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Read Online Textbook in Defence of Witches Why Women Are Still On Trial Mona Chollet Ebook All Chapter PDF
Read Online Textbook in Defence of Witches Why Women Are Still On Trial Mona Chollet Ebook All Chapter PDF
Read Online Textbook in Defence of Witches Why Women Are Still On Trial Mona Chollet Ebook All Chapter PDF
With all its evils, a downright good fever has one advantage,—when it
is over the convalescent has such an appetite that “eating” is far too
mild a term to apply to the process of gratifying it. In this state of
health a whole roast fowl is just about enough for a breakfast, that is
if it has been preceded by a large plate of tinned soup and is to be
followed by a still larger omelette with bananas. But when this stage
is reached the patient is well on the way to recovery, and soon begins
to enjoy his cigar, which, according to Wilhelm Busch,[24] is the
surest test of fitness. Only a certain feeling as if the brain did not
quite fill its allotted space and therefore broke in waves at the edges
every time you move your head, remains for some days as an
unpleasant reminder of the attack.
“Reality” versus “Dream,” or “Prose” versus “Poetry,” might be a
very good name for the famous Chingulungulu. One would need to
have lived for ten years in the bush, like Nils Knudsen, to look on this
emporium of mud, dirt, and dust as the paradise which he still
honestly believes it to be. Of course we have taken up our abode in
the famous baraza, which is, in fact, quite a handsome building.
True, it is nothing but a thatched roof supported on posts; but it is no
less than sixteen yards across, and the ridge of the roof is at least
twenty feet from the floor. It is no contemptible achievement as
regards architecture; the posts are arranged in three concentric
circles round the central pillar, and the floor is of beaten clay mixed
with ashes. To bring it to the proper degree of firmness and
smoothness they use a wooden beater, bent into an obtuse angle and
ending in a broad, flat surface. A raised ledge, about fifteen inches
high, and broken by three openings at angles of 120°, runs round the
building. This represents the seats of the “thingmen,” for the baraza
is in fact neither more nor less than the parliament-house of the
village elders. The chief sits in the middle of the spacious building,
and round him in a serried throng squat, sit, or stand his black
fellow-citizens. Every native village has such a baraza, but the
Chingulungulu one is the most famous of all. Matola is naturally not
a little proud of being able to lodge his guests in so distinguished a
building.
But even his private residence is a notable feat of architecture. It is
surrounded, like all other houses, by a verandah, the ground under
the wide eaves being raised a few inches out of the wet. Here Matola
holds his court every day and all day long, which is interesting, but
hardly agreeable, as far as I am concerned, since the auditorium is
hardly thirty yards from my seat, and native voices are little
accustomed to restraint. And when the women take part in the
general discussion, or conduct their own defence in a trial, the noise
becomes appalling.
The interior of Matola’s house is scarcely in keeping with its
spacious dimensions. The whole front is taken up by what Matola
calls his evening baraza, a long narrow apartment, into which the
inmates of the house and their friends withdraw on wet or stormy
evenings. The furniture consists of a single kitanda, or coast-fashion
bedstead. The rest of the house is occupied by three rooms of about
fifteen feet by fifteen each. The two lateral ones are intended for
sleeping-rooms, as shown by a couple of bedsteads and large heaps
of ashes, the remains of the fire which every native keeps up beside
his couch at night. These rooms are only accessible through doors
leading from the central one, windowless, and therefore pitch dark.
The central room serves as a kitchen, but how elementary and
primitive is Matola’s hearth compared with Zuza’s! The latter has a
substructure for the system of cooking-stones, pots and other
culinary appurtenances, which is quite correct in material and
workmanship, while at Matola’s there is nothing but a chaos of ashes,
in the midst of which two or three lumps, as big as a man’s head, of
earth from an ant-heap indicate where the royal meals are prepared.
At the same time this Yao chief has the reputation of being a wealthy
man, as wealth goes in Africa, and of having great hoards of bright
silver rupees hidden somewhere about his huts.
BEER-DRINKING
The Dark Continent has no love for me; on the march it persecuted
me daily with its whirlwinds, and here at Chingulungulu it pursues a
systematic plan for expelling me from its interior. Knudsen and I
dine between twelve and one. Originally the hour had been fixed at
twelve precisely. With measured step Moritz and Knudsen’s Ali
approach from the direction of the kitchen with the inevitable plate
of tinned soup. We are ready to fall to cheerfully, each—as is
customary out here—at his own camp-table, when we hear the sound
of a rushing mighty wind coming nearer and nearer. Dust, grass, and
leaves are whirled into the air; one instinctively holds one’s hand or
one’s cap over the plate, but all in vain—a gyrating chaos of ashes,
dust, tufts of grass, and all the various kinds of dirt which can only be
studied in this country, overwhelms us from behind; the baraza
groans in all its beams; the boys fly out, unresisting and helpless into
the open space in front; and then all is over. When we can open our
eyes under the crust of foreign matter which covers our faces and
everything else, we are just in time to see the thatch of the huts
waltzing through the air before the whole phenomenon vanishes into
the pori. On the first day, of course, we were quite helpless; on the
second we were again overwhelmed while thinking no evil; on the
third I suggested that dinner should be postponed for a quarter of an
hour. It was no use, the whirlwind came just a quarter of an hour
later. We have gone on waging a regular war against this midday
whirlwind, and, so far, we have been beaten all along the line. It
always springs up the moment the soup is brought in. Moritz and Ali
have scarcely time to clap the lids of a couple of tins over our plates
when it is upon us. To protect ourselves against it, and also, it must
be said, against the troublesome curiosity of the children of the land,
small and great, we have built ourselves in under Matola’s baraza by
carrying a screen of millet stalks right across the hall high enough to
reach the roof, and erecting two other screens at the ends of the first
and converging on each other, so that we are now in a closed room.
But my intimate enemy, the chimbunga, penetrates even into this
carefully protected apartment.
The water-supply of this region forms a subject by itself. Of all the
charms of Chingulungulu this was what Knudsen had dwelt on most
lovingly—one might be ever so ill and wretched, but a draught from
this unrivalled spring would restore health to the most infirm. One of
our first walks after getting through the fever which marked our
arrival at this place, was to its principal wells. They are close to the
road from Zuza’s, and I should have seen them just before we arrived
had I not been at that time more dead than alive. With expectations
raised to the highest pitch, I walked along the path leading to the
spot in question—two hundred yards distant at most—followed by a
long train of boys and half-grown lads. “Here we are,” said my
companion suddenly, as we caught sight of a number of women and
several young girls squatting in three roomy pits about six feet deep.
“Well, how about the spring?” I asked, the Norwegian’s glowing
descriptions being still present to my mind’s eye.
“Why, down there—those holes—those are the springs; don’t you
see the women drawing water?” That I certainly did see, and my
illusions vanished in the twinkling of an eye. But their place was
taken with equal rapidity by the scientific interest attaching to the
hydrography of the country in general and Chingulungulu in
particular; and of this I was enabled to get a fairly clear notion after
walking round the three pits and scrambling down into each of them.
WATER-HOLES AT CHINGULUNGULU
The rivers and streams here on the inland slope of the Makonde
plateau are of the kind called wadi in North Africa or Omurambe in
the distant German territory of the south-west—that is to say, they
have water all the year round, but only in the subsoil; on the surface
the water does not flow except in the rainy season, and immediately
after it. The rains, which are extremely abundant, were over months
ago, so that it is no wonder if the people have to dig deeper every day
into the stream-beds to find water. Here they have in places
penetrated right through the superincumbent strata, and Moritz
cannot say enough in praise of this water which comes straight from
the living rock. It may indeed be comparatively poor in bacteria and
innocuous even for Europeans, but what I have seen of the way in
which it is obtained has induced me to keep up, from the moment of
my arrival, and insist on having scrupulously carried out, the
procedure customary with me ever since we left Lindi, of having all
the drinking-water treated with alum, filtered, and boiled.
In no department of daily life is the contrast between Europe and
Africa more sharply defined than in this matter of the water-supply.
Instead of the brass tap and clear, cool water in a clean glass, we find,
brooding over a muddy water-hole, an almost equally muddy
woman. Behind her, on the high bank, stands her portly earthen jar.
She sits gazing apathetically into the narrow opening, the usual ladle
(the half-cocoa-nutshell with a wooden handle stuck through it) in
her right hand. At last enough fluid has accumulated to make it
worth while to plunge the dipper under the turbid surface; not
ungracefully, with the rocking motion peculiar to the negress, she
reaches the top of the bank, and the water pours in a milky jet into
the large jar, the process being repeated as often as necessary till it is
full. Then she walks to the nearest bush and comes back with a
handful of fresh green twigs, which she carefully inserts into the neck
of the jar. This is no manifestation of a decorative instinct, or of any
feeling for the beauties of nature—neither man nor woman in this
country has advanced so far; in fact, highly as we Europeans think of
ourselves, this feeling for nature is even with us of comparatively
recent growth. The native is, in the first instance, practical—in fact,
he is nothing if not practical. Without this bunch of leaves, the water-
jar, filled to the brim, would slop over at every step, drenching the
bearer’s head and body; but, as it is, not a drop is spilt, the twigs and
leaves hindering all undulatory motion in the narrow space.
Probatum est.
MAKONDE WOMEN FROM MAHUTA