we had evidently arrived at exactly the right moment.

Incidentally, I would like to make a point. It is often said that a coconut palm needs to be near the sea in order to develop properly. Perhaps; but here, we are already three days’ march from the shore, and these trees are really splendid, and bring a full yield. This is the case also on the shores of Lake Tanganyika. It would seem then that the coconut palm, if planted in light cool soil, can live and flourish far from the sea; what it needs more than anything is water and watery mist.

This valley is inhabited by a small number of Digo, occupying five or six villages. Their reputation is not good, and they live up to it. They are extremely superstitious, inhospitable, exacting, and not very bright. They would seem, however, to take farming seriously. The coconut palms are really beautiful, and beside them there are big fields of sugar cane. The local people know how to extract from them by pounding the canes, the precious juice which provides Europeans with rum and sugar, and these Africans with pombé and syrup. Higher up on the grounds which get less water, guinea corn, maize, cassava, sweet potatoes, and various kinds of beans are all cultivated. Moreover, if the yield is not as good as one expects, this is not through lack of amulets; they are all over the place.

To give an example: at the foot of a large hollow tree there is a little hut intended for a Mzimu, the wandering ghost of some ancestor; it comes there to rest and, so that it will settle down there, an offering is made of an ear of maize, some grains of rice, and a libation of guinea corn beer. Or, to give another example, there is at a crossroads where two or three paths meet some twisted straw fixed with stakes and containing a pinch of grain to feed suffering spirits. Elsewhere, there can be a little calabash, full of palm wine, hanging from a tree trunk, intended for the mysterious guardian spirit of the coconut plantation so that through ill will he does not let the juice dry up. In the fields, there may be a piece of forked wood, decorated with odd-looking objects, in order to frighten, not the birds, but rather prowling thieves. At the beginning of a path leading to a plantation, there may be a coconut palm leaf set across the path on two stakes, with shells and pieces of carved wood, to warn that if one went down the path, one would certainly suffer terrible illnesses, or be eaten by crocodiles, or bitten by snakes.

I said above that we came to Daluni country at the right time; I should explain that we got there for a funeral. That very day, in fact, the last rites were performed for an old minor chief, who did not seem to be unduly regretted, but who, having had a certain dignity in his life on this earth, had to be sent to the land of the dead with a certain amount of ceremony. Consequently, the neighboring chief, who had to conduct the rituals, came to ask us for guns, gunpowder, and linen, all of which, he said, would make the funeral more prestigious and please the spirit of the dead man. We gave him what he asked for, a courtesy which, we trusted, would be repaid to us. Soon, the procession was on its way, with the corpse wrapped up in a variety of cloths, tom-toms were being played in the fields, the women trilled toward heaven piercing cries which were artistically ordered, with regular intervals, and guns were fired one after the other. So the procession moved toward the tomb where the petty chief would take his rest. Our porters, always ready to make fun of the “bushmen”—for it is obvious that only they themselves can be considered “civilized”—would have been very happy to go and join in the ceremony, dancing their version of a saraband, but we strictly forbade it.

But we could not escape the final act. While the men, having filled in the grave, returned to the village, a large group of old women, wrinkled, with parchment-like skins, altogether hideous, skinny as witches, came to install themselves at a point where three paths met, in front of our camp though a certain distance away. From there they gave us a melodrama which even Shakespeare could not have better directed. They came to wash their own linen and that of the dead man. Custom demands that on such an occasion their skins are practically the only covering they wear; but, I hasten to add, given their distance from us and their age, nobody would feel offended by their state of dress. Several of them carried earthenware bowls into which they uttered the most frightful howls, others had various kinds of musical instruments. The leader was an old shrew, who held a basket full of cockleshells and directed the cries, the dancing, and their procession. Then they reached the crossroads where the last act of the ceremony must take place. The old mistress of ceremonies gave orders, her long, hag-like arm pointing to the mountain, her bony fingers spread out and trembling, her face turned radiant, her swollen eyes staring, her harsh voice uttering strange, wave-like sounds, which are answered by the cries and the gestures of her women companions.

What are they saying? Ah, it is a very special Libera.4 In various expressions, sometimes so offensive and laughable that the women themselves laugh at them, they exhort the Mzimu, that is, the shade of the dead man, to stay where he is, at the foot of his tree, and never to come and make a nuisance of himself to them as they continue to live the life which he has left. They will give him maize and rice, some stalks of sugar cane, a little of the palm wine of which he was so fond.

If he wants to keep wandering about, he can go to the mountains, he can amuse himself in the wilderness, he can play around the baobabs in the forest, he can go to sleep night or day in the woodlands, but let him not disturb the men, the women, and the little children of the village. His place has been taken.

These farewell exhortations went on a long time. One can guess that in this strange monologue regularly interrupted by a kind of varying refrain, repeated by the choir of women present, place was found for delicate allusions and biting witticisms directed at the memory of the old chief who was “a kindly father and a devoted husband.”

But, at the end, the mistress of ceremonies, summoning all her strength, launched a final broadside of shrill cries, which was answered by terrifying howls into the earthenware bowls. She then threw the white cockleshells from her basket, all the bowls were smashed, and the group of women dispersed, each to her own home. A very serious duty has been faithfully carried out.

4. Reference to a Catholic prayer for the dead.