CHAPTER XIV

Tramp II. Holidays

August, I believe, is generally admitted to be the month of domestic monsoons. Bradshaw, Baedeker, and time tables are the hardest-worked books in the house at that time; trunks and boxes are all upset; and every conceivable seaside town and village is considered and rejected in turn as a possible antidote to the general disgust with which we regard home at that time of the year. Even in the remote corner of the world known as Toro, my companion and I managed to create something of the old disturbance by announcing that we wanted a holiday. Perhaps the conventionalism of our up-bringing was to blame for the suggestion, but I believe we were honestly a wee bit tired after eighteen months of wrestling with the language and becoming acquainted with such new conditions of life and work. But the fuss that Uncle Podger created whenever he undertook to do a little job was nothing compared to the business our little holiday involved. First of all we had to get the permission of the Missionary in local charge, and he had to write in to headquarters at Mengo to find out if the Committee were agreed on the point. Then the whole district had to be carefully considered as to the spot most likely to offer real rest and enjoyment without encountering any perils of microbes, perils of hunger, perils by animals, perils by heathen, and perils by cannibals! That seemed a difficult matter, but when it was at last all fixed up the drum was beaten to rally together porters; food boxes, tent and furniture were packed up into parcels, and two cows were ordered to the front to complete our daily rations. Swarms of people came down to wish us good-bye; one dear old lady declared she was consumed with grief, and another that she was on the point of death because of our leaving, but we told them all to cheer up and hurried away to assure ourselves that we were really off. We found ourselves with two military attachés, who had been told off by the King with strict injunctions to guard his European friends on their travels. But rarely have I set eyes on more spindle-like specimens of humanity; if it had not been for the thick puttees, heavy jerseys, and cartridge belts with which they were laden, one would scarcely have noticed their presence.

It had been decided to make for the southern shore of Lake Albert, which as the crow flies appears to lie about forty miles north of Kabarole. The first day we struck camp at the crater Lake only a few miles away. This spot has a peculiar charm; a turn in the road brings one suddenly in view of this still sheet of water, and there is something rather uncanny about the dead waters lying in sepulchres of the past. I am not surprised that the natives associate them with stories of devils and hobgoblins. One side of the crater has been worn away, leaving an outlet for the water that has accumulated in its mouth, and this flowed out a few hundred yards before it found its level. Numbers of duck play about the waters of the lake, and beautiful purple and pink water-lilies grow close to the banks. We found a regular orchestra of frogs croaking _forte fortissimo_ as an all-night serenade. It was just one of those days when the world feels flooded with self-satisfaction and peace and God seems “to rest in His love” as we started off early the next morning. Having the loan of a Muscat donkey given me, I hurried off to get ahead of the caravan and reach of listeners, and then gave full vent to my feelings in that glorious hymn, “Praise my soul, the King of Heaven.” An old woman, who had been fearfully startled at the unusual sight and sound, peered suddenly through the long grasses on the roadside, and so stopped my noble steed in his lively gallop. Exercising the usual native politeness, I greeted her with “How are you, my mother?” She replied in the most complimentary terms “How’s yourself, mother of my grandmother?” I then asked her why she wore the shell and bit of wood threaded on string round her neck, and she told me it was to cure a pain on the chest. The words felt like a harsh discord. When “Heaven lies about us” and every common bush is aflame with God, it is inconceivable how any man can remain cognisant only of the Spirit of Evil.

Our path led us right close up to the north end of the Ruwenzori range, where it gets broken up into a succession of pyramid peaks, ridge intersecting ridge. Bamboo forests crowned the crests, as few points reached a higher altitude than eight thousand or nine thousand feet. The dry season had just about exhausted itself at that time, in consequence of which the grass on the mountains was dried up or had been burnt away in huge patches, exposing the bare soil and jagged rocks that frowned down upon us with uncompromising severity. As the second day closed in upon us, we stole out of our little tent to watch the storm freaks on the mountain sides. An old dame, with a basket of sweet potatoes balanced on her shaven pate, passed us, and stared hard from our headgear down to our boot leather, with grave disapproval. She insisted most vehemently that we must live without eating, for where could the food go when we were tied up in the middle like that! Which reminded me of a chief who visiting us one day just as we were going in to lunch, asked if we became like the Batoro when they had finished eating, who resemble inflated balloons.

Instead of being able to take a direct route to the Lake over the hills we were obliged to get down into the Semliki plain, a long, unwholesome tract reeking with malaria that lies between and unites with a broad navigable river, the Albert Edward and Albert Lakes. Although actually in sight of the broad sheet of water, to our dismay we found the only path zig-zagged continually across the plain, so that we were actually let in for five days floundering up and down it—pushing our way through grass five to ten feet high always laden with moisture as we started out each day on our tramp. The river Semliki winds along the plain like a glittering snake: it is about thirty yards wide, and has a very rapid flow which prevents swamps from collecting along its course. A few straggling huts sprawled about on the banks go by the name of fishing villages. With small harpoons the fisherfolk spear the fish, which are chiefly of the carnivorous species. Great care has to be exercised by the people as the river abounds in crocodiles. The inhabitants of the plain are a timid, dull folk—they did not even venture to look up at us as we passed them, although they had never seen a white woman. Arriving at one village we found it absolutely deserted; the people had all fled on hearing of our approach, leaving their homes with their few possessions scattered about. A search party was organised from among our porters, and after a long hunt one poor, unhappy creature was brought in. He looked as if his last moment had come when he was brought to us, but when he heard his own language spoken and learned our peaceful intentions he went off and hauled in the others who were soon on the most friendly terms with us. Towards evening they all came round us as we had prayers with our boys and porters. They were delighted with the singing, and without waiting to be correctly taught the tune of “Jesus loves me” they rushed into it, all together, and soon fell into unison. The original air was quite unrecognisable, but one must forget to be orthodox sometimes out here. Singing never fails to arrest the minds of the people, and offers an opportunity of telling them something of the Great and Loving Creator whom we laud and worship. Christ alone who is Wisdom can give one the confidence to attempt, in one short time, to draw aside the veil from the eyes and reveal the Father to those who have never heard His Name. Yet once having seen Him, one dares not allow that opportunity to pass by.

Within the last few years this plain has been placed among the game preserves of the Protectorate; it will consequently be a tantalizing route to the sportsmen, as it abounds in antelopes of several kinds—harte-beestes, wilde-beestes, water-buck, wild boars, and birds of exquisite colouring. We could get practically no food for our porters, and on the second day’s fast, regardless of laws and regulations, we ventured out with a gun to try and bring down something. But it was impossible to get anywhere near the animals, as our scouts got so excited that they frightened them away before we could get within shooting distance. Then we tried the plan of despatching one of our noble soldiers with a number of men from one of the villages to the nearest market in order to buy food. The men procured some potatoes, and started back with them, but, as the military went on slightly in advance, they all decamped one by one, carrying off the food with them. They had evidently taken in the measure of their leader!

The following day, Sunday, we could not do otherwise but press on, while our men were without food. At mid-day we reached a most indescribably desolate stretch of country; for many miles there extended scrub, interspersed only by thorn bushes and tall cactus trees. Being thoroughly exhausted with fatigue, we struck camp by three lonely huts that unexpectedly were dumped down in this wilderness, without any sign of cultivation around. The people were wretchedly emaciated and seemed to have no spirit or strength to provide themselves with nourishment. They declared nothing would grow, and they were obliged to live on what they hunted or the food which occasionally they could get in exchange for animal flesh or hides.

The only prolific life was mosquitoes. We got out our prayer books towards evening to sing one of the well-known hymns, but our spirits were at low ebb and would not rise. Two hungry-looking vultures sat on a naked cactus tree opposite our tent, watching our effort; they did not encourage song! I do dislike those birds so!

The fact was we were all feeling the dreariness of our surroundings, and needed a good, sound chop!

During a holiday, perhaps more than at other times, one just longs for a Sunday back in the dear country. The exposure and frugality of camp life makes one appreciate the shelter and calm of the home life. That all seemed so far off, and yet the setting sun said it is but two hours away. It is always thus when we look up. Here below it is distance, time, and change; up there it is infinity, Eternity, God; and our citizenship, after all, is in heaven. Our earthly life, home, and loved ones are gradually passing beyond the arc of time, and hereafter we shall find all again, perfected and completed, like the rainbow, round the Throne.

We were really getting very alarmed on our porters’ account, but they were very plucky about it, and, seeing our concern, assured us they could go without food nine days! Nevertheless, they all sent up a shout of joy on the third day when a fairly flourishing little fishing village was spied close by, on the south end of the lakes. It consisted merely of a few scattered huts, but food was plentiful. As we arrived, the fishing smacks (dug-out canoes) had just come, bringing in a two days’ haul. The fish, which resembled large cod and dabs, looked delicious, and was a rare treat after the everlasting goat and chicken. In the evening the proprietor of the boats came, asking if we would like to be paddled out on the lake. It was a case of paddling, for the canoe let in the water as quickly as two men could bale it out. Stacks of grass were laid at the bottom of the canoe for us to sit on, but we got horribly wet. The beauty of the scenery made us forget this, however. From the eastern shores rose, sheer out of the lake, cliffs rising to 800 or 900 feet, with thick vegetation growing down to the water’s edge; and round the wooded banks on the west the most gorgeously-coloured birds and herons sported about. The wide, tranquil waters, like a great sleeping ocean, rested in a dead calm. Suddenly, without the least warning, five huge hippopotami raised their ugly heads out of the water and snorted at us furiously, which made us beat a hasty retreat. But they were evidently keen on catching another glance at the Europeans, for in the middle of the night, when the whole camp was peacefully sleeping, we were awakened by feeling the ground literally shaking under us. A premonition of impending destruction seized us; then the ropes of our tent cracked, and we made for the poles, which were tottering. But the tent withstood the attack, and with loud, hungry snorts our clumsy mammoth intruders trundled off, under cover of night, to seek their prey.

The people round the southern end of Lake Albert are extremely primitive. In their homes is no indication of the least exercise of intelligence to furnish themselves with any tool, utensil, or garment. Only a very few of the men and women adopt clothing; their food consists almost entirely of fish, which they hang out in the sun to dry. Those who possess a boat, a cooking pot, or a food basket have obtained them from other folk in exchange for fish, or inherited them from their ancestors. There are times when one asks if the soul of these people has ceased to pulsate, all human instincts are so crushed in them. But even here were the temples of a deity—in the centre of each courtyard stood a rickety wee grass hutch, in which offerings of food had been placed. Carlyle has rightly said that man was made a worshipping creature.

At evening prayers we called the people round us, and tried to talk with them. One typical grey-haired old heathen appeared interested, but hurried the audience back to their homes as soon as possible. When we proposed moving off to a village higher up on the lake, he generously offered himself as escort, and, on our reaching the spot, went from hut to hut, as we thought, asking the people to bring us in food for barter. He then wished us farewell and returned to his home. We afterwards learned that he was circuit priest and had been to every home forbidding the people to visit or listen to the words of the white ladies for fear of offending their god, the fish of the lake, who might withhold their only means of sustenance. Demetrius has many descendants!

Judging from the few days we spent roaming along the shores of the lake, I should say that it would be difficult to find a more fascinating spot for a holiday when once you get there. The botanist finds rare treasures hidden away in the creeks and crevices of the cliffs; the sportsman has a free hand to carry home as many hippo teeth or crocodile hides as he may desire, and the modern historian would find on its shores not a few materials for writing up the story of present day Africa.

Quite close to where we were camped, took place some years ago the meeting between Emin Pasha and his rescuer, the late Sir Henry Stanley, who had, in his search for the lost general and his column, penetrated right through Africa from the West coast, overcoming almost insuperable difficulties. In spite of the attractiveness of the Albert Lake it is scarcely a cheerful place to be isolated at, and standing so near to the same spot one felt a strong pity for that Egyptian leader as he gave orders for his boat to be sunk to prevent the enemy seizing it, so cutting off all chance of his own escape.

Time has wrought a phenomenal change; the country from being threatened by strong foes on the north, and harassed by rebellious tribes within itself, has now settled down into a quiet peace, and two English girls were able to stroll over the same soil in perfect safety, with nothing to fear, save perhaps that they themselves should fail to rise to the privileges given them of living and working in such a land where lie footprints in the sands of time.