was also an absolute forest of coconut palms, some rice, flowers which were bursting into bud, insects which buzzed, frogs which croaked, and, there, on our way, a plant which grew in abundance and attracted our attention. It was called Job’s Tear (coix lacrima), an unusual plant of the grass family. Previously, I had only seen the seeds, a bright grey in color, threaded into rosaries or necklaces.
Facing us there was a mountain, whose higher slopes were occupied by the Taita people, and whose lower slopes by the Segeju. We camped in the middle of a Segeju village. We had reached Bwiti. These Segeju are a tribe scattered in several different areas. Their original home is said to be on the banks of the River Tana, but they were driven from there by the Galla. They then established small communities at various points on the coast, to the north of Lamu, to the south of Gasi, and, particularly, round about Tanga in the area where we were. They are usually farmers or traders, and almost all profess Islam, but are rather selective in what they choose to practice. Their names, their house, their way of dressing, and their customs have much in common with those of the Swahili and lack anything that is particularly interesting. They received us in a friendly fashion, but insisted that we speak well of them to the German authorities at Tanga, of whom they have a healthy fear. They have made Bwiti into a trading center with a market where the local Africans come every so often to sell what they have grown and buy goods from the coast. It is the last place inland where money is useful.
The Taita who have settled here did so as refugees from raids and warfare in their homeland, and they have chosen the crevices of the mountain to make their nests. Yes, nests, for that is what they are, these little round huts, ill-balanced and wretched, which one can see on the upper reaches of the mountain. Their owners, however, live reasonably happy lives, free, if a bit hard. They have goats, sheep, cattle, beans, maize, and bananas, and they are free from the innumerable sets of commercial regulations, taxes, and service charges, as well as from the paternalism of the state and dynamite explosions.
That evening, we held a council to plan our advance. Daluni, where we had to go the following day, lies just behind the mountain which pushes into the plane, as an enormous buttress of Sambara country. Should we take the direct way over this rampart, or would it be better to go round it? At first, most of the porters wanted to go round it, but when they saw we were determined to follow the goat path which ran upwards before us, they gradually decided to go with us. We had left them perfectly free to choose, and that, no doubt, made them show how brave they were.
The next morning, everything was ready for our climb. Our first step was to cross the little stream, which flowed through the valley, bubbling merrily in the shadow of the tall sycamore fig trees, and striking its bright water against the rocks through which it has hollowed its way. We followed it for a long way and then left it to struggle up the steep slopes which we, the missionaries, managed to scale without too much trouble, while our porters, with loads of from thirty to thirty-five kilograms, found it a severe trial. But they were not downhearted. Was it to show themselves brave men, was it to play games with themselves, and was it simply to forget their tiredness? At any rate, they had the mountain echoing to shouts, jeers, laughter, and songs, which gave an enormous thrill to the women who at that moment were gathering beans, and the children who were looking after the goats. However, the sun, which in the early mornings in Europe brings refreshing light and warmth, can soon become oppressive here. More and more sweat poured down the ebony skins of our men, they were gasping for breath, and finally even the sturdiest fell silent.
But providence is rich in kindness. Just at the right moment, in a really green section of the mountainside, where moss and ferns are mingled with banana trees and thorns, lo and behold, a granite basin into which flows a stream of water, so clean, so fresh, so crystal-clear, that one would not dream of exchanging it for the same quantity of the finest Medoc wine, made by the most modern scientific techniques.
On Bwiti Mountain, a tree covered with creepers
Courage! We had reached the plateau. The same path which had led us along treeless slopes passed now through a magnificently rich forest, with superb creepers and trees, whose towering straightness recalled ships with tall masts. Marching in this exuberant forest, with its shade, its glimpses of landscapes, on this turf and among these flowers, was marvelously relaxing. Unhappily, every ascent is followed by a descent. The caravan arrives down at Daluni, having stumbled over the roots which on the far side of the mountain slowed down our march, and having banged our toes against sharp-edged rocks, sometimes running, sometimes gasping, sometimes groaning. But we were in reasonably good form, and proud of what we had done.
But I must tell you about the range of views which are available up there; it has a fierce greatness which is simply magnificent. On the plateau, the soil is humid, the air cool, and the trees and plants are superb. You can take it as an observation post, which spreads out like an enormous promontory, dominating everything around. Behind you, to the south and the west, there is the huge cluster of the Sambara Mountains; on your right, there is the shady valley of Bwiti where we passed; on your left, the valley of Daluni, which is parallel, and where we had to go down; beyond that and facing you, in fact everywhere else, and as far as the eye can reach under this cloudless sky on this land without mists, down there is an immense forest which has grown up in the African savannah. In color, this forest is of an unchanging grey, with occasional red patches and some isolated peaks thrown here and there, as it were to serve as landmarks to the elephants who roam in this lonely wilderness. Only the River Umba shows its silent course, by means of a greenish line without the smoke of any village, with no sign of growing crops, and where the waters are only of use to the wild animals who come by night from the depths of the savannah to slake their thirst.
In Europe, such a great stretch of country would always be linked to some historical memory, to some indicator of times past; there would be traditions, and legends, and, parallel to its position in space, it would provide a perspective on the past. Here, there is nothing like that, everything is in the same order of things, everything is new, and everything has lasted forever. Men have certainly passed here, but they have left nothing—no palaces, no ruins, no columns, and no tombs. There is scarcely even a straight path which, as the seasons change, shifts or disappears; there are villages which, from time to time, need to be rebuilt. There are fields carved out of the forest and which will be retaken by the forest that is Africa. Man is present there as a ship is present on an ocean, or a bird in the air. But thinking about life like that has a certain greatness, reminding us of our original poverty. Let us not be too attached to the earth; our stay on it is so short, we achieve so little on it and we leave it such sad remains of ourselves.
At Daluni, we came back to the valley where there was a young and magnificent forest of coconut palms. Under the palm trees, there were signs of an encampment, and we chose the site for our own tents. There were still fires under the ashes of the deserted hearths; in the ramshackle huts, the lice were waiting for new guests; we had evidently arrived at exactly the right moment.
Incidentally, I would like to make a point. It is often said that a coconut palm needs to be near the sea in order to develop properly. Perhaps; but here, we are already three days’ march from the shore, and these trees are really splendid, and bring a full yield. This is the case also on the shores of Lake Tanganyika. It would seem then that the coconut palm, if planted in light cool soil, can live and flourish far from the sea; what it needs more than anything is water and watery mist.
This valley is inhabited by a small number of Digo, occupying five or six villages. Their reputation is not good, and they live up to it. They are extremely superstitious, inhospitable, exacting, and not very bright. They would seem, however, to take farming seriously. The coconut palms are really beautiful, and beside them there are big fields of sugar cane. The local people know how to extract from them by pounding the canes, the precious juice which provides Europeans with rum and sugar, and these Africans with pombé and syrup. Higher up on the grounds which get less water, guinea corn, maize, cassava, sweet potatoes, and various kinds of beans are all
