On the borders of pigmy land — Reading Notes

them. One wee babe of about two years, all skin and bone, had had her hands held in the fire by her mother because hunger had driven her to steal a banana. Her tiny fingers were twisted back and much distorted, some joints having entirely gone. Other children had no toes, these having been literally eaten away by the little insects known as jiggers, which are very numerous inland, and trouble Europeans as well as natives.

On Sunday we went to morning service in the splendid brick native church. As it was conducted in the Swahili language we could only follow in silence the order of the liturgy. The church, holding about 500 people, was almost full. Colours were very pronounced among the women. The girls were dressed in white gowns with red handkerchiefs round the head; but the elder women adopted the most remarkable hues: orange-coloured sashes and violet head gear were the most conspicuous. They attended very devoutly, and as I knelt at the Communion rails with a native woman on either side, that text appealed to me with a new power “Other sheep I have ... and there shall be one fold and one Shepherd.” In the afternoon I delivered my first message to Africans. I had been asked to speak through interpretation to a class of women; it was not easy to stand up before one’s first audience of dusky faces and to try and adapt the message to their minds—an unexplored land as yet to me—to choose carefully words which would lend themselves to interpretation and to recollect the point stopped at between the sentences.

The morning after our arrival we all met in the office of the Church Missionary Society’s agency. Before us were arrayed a dozen Swahili lads who were coming up country with us to act as our personal attendants. Each of us was to be allowed the sole service of one, the half of another, and a quarter of another; that is, one boy was to act as housemaid, two of us would share a cook, and four a cook’s mate. Minute instructions were given us as to travelling arrangements, which resulted in, for one thing, the re-adjusting of every one of our loads that weighed anything over 65lbs. It let me in for some days of arduous labour. If it had not been for my newly acquired “housemaid” Richard, who had attached himself to me after that morning in the office, the unpacking and re-packing would have proved an almost hopeless task in such melting temperature. The last load nailed down contained a heterogeneous collection of groceries, Monkey Brand soap, photos, a saucepan, and a few garments, all of which had been taken out of loads of overweight. Quite unexpectedly we heard that our start up country was to be made on the fifth day after our arrival at the coast. A breakdown was hinted at as being likely to occur on the railroad on account of the heavy rains that had fallen. Apart from this we were told that the train would accomplish the 364 miles of its journey in one day and night. At railhead our caravan of porters was awaiting us, as also the two donkeys and two jinrickshas, which would prove essential in case of sickness on the road. We speedily fixed our bicycles up on hearing of the immediate start to be made, which seemed to make us all desperately impatient to be spinning along the African roads to Uganda.

On February 23rd we left Mombasa. A large party of missionaries met at Freretown Church at eight o’clock for united Communion. Then we hurried down to the shore where a boat awaited us to take us across to Port Mombasa. After getting together all handbags and other small baggage we were packed away in a ghari—a tiny truck for four persons, with shade, run on rails along the street. A curious party we looked; three gharis left the town, boxes, bags and rugs heaped up in a pile, a few natives scattered about here and there among us, and boys pushing behind. These vehicles simply fly along when going downhill; one box toppled over in one of these wild escapades, and the whole contents burst out and were scattered about on the road. Then a derailment of one ghari necessitated the passengers dismounting, and the cars that followed in the wake being carried round the obstructing car. The terminus of the railway is at Kilindini, which lies about two miles outside Mombasa. At the station a strange scene confronted us. People from various countries were rushing about in a state of great excitement, all struggling to crowd into the few compartments allotted to fourth class passengers. They were so jammed together that one could only expect to see the carriages burst apart with the pressure from inside. Our compartments were ever so much better than I had expected; two had been reserved for our party of seven. Perhaps some of us were a little disappointed that there was no “roughing it,” but we tried to console each other with the thought that there might be a breakdown on the line. Our feelings can be imagined when the train whizzed away and kept up a most respectable speed, in fact, behaved itself like a civilized being. We had armed ourselves with plenty of provisions, but found that good meals had been prepared for us at various long halting stations on the route. Wanting to lighten our supplies, however, afternoon tea was suggested, and as passengers could walk from one compartment to another by means of an outside foot-board, even though the train was running, we invited all the members of our party in to a social tea. My canteen was produced and efforts were made to boil the water, but the train was shaking so unreasonably that the small kettle needed to be constantly replenished during the boiling. We had to warn our guests to avoid the streams of water that were running down the carriage from the kettle spout, but the last arrival made a dreadful mistake by sitting on the top of the teapot just as the tea was made. This was not discovered until the whole contents were upset and the offender realized a scalding sensation.

The first day on the Uganda railroad was certainly not the most enjoyable; the heat was stifling and the dust so obtrusive that in spite of having the windows closed, in less than an hour everything had assumed a brownish-red appearance; the carriage cushions, our clothing, hair, and eyes were full of it, and if one did venture to open the lips to pass a remark, a mouth-wash was necessary. Mile after mile of country was passed where the grass was entirely burnt up, and almost all trees and shrubs dried and bleached. The land was in the grip of famine, whose hand of death had touched all nature. Some of its last victims dragged their exhausted limbs to the banks of the railroad as the train passed through their land of hunger. Poor wee children, their sharp bones standing out in a most ghastly manner, looked like skeletons moving. We gave them food which they voraciously seized, but alas, many had got beyond the power of eating.

Our first halting place was Voi, which we reached at seven p.m., after a run of eight hours. As the train was not leaving again till eleven o’clock we were allowed time for a short rest after dining at the station bungalow. Native couches of woven grass stretched over wooden frames were given to us, but the need of mosquito nets and blankets drove all ideas of sleep away. The next morning we found the scenery had entirely changed; vast stretches of plain and gently undulating country extended for miles on either side. This district, known as the Athi plain, is thickly populated with all sorts of wild animals. There were scores of antelopes, zebras, and ostriches. The tracks of lions were pointed out to us, but these are the only animals that apparently do not venture near the trains in broad daylight.

Nairobi, which has been named the “tin-town” on account of all the buildings being composed of corrugated zinc, is quite an important place. It is one of the headquarters and workshops of the railway company, and a large and rapidly increasing European, Indian, and Arab population has settled here. From this point we had to take up our porters, and this was not an easy matter. Instead of the 300 or so required, only about 150 were procurable to carry all our loads of food supplies, clothing and household requisites for the road and our destination, besides various other boxes and literature for missionaries and mission work in Uganda.

After leaving Nairobi another complete contrast opened out before us. Dense thickets, forests and jungle covered hill and dale, without a sign of human life. Truly the world seemed here as in infancy, and the railway a harsh discord of civilization. It is a rest to the mind and soul to pass through these world’s natural parks; the deep long silence, unreached by man’s babble, carries in its air a breeze from Home and one’s whole inward being rises on the wing to its God. I wondered why such miles and miles of uninhabited land existed when “He created it not in vain, He formed it to be inhabited.” Was it that He might give us “the treasures of darkness and hidden riches of secret places” which God deposits in regions where, untrammelled by the footprints (not the results) of sin the Shekinah dwells revealed in such natural splendour?

On Sunday at two p.m., we found ourselves at railhead. The train before ours had been derailed several times on account of the heavy rains washing down the new embankments, but as trains only run once a week, repairs had been temporarily completed, so we finished our journey without a single mishap.

I wish you could have seen our plight as we arrived. To begin with, even in the finest weather the country would always appear somewhat dreary; nature has not behaved very liberally. The train drew up abruptly, not because of its having reached a station, but there was no more line on which to run. The only buildings were a few tents and iron sheds, the property of the six Europeans and score of Indians employed on the construction of the railway. The whole country was under water, and the rains were sweeping down in a deluge. Out of the waters appeared our two jinrickshas and a few boxes, and these indicated the spot where we were to camp. Our first inclination was to remain in the train, but as that had to return at once, we waded out and about, and did not quite know what to do next. Here the Europeans came nobly to our assistance and offered the ladies shelter in a tent called the post-office. It is remarkable what a lot it takes to make you depressed in Africa. In England I believe most of us would have felt rather despondent, but none of us confessed to those feelings. After a cup of tea, with condensed milk, had warmed us up, we gave a right good British cheer as a tapping at the telegraph wires in our tea room told us of a splendid British victory at the seat of war.

Towards evening the rain ceased and as the ground was well digged round with trenches the water quickly drained off, so our tents were unpacked and erected. The railway officials kindly supplied us with a number of solid planks, which formed a firm flooring over the mud.

The tents looked so warm and bright in the midst of such grey surroundings. Camping out was quite a new experience to most of us and we immensely enjoyed moving in to our new quarters. When we had got straight the whole party came together in our tent, squeezed round the tiny table, and we had a thanksgiving service. Through the goodness of God, things had marvellously adjusted themselves, considering the short time and the swamped condition of the country. We all sang the _Te Deum_ till our little tent rang with voices.

As we joined in the general thanksgiving and prayers I can truly say that no more heartfelt praise ascended into the courts of Heaven from any temple that Sunday evening, than from our little tabernacle in the wilderness.

Outside, darkness reigned, except for the porters’ fires, burning in every direction, with the black figures squatting round, which gave the whole scene a weird and fantastic appearance.

The next morning all our loads were hauled out for inspection, and owing to the lack of porters we were obliged to choose out such as would be required for more immediate use; the remaining boxes had to be stacked in a rather too well ventilated shed to await reinforcements of porters. This particular district was in rather a disturbed condition. The day before we had arrived some natives fired upon a European and killed him; in consequence a small detachment of soldiers had been sent out to see into matters and had shot two natives. We were warned at night to have our camp carefully guarded by askaris,[1] as thieves were about in addition to any unfriendly folk who might be prowling round. So a fire was lit just outside our tents, and sentries stationed at close distances. They accosted every passer-by in angry tones, and those who did not use the password “friend” stood a very poor chance of getting off.

As we stood round the log-fire at evening, the thunder and lightning roared and flashed; and then down came the rain and pelted hard all night. One of the tents was quite flooded; the bed and furniture were rescued and the occupant moved into another’s tent pitched on slightly higher ground. We had arrived in the rainy season, and were told that we must not be surprised if we got a daily soaking. It rather damped one’s enthusiasm for camping out and cycling. This district is called the Kidong Escarpment, and is a ledge of land that suddenly drops some 500 feet. The railway takes a circuitous route to avoid this drop, but at that time a most elaborate temporary line had been laid down the precipitous bank, the cars being worked by cables. One had here an example of the almost insurmountable difficulties that faced the engineers of the Uganda railway, difficulties emphasised by the fact that all material required had to be imported from India or England. Viaducts, some of which are of gigantic height, frequently connect rock to rock, and along these the train has cautiously to pass. At other times the brave little locomotive pants and gasps as it toils along with its burden; now and again it stops to gain breath, then it goes on again, climbing, ever climbing, till it has reached an altitude of 7,000 feet.

After the burning heat of the dusty plains, along which the train rushes with hysterical speed, filling the traveller with misgivings and treating him to plenty of rough shakings, how welcome is the cold frosty air of these African Highlands, which have proved no barrier to the Uganda railroad.

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.

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.