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.”