The Last Journals of David Livingstone, in Central Africa, from 1865 to His Death, Volume I (of 2), 1866-1868 — John Shaqi
The Last Journals of David Livingstone, in Central Africa, from 1865 to His Death, Volume I (of 2), 1866-1868Livingstone, David
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The Last Journals of David Livingstone, in Central Africa, from 1865 to His Death, Volume I (of 2), 1866-1868
Livingstone, David
Africa, Central -- Description and travel
_15th and 16th May, 1866._--Miserably short marches from hunger, and I
sympathise with the poor fellows. Those sent to buy food for
themselves on the south bank were misled by a talkative fellow named
Chikungu, and went off north, where we knew nothing could be had. His
object was to get paid for three days, while they only loitered here.
I suppose hunger has taken the spirit out of them; but I told them
that a day in which no work was done did not count: they admitted
this. We pay about two feet of calico per day, and a fathom or six
feet for three days' carriage.
_17th May, 1866._--With very empty stomachs they came on a few miles
and proposed to cross to the south side; as this involved crossing the
Luendi too, I at first objected, but in hopes that we might get food
for them we consented, and were taken over in two very small canoes. I
sent Ali and Musa meanwhile to the south to try and get some food. I
got a little green sorghum for them and paid them off. These are the
little troubles of travelling, and scarce worth mentioning. A granitic
peak now appears about 15' off, to the W.S.W. It is called Chihoka.
_18th May, 1866._--At our crossing place metamorphic rocks of a
chocolate colour stood on edge; and in the country round we have
patches of dolomite, sometimes as white as marble. The country is all
dry: grass and leaves crisp and yellow. Though so arid now, yet the
great abundance of the dried stalks of a water-loving plant, a sort of
herbaceous acacia, with green pea-shaped flowers, proves that at other
times it is damp enough. The marks of people's feet floundering in
slush, but now baked, show that the country can be sloppy.
The headman of the village where we spent the night of 17th is a
martyr to rheumatism. He asked for medicine, and when I gave some he
asked me to give it to him out of my own hand. He presented me with a
basket of siroko and of green sorghum as a fee, of which I was very
glad, for my own party were suffering, and I had to share out the
little portion of flour I had reserved to myself.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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