CHAPTER II

On Land and Lake

We certainly set off for our first so-called tramp most professionally fitted out, but this only lasted for one day. The marching Norfolk dress was soon discarded for a loose blouse; the water bottle, which did give one rather a heroic aspect, was quietly given over to the “boy”; that wonderful compendium of knife, corkscrew, file, button hook, and so forth, which includes everything that you never want and nothing that you do, was likewise voted too heavy; even the puggaree that had offered a suggestion of trimming to the very unbecoming bald topee, was thrown out, and any consideration for personal appearance that might have secretly lurked within was superseded by the one desire for comfort, as we steamed along on our bicycles over good, bad, and indifferent roads, the sun beating down upon us all the time.

Lake Naivasha seemed scarcely large enough to satisfy our inordinate thirst as we pulled up; we were not a bit polite when tea was generously doled out to us by the Europeans stationed there, for none of us refused a fourth and fifth cup, even when we saw the supply was running short. I got very behindhand in my journal while on the road. Never had I been successful in keeping one for longer than a week; on the seventh day it had become so intolerably dull that Dryasdust must even have yawned. Of course, Africa supplies you with plenty of material, but the methodical mind and will power are somehow wanting. Let me tell you why. At 4.0 a.m. daily one wakes up with a start, for as the sun does not rise till 6.0, night still seems to rest heavily on the land and on one’s eyelids. But the caravan leader is beating a drum, accompanying it with a shrill falsetto call to rise; and if one dares to stay rubbing the sleep out of the eyes, the porters are fumbling away at the tent ropes, and before there is time to complete one’s toilette, the whole tent flops down like a closed umbrella. A truly undignified exit is made by a dishevelled figure, and one turns up while breakfast is being served round the camp fire on tin crockery.

In the dusk we push off; a real expert rider you must be to dodge in and out of the porters who are already filing along on the narrow path, and have a happy knack of swinging round at the sound of the bicycle bell just as you pass—the tent-pole carrier was a veritable man-trap, and more than once pitched machine and rider into the ditch. I am sure I shall never complain again of English or even Scotch roads; the ridges we have ridden over (often ending in a swamp) have helped to strengthen one’s nerves and powers of balance. We generally reach camp before our porters, and then seek out some shelter till our tents arrive. It is a quaint sight to watch the long line of the caravan coming in; the men become very excited at sight of the halting place, and as the first man who carries a drum beats it with all his might, swinging a zebra tail round and round his head, the men all break into song and a slow dance, which gradually increases in volume and speed until the 65lb. box on the head is quite forgotten, the body springs about in mid-air, and finally throws itself down with a shout of ecstasy and an eloquent outburst of self-praise and congratulation.

[Illustration: A GROUP OF MASAIS.

_Photo by D. V. F. Figueira, Mombasa._]

When tents have been pitched and bodily restoratives have been applied in the form of cool baths, a good meal and a sleep, the only possible hour for journalling has come. But who could resist the desire to peep outside the tent door, and then into the new and fascinating features of folk, animals, birds, and country that surround the colony of tents? So my pen remained idle for many days on the road, and as we were constantly going forward, it was not easy to go back and pick up broken threads.

The day from Lake Nakuro must have a few lines to itself. The usual 15 miles’ journey had appeared exceptionally short on account of the good roads, and there being no houses or even signboard to tell you “this is camp,” we rode past it unconsciously. While resting mid-day on the banks of a shady nook for a cup of tea and biscuits, two bicycles unfortunately fell over on my gear case and completely smashed it up. This made riding a little difficult for the remainder of the day, as the skirt would keep catching in the chain, and the gear-case strapped across the handle-bars did not allow much knee space. Very hot, dusty, hungry, and tired at 3.30 p.m., we came across a small Indian encampment which had journeyed up country for railway survey with a large number of pack mules. The campers told us we had come 34 miles. This rather alarmed us, for we wondered how our porters could cover that distance. It was a ghastly spot. The ground was strewn with numbers of bleached skulls and bones, which we afterwards learned were part of an Indian troop that some time previously had travelled down country under Mr. Grant, and had died for want of water.

After waiting some time scouts were sent out to search for our men, but as night fell they returned with the tidings that our caravan was camped some 15 miles away, and was too exhausted to push on. Having eaten nothing since 4 o’clock a.m., with the exception of that mid-day impromptu lunch, I must confess that our first consideration was for food. Fortunately one of our party had shot during the day a bustard. This was speedily prepared and cooked in a pot lent us by the Indians. A few biscuits and some tea still remained in our canteen, and so sitting round an ember fire inside the stockade constructed for the mules as protection from the lions, we enjoyed, perhaps as never before, a hearty, simple and crude meal, without chairs, spoons, forks, or even chop-sticks. We tried to effect further loans, and through the generosity of our new friends succeeded in procuring one small tent for the night. It _was_ small, 6 feet square, and we five ladies had to pack into it. We did manage it by strictly adhering to the agreement of sleeping on one’s side and not attempting to change over. There were no blankets, but certainly none of us felt the need of them! The gentlemen kept guard round the watch fires all night, but I think they got in more sleep than we did.

In case such a thing should ever happen again, the men of our party were evidently determined to be prepared, for on the following afternoon we saw them shouldering their guns, and after hearing a few distant sounds of shot, two zebras and three antelopes were carried into camp; and before we had finished admiring and pitying these splendid fallen lords of the country, they were carried off and skinned. The next sight we caught of them was in the form of long, gory strips festooned from branch to branch of a tree close by. The porters, hawk-like, were standing round, as hungry East Enders outside fried fish bars. Perhaps they can be partially excused when we consider the monotonous, unpalatable millet which constitutes their daily diet. At 7 p.m. a drum was beaten, and every man presented himself in as famished a condition as he could assume. They stood like soldiers waiting to be decorated with the V.C. In a few minutes the tree was quite cleared, and outside each tiny tent was fixed on sticks venison and wild beef roasting over the fires. The sounds of revelry had scarcely died away when the morning call drum sounded.

[Illustration: THE NEW BOAT ON VICTORIA NYANZA.]

The people who live in the district through which we had hitherto passed are called the Masai tribe, a nomadic folk who travel about from one place to another, according to the pasture the land offers for their goats and sheep. They have distinctly warlike propensities, and a warrior chief is often met having a few armed followers, who, like their master, smear their bodies with grease and red earth, only wearing a small strip of cloth, or an animal’s skin over the shoulder, and sometimes a few feathers in their matted and oiled hair. The fierce opposition they showed to the pioneer Missionaries is now no longer displayed; in fact they appear somewhat timid and reserved.

The general physical feature of the land is soft, gently undulating country. But for the lakes Naivasha and Nakuro, and the River Gilgal, there is a marked scarcity of water. Not until we reached the Eldoma Ravine did we pass anything worthy of being called a forest. At that point we had risen 7,000 feet above sea level, and exquisite stretches of tangled forests of cedars and bamboos afforded a welcome relief after the dried up and treeless track we had been accustomed to. Cycling was quite impossible owing to the many trees that had fallen across the road, and the deep ruts made by the ox waggons which had passed along in the wet season; one waggon, carrying along parts of a new boat to be floated on the Victoria Nyanza, was overthrown and broken up by one of these ruts the day we passed through the forest.

In spite of the weariness that often overcomes one travelling day after day under such a fierce sun, how glad I am that the railway had left us 300 miles of tramping before we reached the lake! Those who come up country now the railroad is completed will never experience the fondness, and shall I call it proprietorship, that one seems to feel for the land when each step has involved labour, every little change from the prairie grass and thorn bushes been noticed and welcomed, and each new district and tribe prayed and longed over to be claimed for Christ. How can I describe the scene that stretched before me as I stood on the Nandi plateau overlooking the tranquil silver lake, the Victoria Nyanza, lying 3,000ft. below. The sun was slowly sinking towards the west, and, as it did so, drew the attention to the other side, our land of promise, Uganda. As the distant horizon and sky were flooded with a gentle red and golden light, salvation and victory seemed written in the handwriting of God upon the walls of that country.

Turning round towards camp what a contrast the scene presented. Hundreds of natives had congregated together dressed in animals’ skins, and armed with shields and spears, which they were flourishing in the air with wild dancing and shrill war song—they were going out to fight with a neighbouring tribe. In the morning I had had an undesirable encounter with some of them. Having taken my writing case and pocket Bible to a hill a short distance away from where we were encamped to get a view of the wonderful panorama of plain and lake beneath, I had been somewhat startled by a number of men suddenly appearing from what at first were quite undistinguishable grass huts. Void of clothing they had painted their bodies with bright red earth, and had made various designs with grease on their limbs. Their hair was long and twisted into streaks by means of goat’s fat, and each man carried a spear and shield. Soon a small crowd had gathered round, and I must confess to a certain feeling of uneasiness at the isolation of my position. However, I determined to evince no fear and tried to make the best of it. I undid my writing-case and showed it to them, and my watch. They literally shrieked with delight and surprise when they saw the hands run round. The gilt edges of my Bible attracted them, so handling it reverently I tried to tell them it was God’s Book, and drawing one of the children to me by signs, sought to convey to their minds that God loved us. I do not know if they caught my meaning, but I do know that God caught up the prayers that ascended for them.

[Illustration: A NANDI FAMILY.

_Photo by W. D. Young, Mombasa._]

The same evening a violent storm broke over us. One of our tents was literally washed out, not having had a deep ditch digged round in case of emergency.

After moving off again and descending very precipitately to the level of the lake, the heavy rains were found to have made marching exceedingly difficult. We had to plough through thick black mud till we reached Port Florence, a distance of twenty-one miles. At one point on the road a stream about thirty yards wide had to be waded, as our porters were unavailable for carrying, having all gone on in front. The water in some parts was a foot deep, and it was by no means an easy thing getting through it when there were inches of mud from which the boots very reluctantly parted.

News had reached us that the steamboat _Ruwenzori_ which had been sent to meet us and take us across the lake had been wrecked on the way, so we had to put off in an Arab dhow, a sailing boat used for transport purposes only, and one that offered no passenger accommodation.

Three thousand square miles! Can you imagine a lake about that size? And yet on our maps it is no larger than a boot button. Quiet and peaceful as is its normal condition, there are times when its mighty waters are lashed into uncomfortable anger, and casting up foaming crests break on the shore with the force and roar of an ocean’s storm. Abundant in its resources, it can afford to be generous in its supplies; with prodigality it pours its fulness into its offspring, so that distant Egypt subsists on its benevolence—the Nile.

Although only 7 p.m., darkness had already set in as we made our way down to the rough landing-stage to be shipped for Uganda. The dhow looked uncomfortably small for its crew, seven English passengers, twelve “boys,” and all their cargo. It could not get up to the little wooden pier, so we rowed out in dug-out canoes by the light of a hand lamp. This took time, and it was nearly midnight before everything was on board.

A small portion towards the stem had been reserved to our use for sleeping, feeding, and living purposes. One of the ground sheets of the tent was fixed up on four insecure poles to form an awning over us.

Our sacks containing camp beds and blankets were placed about to act as bolsters as we lay down on the bare boards in the vain hope of sleeping. But they were the most bony bolsters I have ever known, for on whatever corner you took up your position, there was a point of the bedstead running into you. We were all glad when a sharp breeze sprang up in the early morning, and the sails that had been nodding all night braced themselves together for work.

Mid-day we passed a small island which is inhabited by fisher folk. They trap the fish by means of baskets with inverted necks like a safety ink-pot. Someone suggested pulling into shore in a canoe that was passing at the time for the purpose of buying some fish, but the people had misinterpreted our intentions and had armed themselves with spears, and were waiting for us entrenched behind large rocks. So it was decided to lunch off tinned sausages that day! Our prospects of landing and enjoying a change at night from the hard boards of the dhow were shattered by the captain assuring us that he could not possibly waste such a splendid wind as was blowing, but must push on. Accordingly, mattresses and pillows were pulled out and spread on the deck, so that our couch might be a trifle more comfortable than on the preceding night.

The wind did blow, and the dhow pitched to and fro like the tub of Diogenes. He must have been a better sailor than most of us were, else he could never have steered his craft.

It was wonderful how the food was cooked. The Swahili boys are prodigies, and can somehow manage under any condition. Finding a large iron tray they built up their wood fires on it in the bow of the boat and with the usual three stones they boiled their kettle, saucepan or other kitchen requisites.

The scenery round the shores of the lake is exceedingly pretty. The land gently slopes upward. Here and there a belt of forest stretches down to the water’s edge; the grass huts huddled together in small communities just appear peeping out from the creeks and woods, and birds of gorgeous colours fly about or build their nests in the branches overhanging the water’s edge.

On the third day of our trip we were becalmed, and it was decided to land on an island for the night so that we might get a complete change of toilet and rest. There was no canoe at hand to take us ashore, so a raft was constructed of poles and two large Masai hide shields which had been given me up country. We crossed over, two by two, carefully balanced in the centre of the raft, with shoes and stockings in our hands. The men managed to get a few things across, but the raft would not bear the weight of the tents. A ground sheet was once more utilized by tying it to branches of trees to form a covering over our camp and beds at night. Looking through the mosquito net I saw the stars peeping down, and the fireflies and glow worms lighting up the air and shrubs, and heard the croaking of the frogs and the night bird cooing in the trees. It seemed like a page out of childhood’s fairy book.

There was no chance of getting off in the morning, and we made a tour of the island. It chanced to be the one on which the _Ruwenzori_ had been wrecked. The captain and his native crew had succeeded in getting safely to land, but were in a sad plight without shoes and socks and provisions. It was most fortunate our party happened to have lighted on that particular island, and so were able to replenish the meagre stores of these shipwrecked mariners. The natives flocked together when they heard of the arrival of white men, and begged them to shoot the hippopotami that had been destroying their cultivation. They showed us round their village, in the centre of which was their devil temple. The head priest alone was allowed to enter. Round the courtyard were placed flat and upright stone slabs; these were the seats of the priests, who sat round in a semi-circle when their head priest was inside invoking the evil spirit. The only one in our party who knew their language spoke to them, and they all united in asking that teachers might be sent to them to instruct them in these “good words.” Now there is no need to send to them, for since then the island has been depopulated by the sleeping sickness. Not one inhabitant remains—and they died with their request unanswered!

On the morning of the eighth day we were all eagerly examining the fringe of land lying straight ahead. The opera glasses spied out a few dark figures moving about close to the landing stage. In imagination and Pears’ Soap advertisements I had often seen the picture, the blue, transparent water, a stretch of sandy shore—the background of banana trees and palms, a few grass huts, and a dark-skinned figure standing out in bold relief with the broad smile displaying a row of white teeth. “Otyano Munange” (How do you do, my friend?) and a prolonged exchange of grunts greeted us as we stepped from the dhow on to the shores of Port Munyonyo.

During the few minutes of waiting for our boxes to be unloaded I moved toward a little hut from which the sound of voices was coming. Peeping in at the low doorway, I saw a man dressed in white linen (evidently the head of the household). He was sitting, reading aloud to a group of men and women gathered round him. The Book was the Gospel of St. John.

Surely this was Uganda, where the people who sat in darkness have seen a great light. It is wonderful what the Bible has done for them. Its influence penetrates the entire country, and its very utterances are the language of the people. Its expressions of greeting and farewell are used, and with reverence.

How our bicycles did run away with us over those seven miles to Mengo. After mounting them, we were followed by numbers of natives, and from every direction they came out of their shambas to greet us, falling down on their knees and saying, “You are our prayers, thank you.”

On hearing of our arrival, our missionary friends had all started off to greet us. They described it as a little bit of England to see seven cyclists coming along with an impress of home which the five weeks’ knocking about had not quite obliterated. The first one to meet us must have been guilty of scorching, as he was far ahead of the others, and he was determined to give us a real taste of Uganda right away, for he produced from his pocket some bananas (shall I own it, rather squashy) wrapped up in a newspaper; they were good!

Next came along a mule, bearing towards us Bishop Tucker, who had come out to welcome his new recruits. I do not remember quite distinctly the other faces, for we were literally hemmed in by scores of excited natives, hustling, bustling, clapping, and chattering, seizing our hands and thanking us for having come so far to them, while tears of gratitude glistened on some of their splendid, intelligent, brown faces.