How I Found Livingstone by Henry M. Stanley (trending books to read .txt) 📕

that Hamed’s caravan was following us.

 

The ascent of the ridge was rugged and steep, thorns of the

prickliest nature punished us severely, the acacia horrida was

here more horrid than usual, the gums stretched out their branches,

and entangled the loads, the mimosa with its umbrella-like top

served to shade us from the sun, but impeded a rapid advance.

Steep outcrops of syenite and granite, worn smooth by many feet,

had to be climbed over, rugged terraces of earth and rock had to

be ascended, and distant shots resounding through the forest added

to the alarm and general discontent, and had I not been immediately

behind my caravan, watchful of every manoeuvre, my Wanyamwezi

had deserted to a man. Though the height we ascended was barely

800 feet above the salina we had just left, the ascent occupied

two hours.

 

Having surmounted the plateau and the worst difficulties, we had

a fair road comparatively, which ran through jungle, forest, and

small open tracts, which in three hours more brought us to Munieka,

a small village, surrounded by a clearing richly cultivated by a

colony of subjects of Swaruru of Mukondoku.

 

By the time we had arrived at camp everybody had recovered his

good humour and content except Hamed. Thani’s men happened to set

his tent too close to Hamed’s tree, around which his bales were

stacked. Whether the little Sheikh imagined honest old Thani

capable of stealing one is not known, but it is certain that he

stormed and raved about the near neighbourhood of his best friend’s

tent, until Thani ordered its removal a hundred yards off. This

proceeding even, it seems, did not satisfy Hamed, for it was quite

midnight—as Thani said—when Hamed came, and kissing his hands

and feet, on his knees implored forgiveness, which of course Thani,

being the soul of good-nature, and as large-hearted as any man,

willingly gave. Hamed was not satisfied, however, until, with the

aid of his slaves, he had transported his friend’s tent to where it

had at first been pitched.

 

The water at Munieka was obtained from a deep depression in a hump

of syenite, and was as clear as crystal, and’ cold as ice-water—a

luxury we had not experienced since leaving Simbamwenni.

 

We were now on the borders of Uyanzi, or, as it is better known,

“Magunda Mkali “—the Hot-ground, or Hot-field. We had passed the

village populated by Wagogo, and were about to shake the dust of

Ugogo from our feet. We had entered Ugogo full of hopes, believing

it a most pleasant land—a land flowing with milk and honey. We

had been grievously disappointed; it proved to be a land of gall

and bitterness, full of trouble and vexation of spirit, where

danger was imminent at every step—where we were exposed to the

caprice of inebriated sultans. Is it a wonder, then, that all

felt happy at such a moment? With the prospect before us of

what was believed by many to be a real wilderness, our ardor

was not abated, but was rather strengthened. The wilderness

in Africa proves to be, in many instances, more friendly than

the populated country. The kirangozi blew his kudu horn much

more merrily on this morning than he was accustomed to do while

in Ugogo. We were about to enter Magunda Mkali. At 9 A.M.,

three hours after leaving Munieka, and two hours since we had

left the extreme limits of Ugogo, we were halted at Mabunguru

Nullah. The Nullah runs southwesterly after leaving its source in

the chain of hills dividing Ugogo from Magunda Mkali. During the

rainy season it must be nearly impassable, owing to the excessive

slope of its bed. Traces of the force of the torrent are seen in

the syenite and basalt boulders which encumber the course. Their

rugged angles are worn smooth, and deep basins are excavated where

the bed is of the rock, which in the dry season serve as reservoirs.

Though the water contained in them has a slimy and greenish

appearance, and is well populated with frogs, it is by no means

unpalatable.

 

At noon we resumed our march, the Wanyamwezi cheering, shouting,

and singing, the Wangwana soldiers, servants, and pagazis vieing

with them in volume of voice and noise-making the dim forest

through which we were now passing resonant with their voices.

 

The scenery was much more picturesque than any we had yet seen

since leaving Bagamoyo. The ground rose into grander waves—hills

cropped out here and there—great castles of syenite appeared,

giving a strange and weird appearance to the forest. From a

distance it would almost seem as if we were approaching a bit of

England as it must have appeared during feudalism; the rocks

assumed such strange fantastic shapes. Now they were round

boulders raised one above another, apparently susceptible to every

breath of wind; anon, they towered like blunt-pointed obelisks,

taller than the tallest trees; again they assumed the shape of

mighty waves, vitrified; here, they were a small heap of fractured

and riven rock; there, they rose to the grandeur of hills.

 

By 5 P.M. we had travelled twenty miles, and the signal was

sounded for a halt. At 1 A.M., the moon being up, Hamed’s horn and

voice were heard throughout the silent camp awaking his pagazis for

the march. Evidently Sheikh Hamed was gone stark mad, otherwise

why should he be so frantic for the march at such an early hour?

The dew was falling heavily, and chilled one like frost; and an

ominous murmur of deep discontent responded to the early call on

all sides. Presuming, however, that he had obtained better

information than we had, Sheikh Thani and I resolved to be governed

as the events proved him to be right or wrong.

 

As all were discontented, this night, march was performed in deep

silence. The thermometer was at 53°, we being about 4,500 feet

above the level of the sea. The pagazis, almost naked, walked

quickly in order to keep warm, and by so doing many a sore foot

was made by stumbling against obtrusive roots and rocks, and

treading on thorns. At 3 A.M. we arrived at the village of

Unyambogi, where we threw ourselves down to rest and sleep until

dawn should reveal what else was in store for the hard-dealt-with

caravans.

 

It was broad daylight when I awoke; the sun was flaring his hot

beams in my face. Sheikh Thani came soon after to inform me that

Hamed had gone to Kiti two hours since; but he, when asked to

accompany him, positively refused, exclaiming against it as

folly, and utterly unnecessary. When my advice was asked by

Thani, I voted the whole thing as sheer nonsense; and, in turn,

asked him what a terekeza was for? Was it not an afternoon march

to enable caravans to reach water and food? Thani replied than it

was. I then asked him if there was no water or food to be obtained

in Unyambogi. Thani replied that he had not taken pains to

inquire, but was told by the villagers that there was an abundance

of matamia, hindi, maweri, sheep; goats, and chickens in their

village at cheap prices, such as were not known in Ugogo.

 

“Well, then,” said I, “if Hamed wants to be a fool, and kill his

pagazis, why should we? I have as much cause for haste as Sheikh

Hamed; but Unyanyembe is far yet, and I am not going to endanger

my property by playing the madman.”

 

As Thani had reported, we found an abundance of provisions at the

village, and good sweet water from some pits close by. A sheep

cost one chukka; six chickens were also purchased at that price;

six measures of matama, maweri, or hindi, were procurable for the

same sum; in short, we were coming, at last, into the land of

plenty.

 

On the 10th June we arrived at Kiti after a journey of four hours

and a half, where we found the irrepressible Hamed halted in sore

trouble. He who would be a Caesar, proved to be an irresolute

Antony. He had to sorrow over the death of a favourite slave girl,

the loss of five dish-dashes (Arab shirts), silvered-sleeve and

gold-embroidered jackets, with which he had thought to enter

Unyanyembe in state, as became a merchant of his standing, which

had disappeared with three absconding servants, besides copper

trays, rice, and pilau dishes, and two bales of cloth with runaway

Wangwana pagazis. Selim, my Arab servant, asked him, “What are

you doing here, Sheikh Hamed? I thought you were well on the road

to Unyanyembe.” Said he, “Could I leave Thani, my friend, behind?”

 

Kiti abounded in cattle and grain, and we were able to obtain food

at easy rates. The Wakimbu, emigrants from Ukimbu, near Urori,

are a quiet race, preferring the peaceful arts of agriculture to

war; of tending their flocks to conquest. At the least rumor of

war they remove their property and family, and emigrate to the

distant wilderness, where they begin to clear the land, and to

hunt the elephant for his ivory. Yet we found them to be a fine

race, and well armed, and seemingly capable, by their numbers and

arms, to compete with any tribe. But here, as elsewhere, disunion

makes them weak. They are mere small colonies, each colony ruled

by its own chief; whereas, were they united, they might make a

very respectable front before an enemy.

 

Our next destination was Msalalo, distant fifteen miles from Kiti.

Hamed, after vainly searching for his runaways and the valuable

property he had lost, followed us, and tried once more, when he

saw us encamped at Msalalo, to pass us; but his pagazis failed him,

the march having been so long.

 

Welled Ngaraiso was reached on the 15th, after a three and a half

hours’ march. It is a flourishing little place, where provisions

were almost twice as cheap as they were at Unyambogi. Two hours’

march south is Jiweh la Mkoa, on the old road, towards which the

road which we have been travelling since leaving Bagamoyo was now

rapidly leading.

 

Unyanyembe being near, the pagazis and soldiers having behaved

excellently during the lengthy marches we had lately made, I

purchased a bullock for three doti, and had it slaughtered for

their special benefit. I also gave each a khete of red beads to

indulge his appetite for whatever little luxury the country

afforded. Milk and honey were plentiful, and three frasilah of

sweet potatoes were bought for a shukka, equal to about 40 cents of

our money.

 

The 13th June brought us to the last village of Magunda Mkali, in

the district of Jiweh la Singa, after a short march of eight miles

and three-quarters. Kusuri—so called by the Arabs—is called

Konsuli by the Wakimbu who inhabit it. This is, however, but one

instance out of many where the Arabs have misnamed or corrupted

the native names of villages and districts.

 

Between Ngaraiso and Kusuri we passed the village of Kirurumo, now

a thriving place, with many a thriving village near it. As we

passed it, the people came out to greet the Musungu, whose advent

had been so long heralded by his loud-mouthed caravans, and whose

soldiers had helped them win the day in a battle against their

fractious brothers of Jiweh la Mkoa.

 

A little further on we came across a large khambi, occupied by

Sultan bin Mohammed, an Omani Arab of high descent, who, as soon as

he was notified of my approach, came out to welcome me, and invite

me to his khambi. As his harem lodged in his tent, of course I was

not invited thither; but a carpet outside was ready for his visitor.

After the usual questions had been asked about my health, the news

of the road, the latest