in this country, with the help of the forty thieves who had been his companions and who were still at hand.
He welcomed us as though he was very interested in us. We told him that we were only passing through, that we were going to Vanga, and from there to Kilimanjaro, and that we had not wished to travel across the country without paying him a formal visit. He heard what we said but did not believe it. In his career as a local ruler, he had already met quite a number of Europeans, and, as each of them had put forward political proposals, he expected to see us, at any moment, pull some flag or other out of our pockets. He tried to see what we wanted, asking questions and then putting them a little differently: he asked us a good many things in a rather probing way.
“Why did you take this road? What are you going to do at Kilimanjaro? Is it true that that mountain is covered with silver? Do you know where precious stones are hidden? What are Europeans looking for in this country? Are the French still in Madagascar? What is your impression of the Sultan of Zanzibar? Is he not very mean? Do you think the British will suppress slavery? Is Sir Francis (the British Company’s administrator) a decent sort? Have you yourselves plans to take over some country? Are you rich? Have you nothing to say to me in private? What do you want me to do for you?”
This final question was the most practical one, and we could, at least, reply to it unambiguously. “Great Sheikh, let us rest, for we are tired (meaning, but not saying, “Of your questioning.”). With that we withdrew, we set up our tents where our men had settled and we took a stroll to know the place a bit.
With a definitive peace, the new village came into being. It has the name of Kau-Kabani, wisely taken from the Quran, and it is Mbaruku’s official residence. The real Gasi faces it, on the other side of a little lagoon which is covered by the tide almost every day. We went there and found that it consists of a few fisherman’s houses. Certainly a rather sad place, but it is a good shelter for slave-traders, as it is out of the way and unknown and cannot be approached by big ships.
Embarking
Moreover, when the wind blows favorably, one can sail in one night from there to the Isle of Pemba, where there is always someone in this land of abundant clove trees who will buy “the commodity that works and speaks.” If need be, supposing one sees the smoke of a British warship on the horizon, nothing is simpler than to tie a stone to the slave’s foot and throw him overboard. You can see, below a verandah, half-a-dozen unhappy slaves, their ankles fettered with iron shackles, sitting in a kind of dazed silence, waiting to be shipped. At one side, the slave superintendent looks out to sea, a whip in his hand.
Coming back to the camp, we found a plate of rice and another with chicken. Each one was kept hot under a kind of cone-shaped covering of plaited straw, ornamented with designs in colored wool, as used in the best Muslim society: they had been sent by the Sheikh. His rice was excellent; but the cook had spoilt the sauce by putting in too much lemon juice.
Mbaruku himself came later on, to repay the courtesy call which we had made. He seemed to have finally realized that as we were not planning an annexation, nor wanted to present him with a flag, nor to give presents which would signify our sovereignty, we were much less important than his other European visitors.
All the same, there were those who thought that there was a chance to profit from these unbelievers. When Mbaruku had gone, we saw a dear little man with a wizened face, both sly and smiling, and a bent back, come up to us, holding a big Muslim rosary in one hand, and a long stick in the other. It was Bohero, who had been—can you guess?—the guide of Baron von der Decken in 1861 on his first expedition to Kilimanjaro. Now, he was just coming back from a journey to the interior. He told us he knew the hinterland like the palm of his hand. He spoke of a place which he called Molok, in Maasai country, where there is a mysterious cave which he had managed to enter one day, and, so he assured us, was full of marvels. For instance, big stones, neatly trimmed, and covered with inscriptions, in an unknown script. We were very thrilled to hear this; he saw our reaction and offered straightaway to be our guide—for 100,000 piasters!
Oh, really, Bohero? We had looked forward to a fascinating conversation, but it soon became burdensome and tedious, with frequent stops, as he launched pious ejaculations toward heaven, no doubt to ask pardon of the heavenly powers for spending so much time with unbelievers. Finally, he left us to pray or so he claimed, but assuring us he would come back. He did really come back, when night had fallen. The poor fellow wanted a case of rum.
I said, “But the Prophet has forbidden believers to drink stuff like that!”
He replied, “Oh yes, but I just take a little now and then, not as drink, but as medicine.”
He coughed energetically.
I asked, “How much do you take at a time?”
“Oh, perhaps a half-bottle, a full bottle.”
We said we would deal with his request in the morning. That morning, we felt very happy as we said farewell to Mbaruku, to Gasi, to Bohero, and to that whole place, swarming with slave-traders and crooks.
Chapter 6: Further On
A Beautiful Unpeopled Land. Attacked by Amazons. African Ants. Vumba Country and its Palm Trees.
The Devil’s Well.
Leaving Gasi, we went up to the high ground to avoid the lagoons and estuaries which we would have had to cross if we had kept to the coast. We were also anxious to see our Digo friends again. The country through which we passed was magnificent, composed of hills and valleys, with a fertile soil and bright green vegetation, well-watered, in places thickly wooded, but practically unpopulated. Who is responsible for this depopulation? Only Mbaruku is to blame.
Yellow Lissochilus (ground orchid)
Here and there, some turtledoves could be heard warbling as we went. They must have been astonished to see human beings. Surely what keeps them living in such a wilderness are the ears of maize and guinea corn still growing in the abandoned fields. Squawking he-parrots flit from tree to tree. Bands of monkeys roam, out for what they can get, but one does not see what they can take. There are many flowers on the paths and, among the flowers, many orchids. One of them, small and beautiful, provides a carpet for a big clearing in the forest; another, the lissochilos, is yellow and grows among various kinds of grass in a place where it can catch the full warmth of the sun. Yet another variety, which is really marvelous, can be seen in a stretch of forest, covering a large old tree which has fallen across the path and which provides a place for it to grow. Further along, on the edge of the forest, one can find enormous flowers with a very strong scent, and whose calyx is more than twenty centimeters in length. They hang from a kind of creeper and form a lovely bouquet. Its name is gardenia, but only insects seem to appreciate it, if one can conclude from the hundreds that swarm on it with delight.
We reached Mafisi, a village whose inhabitants are all Digo. What delightful people! At least here we experienced a hospitality that comes from the heart, and really it put us at our ease. Night fell, we enjoyed the customary evening chatter, we went to bed, we closed our eyes . . . then a cry, coming from Mgr. de Courmont’s tent, frightened us all. It was a surprise attack; we got ready to fight.
We started running, and by the light of the brands which had been given out to everyone, we saw the scurrying battalions of those fat black ants called Siafu. They are here, they are there, and they are everywhere; really, it was an invasion. But then the porters who had run up were themselves invaded. They were jumping
