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.