On the borders of pigmy land

It was in the beginning of the year 1900 that a British India steamer cast anchor and set down on African soil a party of seven missionaries bound for distant Uganda. Six of that number might be termed “freshers,” for they were complete strangers to the “dark continent,” and absolutely uninitiated in the art of African travelling. It is a little difficult to define the feelings of a new arrival who has before him or her the prospect of life and work in that country. The memories of magnificent lives laid down for its people fill the heart with an intensely solemn sense of responsibility and dignity; records of travel and adventure kindle a love of daring, and a desire for opportunities of heroism; while the meagre knowledge that exists on the interior districts breaks the imagination of the traveller away from its leading strings.

The port of British East Africa—the Island of Mombasa—is a typical foreign mercantile coast town, with its medley of craft, ships, yachts, tugs, boats and canoes manned by seamen of various nationalities, pushing, hustling and screaming in all the tongues of Babel. The handsome old Arab fortress that stands on its jagged rocky prominence as a sentinel at the entrance of the harbour, takes one back to the time before the port was taken over by the British, and when it was used by those who had carried on the terrible slave traffic in the interior. A little to the left is to be seen the British Consulate with its Union Jack fluttering from the mast as the emblem of liberty and justice to all who come under its jurisdiction.

As we stepped from the ship’s deck on to the landing-stage the sun felt distinctly African. The dazzling white and somewhat congested streets seemed to singe our very boot leather. It was a relief to have pointed out a strip of bright green mainland which lay at the extreme end of a sheltered bay, as the place where hospitality would be offered me and two others of our party of seven, while preparations were being made for our journey up country. A short row brought us to this mission station of the Church Missionary Society—Freretown—the situation of which is very pleasing; in front stretches the transparent blue bay, beyond to the right the white minarets and red tiled roofs of Mombasa, and all around dense foliage—mango and banana trees, creepers and shrubs and flowers in tangled confusion. A warm English welcome awaited us from our missionary friends there who were domiciled in a solid two-storied brick house.

The guest room delegated to me was evidently an afterthought, as it was constructed of corrugated iron with plaited grass stretched across for a ceiling. The room opened out on a broad balcony, and as it is the custom to leave open the doors at night to catch the least suspicion of a breeze that might blow in across the bay, the bats and rats made free use of my room until daybreak. The first night I found the rats had shewed an appreciative appetite for Cadbury’s chocolate, for they completely finished off my half-pound tin which had been tusselled for at a chess tournament on board ship.

The terrible famine up country had brought many half-starved folk to the coast. Bishop Peel had sent down some 30 to 40 girls and boys from the Wanika tribe to be clothed, fed, and cared for at the mission dormitory. Starvation had played frightful havoc with 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.