Two Trips to Gorilla Land and the Cataracts of the Congo, Volume 2Burton, Richard Francis, Sir
History
Two Trips to Gorilla Land and the Cataracts of the Congo, Volume 2
Burton, Richard Francis, Sir
Africa, West -- Description and travel; Congo River -- Description and travel; Ethnology -- Africa, West
The grateful tamarind grows everywhere, but nowhere so gloriously
as on the lower elevations. The only true sycomores which I saw
were stunted specimens near the Yellala. They contrasted poorly
with the growth of the Ugogi Dhun, a noble patriarch, whose
circle of shade under a vertical sun was 500 feet, and which I
thought worthy of a portrait in "Lake Regions of Central Africa"
(p. 195, vol. i.). I need hardly warn the reader that, properly
speaking, it is the "Sycamine which produces the fruit called
Syconwrus or fig-mulberry;" but we apply the term "Sycomore" to
the tree as well as to its fruit.
After three hours of actual marching (= seven miles) in an east-
north-easterly direction, we ascended a path greasy with drizzle,
parquetted by negro feet and infested with "drivers," which now
became troublesome. It led to Banza Nkulu, a shabby settlement of
unclean plantations and ragged huts of far inferior construction:
stacks of grass were piled upon the ground, and this new thatch
was greatly wanted. Here the lands of the "bush-men" begin:
instead of marching directly to the chief's house, we sat in our
wet clothes under a friendly wild fig. The women flocked out at
the cry of the hammock-bearers and, nursing their babies, sat
down to the enjoyment of a stare; they had lost, however, the
merriment of their more civilized sisters, and they hardly ever
vouchsafed a laugh or a smile. The curiosity of the "Zinkomba"
knew no bounds; all were unusually agitated by the aspect of a
man coloured like themselves; they jerked out their leafy
crinolines by forward movements of the lower body, swayed
violently from side to side, and cried "Ha-rr-rr-rr-rr!" and
"Jojolo! jojolo!" till they were hoarse. As usual, the adults
would not allow me to approach them, and I was obliged to rest
contented with sketching their absurdities. To punish this
daring, the Jinkomba brought a man masked like a white, with
beard and whiskers, who is supposed to strike the stranger with
awe: it was all in vain, I had learned to trill the R as roundly
as themselves, and they presently left me as a "perdido," an
incorrigible.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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