Adventures in Swaziland Part 18

There are a number of interesting characters who live in Mbabane year in and year out. One of these is Allister Miller, a man of remarkable personality, energy, and business ability. He has several immense ranches and owns more than fifty thousand head of fine cattle. His bulls have been imported from all over the world and his cattle have made him a very rich man. Swaziland is an ideal stock-raising country and it is estimated that the Swazis themselves own more than three hundred thousand head of cattle.

Probably the most interesting character in Mbabane is known to every one as "Matt." He is an accountant by profession. His nose has made him famous, and I am sure there is not another like it in the whole world. It is immense in size and has all the vivid tints of the "rum-nose" that distinguishes the confirmed tippler. All strangers are advised to see Matt's nose or count their visit to Mbabane a rank failure.

There are a number of stories about him, one of the best being about his experience as an inmate of the gaol. It seems that he was accountant for a trading company and had made a mess of its books.

Money was missing and he could not account for it. Although it was felt that he had not taken it, yet he was responsible and was sentenced to gaol for six months. Now the warden of the gaol trusted Matt and put him to work on the books. In addition, he used to loan Matt to do little jobs of carpentering and painting at houses in the village. This led to trouble. The little tin shanty, by courtesy "The Hotel," was much like some of the saloons in the "cow towns" of the old West in the United States. Ranchers, traders, and adventurers would congregate there and tell stories while they drank gin, whiskey, and combinations of the same. Matt was in the habit of pa.s.sing the "hotel" each evening on his return to the gaol, and soon the roisterers began inviting him in to have a drink or two.

One night there was a particularly joyous party, and Matt drank so much that he forgot to return to the gaol on time. It was midnight before he got there, and the jailer had already gone to bed. Matt went to his house and woke him, and this annoyed the official very much. So much so, in fact, that he refused to get up and let Matt into the gaol. Matt was reduced to the ignominy of returning to the hotel and bunking there. Next morning he made a charge against the jailer for not allowing him to serve out his sentence! Commissioner Honey discharged him and reprimanded the jailer for neglect of duty.

Some years before Snyman had been postmaster at Mbabane and had made many friends, with the result that he had a most enjoyable visit. The morning we left to continue our trek to Zombode he was approached by Manaan, an old Swazi chief, who wanted to shake hands with him. Manaan was a typical kaffir, and Snyman told me a story about him which well ill.u.s.trates the characteristics of the breed.

"When I was at the post-office here," Snyman said, "Manaan and some of his sons went to the Transvaal to work in the gold mines. According to the law, their money was deposited for them in the savings-bank at Johannesburg, and the whole amount was put in the name of the old chief. I was still postmaster when Manaan and his sons returned to Swaziland.

"One morning I was very busy when I saw Manaan standing at the door.

Of course he would not enter until I spoke to him. I grunted at the old boy and he came in, with the usual 'Nkoos!' and his hands flung up. He stood at the counter for a while, waiting for me to speak to him.

"Finally I asked, 'Ou funaan?' which means 'What do you want?'

"'Ou funa mali!' he answered, meaning 'I want some money.'

"Then the old boy walked over to the corner of the room and sat down.

From the top of his majuba, or loin-cloth, he produced a little bundle wrapped in an abundance of dirty rags and tied with some leather thongs. Then he knelt down, as is the custom of the Swazis, and proceeded to spread out the contents of the bundle.

"When he unwrapped the outer cover there was another and yet another, the last covering being the hide of some small animal. After this was undone there was a paper wrapping, and inside this was his savings account deposit book! This he presented to me with pride.

"'Ou shiai intzinga; ou funa mali,' he said, which meant 'Telegraph to the place where this money is deposited; I want to draw it.'

"'Lunglli,' I replied; 'wati nalie e'lali bapa ou buia mfigo uti zouk mali,' which meant, 'When the sun is over there come back and I will give you the money.'

"I thought I would get a reply by sunset, and Manaan arrived promptly after I had heard from Johannesburg. He entered on my recognition, stacked his k.n.o.b-kerrie, shield, and a.s.segai in the corner, and came up to the counter.

"I counted out the money to him. There were twenty-four pounds, and ten shillings for interest. This I had to explain to him, and when he understood that it was a gift he spent the next ten minutes in praising the white men. He was so accustomed to being taxed and paying for everything that to get these extra ten shillings was a shock.

"Manaan then went over to his corner, knelt down, and counted the money over six or seven times. He would take it up, examine it, and put it down again and again. He seemed fascinated by the sovereigns.

Finally he gathered it up and walked over to the counter. Piling it up in front of me, he said:

"'E'musla implea mene bonela e'begga panzi!' which means 'Very nice indeed! I have had a look at it; it is wonderful! Now please put it away again!'

"I felt like a fool. I had cancelled his account, and now the old nuisance wanted to re-open it and put his money in the bank again. But of course I did it. All Manaan wanted was to see and feel his money, so that he would be sure it was still there!"

CHAPTER XII

I meet Labotsibeni again--Flattering a savage queen--Explaining the "little black magic box"--Curing rheumatism with tooth-paste, vaseline, and hair oil--Women as currency--Gin, gold, and cows pay for the picture rights--The "flu" strikes--Jennie, the "blaau app", and the peac.o.c.ks' tails.

From Mbabane it is only a short distance to the top of the mountain from which the descent is made into Ezulweni, the beautiful Valley of Heaven. As we reached the top I pointed out Sheba's b.r.e.a.s.t.s and the Place of Execution to my companions. These peaks could be seen far off to the right, where the sun picked them out in the early morning mist.

Coming down the mountain was hard work, the grade being one in four at many places. We walked, because it would only have made it harder for the mules if we had kept our seats in the wagonette. At the bottom of the steep trail stands the place of Harry Niles, an old-time trader who has settled down there. He has a picturesque little home and has surrounded the house with banana trees, papayas, and semi-tropical fruits. Niles is a charming old man who retired from active business to live out his remaining years in this garden spot. He has no interest in outside affairs and lives an ideal existence, if one likes that sort of thing. His likes and dislikes are quickly expressed, and this is probably one of the reasons that make him contented with his life of isolation. If he likes you, however, he can be more hospitable than any one I know. He will feed you with the most delicious salads, fresh meat, and other delicacies, and there is always something rare to drink. His salads are famous, so that his few friends in Mbabane often make the hard trek to his little home to share one of them.

Coming into the Valley of Heaven from Mbabane, instead of from Rietvlei, made it a much shorter distance to Zombode. We wanted to get there as soon as possible, since we had already been delayed by the wretched weather, so we only had a drink with Niles and then pushed on. He told me that he had heard that the Swazis were getting ready to acknowledge Sebuza as king, but he had no definite information about it.

"What's more," he added, "I don't give a d.a.m.n! Just so long as these royal n.i.g.g.e.rs keep out of my way I'll keep out of theirs. They know better than to bother me, and it makes no difference to me who is king!"

Shortly before we came in sight of Zombode, Oom Tuys came riding down the trail. A Swazi runner had brought word that we were coming, and my uncle had come out to meet me. I was very glad to see him and he was as cheerful as ever. He told me that he had had no difficulty in getting into Swaziland, as he had come in through Komatipoort, but he understood that word had gone to Mbabane that he was at Zombode and he wanted to cut his stay as short as possible.

"It is a shame that the great British Empire should hound one poor lone Boer trader," he said, his eyes twinkling, "and I feel very much afraid. I hate to disturb the peace of mind of the High Commissioner, so I don't want to stay here any longer than necessary."

Then he began to plan with me how to get our business over as quickly as possible. I had not been to Swaziland since my youth, and things were different now. Instead of our being met by a welcoming party of indunas, only a few curious savages and a horde of children came out to watch us arrive. The former proud formality of the royal kraal seemed lacking, and when I asked Tuys about it he explained that since Queen Labotsibeni had become blind "the old customs had gone to seed."

There was still one formality about seeing her, however. This consisted of announcing your presence by sending her a bottle of gin and then waiting until she sent for you. Tuys explained to me that the old queen was terribly vain and desired, above all things, to be flattered. She liked to pretend that she could still see, and Tuys warned me under no circ.u.mstances to admit that I thought she could not.

"You want to look out for Lomwazi, my boy," he added. "He has more brains than all the rest put together and is a very wily devil. He never leaves the side of the old queen, and she can't say a word that he doesn't hear. Look out for him!"

He also advised me to keep my eye on Debeseembie, a brother of Lomwazi and the favorite son of the old queen. Debeseembie was another faithful watchdog of the royal hut and was always somewhere around.

This was the first time I had seen Labotsibeni since I was a little boy, hence I was keenly interested in her apart from the fact that I hoped to obtain her permission to take pictures of Sebuza's coronation. It is well to observe here that I use the word "coronation" for lack of a better term. The Swazi king wears no crown, and I suppose the right but awkward phrase would be to speak of Sebuza's "induction as king."

Lomwazi came out to meet us as we entered the royal kraal and readily agreed to convey the gin-present to his royal mistress. When I slipped him a bottle for himself, his haughty expression immediately became one of joy. A little gin goes a long way with the Swazis.

In a very short time he returned and said that the queen would see us.

In addition to the present sent ahead when an interview is desired with the queen, it is also proper etiquette to leave a present when the interview is over. Knowing this, I took along a present--that is, another bottle of gin.

Now the royal kraal at Zombode was built with a little kraal inside the main one, and in the middle of that was Labotsibeni's reception hall or audience chamber. This was the most unusual building in Swaziland. It had brick walls about four feet high and was about ten by fifteen feet in size. The arched gra.s.s roof was about head high in the middle, but one had to stoop low to enter, because the three openings were only the height of the brick wall. No one has ever explained how these bricks came to Zombode. There are no bricks in Swaziland and it struck me as extraordinary that I should see them there.

Lomwazi led us to the reception hut and we waited for him to announce us. I could see Labotsibeni lying on a mat in the center of the floor with a number of her women and warriors about her. She seemed very fat and huge, and very very old.

"Nkosikaas! All powerful Queen of Swaziland," Lomwazi chanted. "Oom Tuys and Mzaan Bakoor, great white indunas, have come to see you. They bring presents and would be overjoyed forever if you would look upon them and accept their great tribute!"

Some of this was true, but all of it was the proper sort of thing at Zombode. Labotsibeni listened intently, and when her vizier finished she spoke in her old cracked voice:

"Tell my white sons that I am proud to welcome them to Swaziland and will grant them an audience."

Thereupon we entered the hut. There were at least a dozen maids-of-honor attending the old queen, and several of these spread mats for us to sit on. Some of these women were working on freshly tanned hides from which they were fashioning skirts, and the odor of the skins tainted the air of the hut. I am accustomed to this smell and do not find it unpleasant, but both Snyman and Biddy soon had all of it they could stand.

The old queen lay on her stomach with her head propped up by her hands. Within easy reach was a pile of leaves, and at intervals she would take one of these, wipe her lips and fingers with it, and thrust it through the open doorway. Her hands were small and beautifully shaped and her nails were spotlessly clean and perfectly manicured.

Later I learned that her maids spent hours taking care of her hands, their only tools for manicuring the royal nails being bits of broken bottle-gla.s.s.

Remembering Tuys's warning, I complimented her on her looks, beautiful hands, and the cleanliness of her hut and kraal. I told her that her royal abode was an example for all the other native kings of the Transvaal and generally explained to her what a superior person she was. She listened intently to my flattery and appreciated it greatly.

Near her was the bottle of gin we had sent ahead. It was more than half finished and she took a drink while I was delivering my flattering oration. She reached for the bottle and Debeseembie a.s.sisted her to get the drink by pouring out more than half an earthen mug full of the fiery liquid. With one swallow she gulped it down, and then almost choked. This gave me my cue, and I told her how moderate she was and how refined in her way of drinking gin.

"Why, Nkosikaas, if I were to give Jafta, king of the Mapors, a bottle of gin," I said, "he wouldn't stop drinking until he had finished it, and then he would soon become drunk. Whereas, you, with your royal daintiness and delicacy, drink your gin like a queen!"

This thought pleased her much and she thereupon took another drink, which practically emptied the bottle. Of course I do not know that she had consumed the first half of that bottle, but she certainly drank enough in our presence to intoxicate any normal person. It was strange, but it did not seem to have much effect on her. When she spoke and drank, I noticed that her teeth were perfect. This, at the age of more than one hundred years, is a great tribute to the Swazi custom of cleaning the teeth with charcoal or sand after each meal.

There was nothing private about our interview. While we talked indunas came and went and the women were always in the hut. In addition, both Lomwazi and Debeseembie were on hand all the time. After we had exhausted all our compliments and small talk, Tuys broached the subject of permission to take pictures of Sebuza's coronation.