The contrast of the red with his red bronze or
black skin, the freedom and grace of his movements, the upright
carriage of his fine figure, and the flickering savagery playing
in his eyes are very effective.
Our men occupied their leisure variously and happily. A great
deal of time they spent before their tiny fires roasting meat and
talking. This talk was almost invariably of specific personal
experiences. They bathed frequently and with pleasure. They
slept. Between times they fashioned ingenious affairs of ornament
or use: bows and arrows, throwing clubs, snuff-boxes of the tips
of antelope horns, bound prettily with bright wire, wooden swords
beautifully carved in exact imitation of the white man's service
weapon, and a hundred other such affairs. At this particular time
also they were much occupied in making sandals against the
thorns. These were flat soles of rawhide, the edges pounded to
make them curl up a trifle over the foot, fastened by thongs;
very ingenious, and very useful. To their task they brought song.
The labour of Africa is done to song; weird minor chanting
starting high in the falsetto to trickle unevenly down to the
lower registers, or where the matter is one of serious effort, an
antiphony of solo and chorus. From all parts of the camp come
these softly modulated chantings, low and sweet, occasionally
breaking into full voice as the inner occasion swells, then
almost immediately falling again to the murmuring undertone of
more concentrated attention.
The red blanket was generally worn knotted from one shoulder or
bound around the waist Malay fashion. When it turned into a cowl,
with a miserable and humpbacked expression, it became the
Official Badge of Illness. No matter what was the matter that was
the proper thing to do-to throw the blanket over the head and to
assume as miserable a demeanour as possible. A sore toe demanded
just as much concentrated woe as a case of pneumonia. Sick call
was cried after the day's work was finished. Then M'ganga or one
of the askaris lifted up his voice.
"N'gonjwa! n'gonjwa!" he shouted; and at the shout the red cowls
gathered in front of the tent. Three things were likely to be the
matter: too much meat, fever, or pus infection from slight
wounds. To these in the rainy season would be added the various
sorts of colds. That meant either Epsom salts, quinine, or a
little excursion with the lancet and permanganate. The African
traveller gets to be heap big medicine man within these narrow
limits.
All the red cowls squatted miserably, oh, very miserably, in a
row. The headman stood over them rather fiercely. We surveyed the
lot contemplatively, hoping to heaven that nothing complicated
was going to turn up. One of the tent boys hovered in the
background as dispensing chemist.
"Well," said F. at last, "what's the matter with you?"
The man indicated pointed to his head and the back of his neck
and groaned. If he had a slight headache he groaned just as much
as though his head were splitting. F. asked a few questions, and
took his temperature. The clinical thermometer is in itself
considered big medicine, and often does much good.
"Too much meat, my friend," remarked F. in English, and to his
boy in Swahili, "bring the cup."
He put in this cup a triple dose of Epsom salts. The African
requires three times a white man's dose. This, pathologically,
was all that was required: but psychologically the job was just
begun. Your African can do wonderful things with his imagination.
If he thinks he is going to die, die he will, and very promptly,
even though he is ailing of the most trivial complaint. If he
thinks he is going to get well, he is very apt to do so in face
of extraordinary odds. Therefore the white man desires not only
to start his patient's internal economy with Epsom salts, but
also to stir his faith. To this end F. added to that triple dose
of medicine a spoonful of Chutney, one of Worcestershire sauce, a
few grains of quinine, Sparklets water and a crystal or so of
permanganate to turn the mixture a beautiful pink. This
assortment the patient drank with gratitude-and the tears
running down his cheeks.
"He will carry a load to-morrow," F. told the attentive M'ganga.
The next patient had fever. This one got twenty grains of quinine
in water.
"This man carries no load to-morrow," was the direction, "but he
must not drop behind."
Two or three surgical cases followed. Then a big Kavirondo rose
to his feet.
"Nini?" demanded F.
"Homa-fever," whined the man.
F. clapped his hand on the back of the other's neck.
"I think," he remarked contemplatively in English, "that you're a
liar, and want to get out of carrying your load."
The clinical thermometer showed no evidence of temperature.
"I'm pretty near sure you're a liar," observed F. in the
pleasantest conversational tone and still in English, "but you
may be merely a poor diagnostician. Perhaps your poor insides
couldn't get away with that rotten meat I saw you lugging
around. We'll see."
So he mixed a pint of medicine.
"There's Epsom salts for the real part of trouble," observed F.,
still talking to himself, "and here's a few things for the fake."
He then proceeded to concoct a mixture whose recoil was the exact
measure of his imagination. The imagination was only limited by
the necessity of keeping the mixture harmless. Every hot, biting,
nauseous horror in camp went into that pint measure.
"There," concluded F., "if you drink that and come back again
to-morrow for treatment, I'll believe you ARE sick."
Without undue pride I would like to record that I was the first
to think of putting in a peculiarly nauseous gun oil, and thereby
acquired a reputation of making tremendous medicine.
