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Video Production
The revised twelfth edition of Video Production: Disciplines and Techniques introduces readers to the operations
underlying video production. It provides thorough coverage of the theory and techniques readers need to know,
balancing complexity with practical how-to information about detailed subjects in a concise, conversational style.
The book has been updated to incorporate recent changes in the video production pipeline—emphasizing digital
video, non-linear video production, streaming platforms, and mobile production—while maintaining the founda-
tional, nuanced, teamwork-based approach that has made the book popular.
Each chapter includes key takeaways, review questions, and on-set exercises, and a comprehensive glossary
defines all the key production terms discussed. An accompanying eResource includes downloadable versions of the
forms and paperwork used in the book, in addition to links to further online resources.

James C. Foust is a professor and the department chair of the Department of Journalism and Public Relations at
Bowling Green State University. He has worked in commercial video production, including experience as a televi-
sion news videographer and editor. He is also the author of Big Voices of the Air: The Battle over Clear Channel
Radio (2000) and Online Journalism: Principles and Practices of News for the Web, Third Edition (2011). He
holds Ph.D. and M.S. degrees from Ohio University.

Edward J. Fink is a professor of Cinema and Television Arts and the interim dean of the College of Communica-
tions at California State University, Fullerton. He teaches both multiple- and single-camera production, in addition
to other media and writing courses. He is the co-author of another production text (Portable Video: News and
Field Production [2012]) and the author of Dramatic Story Structure (2014). He holds a Ph.D. in Mass Commu-
nications from Indiana University.

Lynne S. Gross has taught television production full-time at a number of U.S. colleges, including California State
University, Fullerton; Pepperdine University; UCLA; Loyola Marymount University; and Long Beach City Col-
lege. She has also taught production internationally in Estonia, Australia, Guyana, Swaziland, and Malaysia. Her
professional experience includes serving as director of programming for Valley Cable TV and producing series for
commercial, public, and cable television. Gross is past president of the Broadcast Education Association and has
served as governor for the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences. Her honors include the BEA Distinguished
Education Service Award and the IRTS Frank Stanton Fellow Award. She is the author of ten other books and
numerous journal articles. Her doctorate is from UCLA.
Video Production
Disciplines and Techniques

Twelfth Edition

James C. Foust
Bowling Green State University

Edward J. Fink
California State University, Fullerton

Lynne S. Gross
Twelfth edition published 2018
by Routledge
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registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation
without intent to infringe.
Eleventh edition published by Holcomb Hathaway 2012
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Foust, James C., author. | Fink, Edward J. (Edward John), author. |
Gross, Lynne S, author.
Title: Video production : disciplines and techniques / James C. Foust,
Bowling Green State University, Edward J. Fink, California State
University, Fullerton, Lynne S. Gross.
Description: Twelfth edition. | New York and London : Routledge, 2018. |
Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017008025 (print) | LCCN 2017024922 (ebook) | ISBN
9781315168180 (E-book) | ISBN 9781138051805 (hardback) | ISBN
9781138051812 (pbk.)
Subjects: LCSH: Television—Production and direction. | Video
recordings—Production and direction.
Classification: LCC PN1992.75 (ebook) | LCC PN1992.75 .B8 2018 (print) |
DDC 791.4502/32—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017008025
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ISBN: 978-1-138-05181-2 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-315-16818-0 (ebk)
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 Contents

Preface xi Directors 21
Acknowledgments xiii Before Production Begins 21
During Rehearsal and Recording 22
1 Introduction to Video After the Production 23
Associate Directors 23
Production 1 Before Production Begins 23
Types of Productions 2 During Rehearsal and Recording 23
Studio Production 3 After the Production 24
Field Production 7 Stage Managers 24
Remote Production 8 Before Production Begins 25
The Production Path 8 During Rehearsal and Recording 25
Transducing 8 After the Production 25
Channeling 9 Camera Operators 27
Selecting and Altering 9 Before Production Begins 27
Monitoring 10 During Rehearsal and Recording 27
Recording and Playback 10 After the Production 28
Convergence and the Digital Age 10 Prompter Operators 28
Differences between Analog and Digital 10 Before Production Begins 28
High-Definition Television 11 During Rehearsal and Recording 28
Convergence 11 After the Production 28
A Short History of Video Production 12 Lighting Directors 29
Early Television 12 Before Production Begins 29
Uses of Film and Live Camera 13 During Rehearsal and Recording 29
The Impact of Recorded and Edited After the Production 29
Video 14 Audio Engineers 29
Portable Video Equipment 14 Before Production Begins 29
Computer-Based Technologies 14 During Rehearsal and Recording 30
Aspects of Employment in the Video After the Production 31
Industry 16 Graphics Operators 31
Work Patterns 16 Before Production Begins 31
Types of Jobs 16 During Rehearsal and Recording 31
Employment Preparation 17 After the Production 31
Disciplines and Techniques 17 Technical Directors 32
Focus Points 18 Before Production Begins 32
Review 18 During Rehearsal and Recording 32
On Set 18 After the Production 32
Notes 18 Recordists 33
Before Production Begins 33
2 Cast and Crew 19 During Rehearsal and Recording 33
Producers 20 After the Production 33
Before Production Begins 20 Editors 34
During Rehearsal and Recording 21 Before Production Begins 34
After the Production 21 During Rehearsal and Recording 34

v
vi ● Contents
After the Production 34
Other Positions 34
Cast 36
Performers 36
Actors 39
Focus Points 40
Review 40
On Set 41
Notes 41
3 Producing and
Scriptwriting 43
Types of Producers 43
Executive Producers 43
Producers 44
Associate and Assistant Producers 44
Line Producers 44
Hyphenates 44
Budgets 45
Costs of Productions 45
Pay Rates 45
Facilities and Equipment 46
Constructing and Adhering to the Budget
Budget Overruns 49
Personnel 49
Casting 51
Crew Selection 51
Schedules 51
Legal Considerations 55
Copyright Clearance 55
Other Legal Issues 57
Record Keeping 57
Promotion and Evaluation 58
Scriptwriting 58
Treatments and Proposals 58
Script Forms 61
Focus Points 71
Review 71
On Set 73
Notes 73
4 Directing 75
The “Manager” Role 76
Blocking 76
Marking the Script 76
Other Preparation 77
Conducting Rehearsals 78
Using Communication Devices
Timing 81
Calling Commands 83
The “Artist” Role 87
Shot Juxtaposition 87
Camera Selection 88
Shot Relationships 90
Transitions 92
The “Psychologist” Role 94
Familiarity 94
New Relationships 94
Directorial Style 95
Working with Talent 95
Working with Crew 95
Focus Points 96
Review 96
On Set 96
Notes 97
5 Cameras 99
Television Formats 100
The Video Scanning Process 100
Video Formats 101
Principles of Video Color 102
Hue 103
Saturation 103
Luminance 103
Lens Characteristics 104
46 Focal Length 104
Focus 105
F-Stop Aperture 106
Depth of Field 107
3D and Virtual Reality 109
Production Use of the Zoom 110
Lens Ratio 110
Movement Control 111
Macro Lens 111
Camera Controls 111
Viewfinder Visual Indicators and
Controls 111
Shutter Control 111
Filters 112
White Balance 113
Camera Control Unit 113
Prompter 113
DSLR and Smartphone Cameras 114
DSLR Cameras 114
Smartphone Cameras 115
Camera Mounting and Movement 115
Camera Head Movement 115
Camera Mounts 116
Camera Mount Movements 118
Handheld Cameras 119
Robotic Camera Control 119
80 Drones 119
Field of View 120
The Long Shot (LS) 120
The Medium Shot (MS) 120
The Close-Up (CU) 120
 Contents ● vii

Picture Composition 121 7 Audio 157

Framing 121 Microphones 157
Headroom 122 Frequency 158
Lead Room 122 Amplitude 158
Depth Composition 122 Pickup Patterns 159
Angle of Elevation 123 Construction 161
Balance 123 Positioning Possibilities 163
Other Composition Problems 126 Outboard Equipment 166
Production Techniques 126 Digital Equipment 166
Focus Points 127 Analog Equipment 168
Review 127 Cables and Connectors 169
On Set 127 Types of Cables 170
Notes 128 Types of Connectors 170
Patch Bays and Routers 171
6 Lighting 129 Care of Cables and Connectors 172
Types of Light: Incident and Reflected 129 Audio Consoles 172
Technical Lighting Objectives 130 Types of Consoles 172
Intensity and Consistency 130 The Basic Console 173
Contrast Ratio 131 Board Functions 174
Color Temperature 132 Speakers 179
Creative Lighting Objectives 132 Recording Quality Sound 179
Shape, Texture, and Perspective 133 Choose the Right Mic 179
Reality and Non-reality 133 Position It Properly: Know and Use the Inverse
Mood 133 Square Law 180
Focus of Attention 134 Check and Recheck 180
Lamps 135 Provide Presence and Perspective 180
LED 135 Be Ready to Troubleshoot 181
Fluorescent 135 Adjust to Achieve the Right Balance 182
Quartz 136 Pay Close Attention 182
HMI 137 Focus Points 182
Other Lamps 137 Review 182
Housings 137 On Set 183
Spotlights 137 Notes 183
Floodlights 139
Lighting Styles 140 8 Graphics and Sets 185
Three-Point Lighting 140 Functions of Graphics and Sets 186
Multiple-Camera Lighting and Graphics Equipment 186
Movement 144 Creating Graphics with Computers 186
Flat Lighting 145 Working with Text 187
Specialized Lighting 146 Working with Graphics 187
Mounting Lights 147 Storing and Recalling Graphics 188
Hanging Mounts 147 Graphics Aesthetics 189
Floor Stands 147 Graphic Design 189
Lighting Control Factors 147 Aspect Ratios 192
Intensity 148 Other Graphics 193
Diffusion 149 Using Out-of-Aspect Graphics 193
Shape 150 Keystoning and Essential Area 193
Color 151 Basics of Sets 194
Setting up Lights 152 Virtual Sets 194
Safety Precautions and Disciplines 153 Physical Sets 195
Focus Points 154 Furniture, Set Dressings, and Props 199
Review 155 Production Considerations When
On Set 155 Creating Sets 200
Notes 155
viii ● Contents

Camera Movement 200 Video Servers 233

Microphone Placement 200 Putting Video on Servers 233
Lighting Instruments 200 Using Servers 234
Depth and the Z-Axis 200 Preparing Video for Multiple Devices 235
Talent Movement 202 Viewing Video Files 235
Focus Points 202 Encoding Parameters 235
Review 202 Encoding Techniques 237
On Set 202 Focus Points 238
Notes 203 Review 238
On Set 238
9 Video Switchers 205 Notes 238
Switcher Basics 205
Monitoring Multiple Signals 206 11 Editing 239
Portable and Computer-Based Switchers 207 Editing Basics 240
Master Control and Routing Switchers 207 Off-line and On-line Editing 241
Fundamentals of Switcher Design 207 Project Interchange Files 241
Buses 208 Compression 241
Using the Preset Bus 208 Editing Preparation 242
Wipes 209 Reviewing 242
Keys 210 Decision Making 243
Mix and Preview Buses 211 Nonlinear Editing Techniques 243
Downstream Key and Fade Functions 212 File Management 243
Operational Techniques for Video Switchers 214 Capturing and Importing Raw Material 244
Switcher Overview 214 The Editing Workspace 244
Performing Dissolves 215 Output 250
Fader Movement 215 Editing Aesthetics 251
Automatic Transitions 215 When to Edit: Information and Action 253
Execution of the Wipe Transition 216 Pacing Cuts 254
Keyed Special Effects with Two and Three Jump Cuts 254
Sources 216 Axis of Conversation/Axis of Action 255
Advanced Switcher Functions 217 Special Transitions 255
Digital Effects 217 Ethics of Editing 257
Advanced Controls 219 Focus Points 257
The Director and the Technical Director 219 Review 257
Focus Points 223 On Set 257
Review 223
On Set 223 12 Field Production 259
Notes 223 Introduction 259
Cast and Crew 260
10 Video Recording and Crew Size 260
Playback 225 Cleanup 260
Video Basics 226 Nonsequential Shooting 260
Time Code 226 Producing 261
Control and Diagnostic Components 227 Scripting 261
Composite and Component Signals 228 Location Logistics 261
Video Encoding and Compression 228 Budgeting 262
Encoding Digital Video 229 Conceptualization and Preproduction
Compression Methods 229 Planning 264
Containers 231 Directing 268
Storage Technologies 231 Rehearsals 268
Hard Drives 231 Production Processes 269
Optical Discs 232 Editing Aesthetics 270
Solid State Media 232 Cameras 271
 Contents ● ix

White Balancing 271 Sets 278

Filters 271 Video Recording 278
Power 271 Setup and Connections 278
Camera Mounts and Movement 271 Recording Procedures 279
Camera Care 272 Editing 279
Lighting 272 The Editing Process 279
Indoor Location Lighting 272 Audio Editing 279
Outdoor Location Lighting 275 Remote Truck Productions 280
Audio 275 Focus Points 282
Microphones 275 Review 282
Control Equipment 276 On Set 283
Wildtrack 277
Extraneous Noise 277 Glossary 285
Graphics and Sets 277 Index 305
Graphics 277
 Preface
This edition of the text has been revised and reor-
ganized to reflect the many changes occurring in the
dynamic field of video production. When the first
edition of this book was published in 1978, televi-
sion was dominated by three TV networks and some
local stations. As the years have passed, the field has
expanded to include cable and satellite TV, corporate
video, Internet streaming, podcasting, and various
other distribution technologies. Equipment, too, has
changed, from analog-based to digital-based, while
also getting smaller, cheaper, and, in most cases, more
user-friendly.
UNDERLYING DISCIPLINES
A lthough the techniques and equipment of video
may be changing, the disciplines that serve as the
underlying strength of any operation remain much
the same. The basic concepts of advance preparation,
constant attention to detail, and teamwork assume a
position of even more importance as technology pro-
gresses. Disciplines involve attitudes and behaviors
such as teamwork, responsibility, self-control, initia-
tive, and respect for the work of others. These disci-
plines are, in many ways, the most important part of
any university-level production course. We believe that
these disciplines are best learned within the structure
of production exercises that involve full class partici-
pation and the rotation of students within the various
crew positions.
CHAPTER ORGANIZATION
C hapter 1 serves as an introduction to the material
that follows in subsequent chapters. The chapter
emphasizes the importance of disciplines and tech-
niques, the role convergence plays in production,
and the differences among studio, field, and remote
truck production. It also acknowledges the changes in
viewing patterns and devices brought about by digiti-
zation and fast data connections.
Chapter 2 provides an overview of the duties and
responsibilities of cast and crew and will be useful as
students begin production exercises.
Chapters 3 and 4 enable students to understand
the crucial producing and directing functions early
in the course. These chapters have been updated to
reflect current practices and terminology. Already with
the previous edition, we assumed that most readers
are shooting in a high-definition, wide-screen (16:9)
format, and tapeless, recording directly to solid state
media, such as internal or external hard drives, SD
cards, and the like. For this edition, Chapter 3, for-
merly “Producing,” has been reworked with a new
title, “Producing and Scriptwriting,” and it has been
reorganized with an expanded second half that covers
the concepts and craft of scriptwriting in greater detail.
The specific equipment chapters—Chapters 5
through 11—cover cameras, lighting, audio, graphics
and sets, the switcher, recording equipment, and edit-
ing equipment. The camera chapter now concentrates
on high-definition ATSC formats, mentioning NTSC
only tangentially. It acknowledges a wider range of
camera types, including DSLRs and phone-based cam-
eras, and it has expanded coverage of using them. It
also discusses using drones for video production, as
well as the rise of virtual reality technology. The dis-
cussion of lamps in the lighting chapter leads with a
discussion of LEDs, as in the previous edition, because
they are preferred for their energy efficiency and long
life. While LED lamps outsell others, many practi-
tioners continue to use quartz, fluorescent, and other
instruments because they are part of a lighting direc-
tor’s arsenal, so we continue to include a discussion
of other lamps, as well. The audio chapter has been
revised to emphasize current digital equipment.
In Chapter 8, more space is now devoted to
how graphics are constructed, reflecting the grow-
ing importance of graphics in television; in addition,
more emphasis is placed on types of sets for the 16:9
xi
xii ● Preface
aspect ratio. The recording chapter has expanded and
updated coverage of encoding and compression for-
mats and techniques. The editing chapter features an
expanded and updated discussion of editing prepa-
ration and of compression frames. It also no longer
addresses capturing analog video, as we assume most
schools are now shooting digital.
Chapter 12, on field production, features several
updates throughout.
The book includes a glossary as a helpful refer-
ence for readers; it defines all of the book’s important
terms, which are boldfaced on first use in each chapter
within the text.
STATE-OF-THE-ART AND REAL-WORLD
EQUIPMENT
A s in previous editions, we have covered equipment
that in our view represents the technologies stu-
dents work with in their institutions and will work
with as they enter the job market. Some equipment
used for illustration will be close to state of the art,
but, in other cases, we have deliberately shown some
older, proven units because they are typical of the tech-
nology in general use.
WEB MATERIAL
V ideo Production is supplemented by an eResource
www.routledge.com/9781138051812. There
readers will find materials to supplement their study-
ing and their work in the studio. Readers can view
videos demonstrating production techniques. Forms
provided throughout the book can be downloaded
from the website. Focus-point and key-term reviews
allow readers to go over the industry terminology and
concepts they’ve learned, while web links give instant
access to online material.
 Acknowledgments
We would first like to acknowledge the contributions
of authors who are no longer involved in this project.
Lynne Gross, who guided this book since the retire-
ment of original author Tom Burrows, has retired
from formal involvement with the text, although many
of her words and ideas remain in this edition. We
thank Lynne, Tom, and former co-author Don Wood
for their many years of dedicated service and for their
contributions to previous editions of this book.
We have also had the advice and assistance of
many colleagues, professionals, and students in put-
ting this text together. We would like to especially
thank Jim Barnes, Jose Cardenas, Jim Driscoll, Jason
Schmitt, and Ken Garland.
We also wish to thank those who reviewed the book
for us in its various stages. Their comments helped us
to revise and update, and the book is better as a result.
They are (for the twelfth edition): Juliet Dee, Univer-
sity of Delaware; Peter Iversen, KMEG/KPTH/NMEG/
NPTH, Sioux City, Iowa; Ralph Merkel, University of
Louisville; and Mel Strait, Sam Houston State Univer-
sity. For the eleventh edition, they are: Mac Aipper-
spach, Del Mar College; Marie Elliott, Valdosta State
University; Rick Marks, College of Southern Nevada;
Barbara Naylor, Pasadena City College; Tanya
Person-Irby, Bethune-Cookman University; David
­
Reeder, Suffolk University; Don Schroder, Loyola
Marymount University; Lydia Timmins, University of
Delaware; and Jane Winslow, State University of New
York at Oswego. As always, our goal is to provide a
text that serves as an efficient teaching and learning
vehicle for introductory and secondary courses in tele-
vision production. As part of that endeavor, we wel-
come suggestions and corrections from our colleagues.
xiii

Video production has always been a field that offers
both excitement and opportunities for creativity, lead-
ership, and personal growth. The field attracts all
kinds of people—artists, technicians, organizers, and
problem solvers, to name just a few. The process of
putting audio and video elements together into some-
thing that tells a coherent story is more difficult than
many people realize, and it is often more rewarding
than they expect. It sounds like a cliché to say that
video production offers something for nearly every-
one, but in fact it is true.
As a field, video production has always been
subject to rapid change. Since it is so dependent on
equipment, it is always evolving in new and transfor-
mative ways as technology makes the tools smaller,
faster, lighter, more efficient, less expensive, and more
capable. However, the changes that have taken place
over the past decade have been remarkable even by the
standards of an industry that is used to rapid innova-
tion. These changes—which involve the development
and use of digital-based equipment and the availability
of fast electronic connections between video producers
Introduction to Video
Production
1 CHAPTER
and consumers—have affected both the way video
production is done and the way people are viewing
video programming.
Digital technology is described in greater techni-
cal detail later in this chapter and in various places
throughout the book. For now, let’s just say that it
allows video and audio equipment to function more
like—and be able to interact more effectively with—
computers. Digital technology has also been the driv-
ing force in making various production equipment
more capable and less expensive. This is perhaps
nowhere better seen than in the area of smartphones,
which today offer not only the ability to access the
Internet, countless apps, and messaging capabili-
ties, but also in many cases function as very capable
video cameras. In fact, some of today’s smartphones
can record video rivaling the quality of that shot by
equipment that would have cost thousands of dol-
lars several years ago. This kind of development has
been mirrored throughout the industry, as low-cost,
­medium-cost, and high-cost video and audio equip-
ment has gotten better, more accessible, and easier to
1
2 ● Introduction to Video Production
use. In a modern video production facility, everything
is digital—from the time the light images go into the
camera until they are shown on a monitor, and from
the time sound waves are picked up by a microphone
until they are broadcast over a speaker. As you will see
throughout the book, this all-digital workflow affects
nearly every aspect of video production.
The increased availability of fast connections
between video producers and consumers has created
changes that are perhaps even more profound. These
connections—available via physical wire links or wire-
lessly through the air—are fundamentally changing
the way people access and consume video content.
You now no longer need to have an actual television
to watch video—you can do it on your computer,
tablet, or smartphone. Increasingly, you needn’t even
watch your video according to a television station or
network’s schedule—you can watch your favorite pro-
gram when you want, you can watch it over and over,
and you can even “binge watch” an entire season of a
show in one afternoon if you like. An increasing num-
ber of consumers are “cutting the cable”—cancelling
their cable television subscriptions and instead using
the Internet and streaming services such as Amazon
and Netflix for their video viewing. The rise of these
new content producers has created increased demand
for new programming and, hence, increased demand
for video production.
In addition, digital technology and fast connec-
tions have made the range of types of video greater
than ever before. This refers not only to subject mat-
ter (drama, documentary, comedy, etc.) but also to the
source of the video content and the level of production
quality. Digital technology has in many ways democra-
tized video production, providing average people with
access to near-professional level tools. That means
that more people are creating and sharing video online
through sites like YouTube and Facebook and that
you can access videos from a wide variety of different
sources—not just television networks or movie studios.
This video content may vary widely in production qual-
ity, but today’s consumer for the most part has learned
to accept video that is perhaps somewhat poorly lit
or that has some shaky camera shots as long as it is
conveying something interesting. In fact, someone may
spend two hours watching a multimillion-dollar movie
on his or her laptop, then go directly to YouTube and
watch a series of cat videos that cost almost nothing to
create. As long as people find the content compelling,
they will often overlook lapses in quality.
That is not to say, however, that you shouldn’t strive
for quality no matter what level of video production
you’re doing. There are basic concepts and aesthetic
considerations common to virtually all levels of video
production, such as how to focus or how to properly
frame a shot. This book is designed to introduce you
to those basic concepts and aesthetic considerations,
providing a basic foundation for video production at
any level. It concentrates on traditional, studio-based
video production, but also acknowledges more infor-
mal production techniques as well. Video production
is an exciting field. Whether you are putting together a
video of your college graduation ceremony to upload
to YouTube or directing a hit show for network TV,
you will find that the art of combining audio and
visual elements into a meaningful whole is a creative
process that is both stimulating and rewarding. In
video production, you must interact with people and
equipment. The purpose of this book is to give you the
skills to do both.
TYPES OF PRODUCTIONS
I magine yourself in a cable network TV studio direct-
ing a show where famous actors discuss their careers
and films. Imagine yourself interviewing dignitaries in
China to report on the growth of the Chinese economy.
Imagine yourself on the sidelines at the Super Bowl,
hand-holding a camera to capture comments from the
winning coach. Imagine yourself editing shots of an
emotional medical drama, building the tension in the
story as you work. Imagine yourself producing a web-
based show that goes viral and becomes a national
sensation. Imagine yourself in Antarctica experiment-
ing with various microphones to pick up the noises
made by penguins.
The above examples are just a sampling of the
many ways to produce and classify video material.
Video production can be divided into genre—drama,
documentary, news, or reality, for example. It can be
divided by its method of distribution—broadcast net-
work TV, cable TV, satellite TV, or Internet. However,
for the purposes of learning basic production tech-
niques and disciplines, it is most useful to divide it
in terms of studio production, field production, and
remote production.
Studio production uses either a purpose-built
studio or other controlled, indoor environment to
produce video content. The studio will also be accom-
panied by a control room, where video and audio shot
in the studio are channeled and mixed. News pro-
grams, game shows, talk shows, morning information
programs, situation comedies, and soap operas are a

few of the program types that are generally shot in a
studio. Field production takes place outside of a con-
trolled studio environment, venturing into the “real
world” to gather footage. While field production
offers less control over the shooting environment, it
allows a broader range of scenes to be captured. Doc-
umentaries and dramas are shot primarily using field
production, and many studio productions may also
contain material shot through field production: inter-
views with witnesses of a robbery that are included in
a newscast, the scene at an airport filmed for a soap
opera, or footage of vegetables being grown on a farm
used as part of a cooking show. Remote production
is a combination of studio and field production. The
control room is housed in a truck or set up tempo-
rarily in a designated area, and the “studio” is in the
“field”; it might be a football stadium, a parade route,
or an opera house.
Studio Production
Studio production is the main focus of this book, but
many of the principles related to the studio apply
Figure 1.1 A typical TV studio. (Courtesy of Shutterstock.)
Chapter 1 Introduction to Video Production ● 3
equally well to field and remote production. The main
difference is that field and remote production must
take into account the technical problems created by the
“real world,” such as rain, traffic noise, and unwanted
shadows. The studio is a controlled environment spe-
cially designed for television production.
The Studio
This section describes an ideal studio; the studio you
use may not have all of these features, or it may have
additional features. To begin with, a television studio
is typically housed in a large room at least 20 feet by
30 feet without any posts obstructing its space. (See
Figure 1.1.) Usually, a set occupies one end of the stu-
dio, and the cameras move around in the other space,
but, if a studio is large enough, there may be several
sets and the cameras move among them. The floor
should be level, usually made of concrete covered
with linoleum or another surface so camera move-
ment is smooth. The ceiling should be 12 to 14 feet
high to accommodate a pipe grid from which lights
are hung.
A studio is best located on the ground floor with
large doors that open to the outside so set pieces and
4 ● Introduction to Video Production
other objects can be brought in easily. Walls and ceil-
ings should be soundproofed. The air-conditioning and
ventilation systems need to be quiet so that the sound
is not picked up by the microphones. Because lighting
and other equipment require a lot of power, studios
need to have access to much more electricity than the
average room. Wall outlets must be provided not only
for power but also to connect cameras, microphones,
and other equipment to the control room, as shown in
Figure 1.2.
Performers—who are often called talent—work in
the television studio while one or more cameras pick
up their images and microphones pick up the sound.
Dedicated lights are usually necessary so that the cam-
eras can pick up good images. Each camera’s shot is
different so that the director, the person in charge of a
studio production, can choose which shot to use.
A studio usually has TV sets called monitors that
allow crew members and talent to see what is being
shot. There is also a studio address loudspeaker system
that personnel in the control room (see below) can use
to talk to everyone in the studio, both talent and crew.
Figure 1.2 Connectors on the wall of a television studio allow video, audio, and other signals to be routed to the con-
trol room and other locations.
This, of course, cannot be used during production
because the microphones would pick up the sound as
part of the program audio. That is why there is also
an intercom system that allows various crew members
to communicate with one another over headsets while
a program is being recorded or aired. Many studios
also have an IFB (interruptible foldback) system that
enables control room personnel to talk to the talent,
who wear small earpieces.
The Control Room
The control room, which is the operation center for the
director and other crew members, is usually located
near the studio. (See Figure 1.3.) It usually has a raised
floor so the cables from the studio equipment can be
connected to the appropriate pieces of equipment in
the control room. Often, a window between the studio
and control room allows those working in the control
room to see what is happening in the studio. This win-
dow consists of two panes of glass, each of which is
at a slightly sloped angle so that sounds do not reflect
directly off the glass and create echo. The window

Figure 1.3 A TV control room.
should be well-sealed so sounds from the control room
do not leak into the studio. Some control rooms, espe-
cially those used in teaching situations, have an area
set aside for observers.
The control room contains a great deal of equip-
ment, which will be discussed in detail in the following
chapters. Basically, the images from the cameras go to
a switcher that is used to select the pictures that can be
sent to the recording equipment (which in school set-
tings is often located in the control room). The sound
picked up by the microphones goes to an audio con-
sole, where the volume can be adjusted and sounds
can be mixed together. A graphics generator is used
to prepare titles and other material that need letters,
numbers, and figures. The graphics, too, go through
the switcher (or are sometimes incorporated in the
switcher) and can be combined with images from the
cameras. Other inputs that might go to the switcher
and audio board include a satellite feed and previ-
ously produced material that is fed into a show from a
­computer-based video server.
As noted, the control room will have a series of
monitors, generally one for each input to the switcher
and several to show what has been selected to be
Chapter 1 Introduction to Video Production ● 5
recorded or go out over the air. There are also speak-
ers for audio and headsets so that the equipment oper-
ators can be on the intercom. In addition, numerous
timing devices are used to ensure that the program
and its individual segments will be the right length.
The dimmer board that controls the studio lights may
be in the control room or in the studio. The same is
true for the controls for the prompter, the device that
displays the script in front of the camera lens so that
talent can read from it. There may also be camera
control units (CCUs) that adjust settings on the stu-
dio cameras, such as the amount of light coming into
the lens.
The trend in studios is to incorporate more and
more computer controls that combine and automate
tasks. This means that the people operating equipment
need to understand various functions—for example,
zooming the camera, adjusting the audio levels, com-
posing graphics, dimming lights, and operating the
switcher. A person who is a specialist in one field, such
as audio, will sometimes be less valuable in the stu-
dio situation than a generalist who understands the
techniques and disciplines needed to operate all the
equipment.
6 ● Introduction to Video Production

Other Studio-Related Spaces
Most studios—whether they are housed in a dedicated
production facility or are part of a television station
or other entity—also have accompanying spaces where
other production-related work is performed. The
floor plan of a typical production facility is shown in
Figure 1.4.
Studios that are part of TV stations or other enti-
ties that send a signal into the airwaves or to some
other outside destination have an area called master
control. The end product from the control room goes
to master control, where it is processed in various
ways to be sent on its journey. Sometimes programs
and commercials are stored on large computer servers
and are sent out from master control. Master control
is also where satellite feeds or feeds from remote loca-
tions are received.
Most studio complexes have editing suites where
material shot either in the studio or in the field can be
edited. They may also have an area for storing por-
table and infrequently used equipment and an area
where sets and props can be built and stored. Because
constructing sets is noisy, this area is often some dis-
tance from the studio, but storage is placed as close as
possible.
A green room is a waiting area for those about to
go on a program, such as a talk-show guest or game-
show contestant. It is called a green room because the
walls are often painted green in line with the theory
that the color will relax performers. A makeup room
may also be found near the studio. As a student, you
probably can’t change how your school’s studio facil-
ity is designed, but you can decide what features you
like best and remember them in case you have a chance

elevator and stairs to

reception
second floor offices

green room
sets and props TV
storage and studio
construction
restroom
makeup
area
restroom
hallway

technician’s
office

editing control
editing suite room
suite

hallway
equipment
storage and
check-out master
editing editing editing editing control
suite suite suite suite

Figure 1.4 A floor plan of a typical TV production facility.


during your career to give input regarding the building
or remodeling of a facility.
Makeshift Studios
In some production situations, a fully functioning studio
and its ancillary spaces are not needed. For example, a
political blogger might just need an area where she can
interview politicians or other newsmakers and then post
the video to her site. The finished video may just need to
be a simple head and shoulders shot of the interviewee,
edited to perhaps a minute or two. In this case, all that
is really needed is a space, a camera, a microphone, and
some relatively simple lighting. This space could be set
Figure 1.5 Field production takes place outside the studio and involves much less equipment than a studio shoot.
(Courtesy of Shutterstock.)
Chapter 1 Introduction to Video Production ● 7
up in the corner of a small office or perhaps even in an
area in the blogger’s apartment; the specific area might
be chosen based on natural lighting or sound quality.
A makeshift studio might not be suitable for producing
a network drama, but it can be perfectly fine for certain
kinds of lower-budget video production.
Field Production
Field production often involves shooting and record-
ing with a single camcorder. (See Figure 1.5.) The
image that comes through the lens is recorded directly,
8 ● Introduction to Video Production

bypassing the need for a switcher. Sound is recorded

with a microphone, but it, too, is usually recorded
directly.1 Later, the desired images and sounds are
edited together in the proper order.
Because the “real world” is both the studio and
the control room, there may be no need for a set, and
the natural lighting from the sun or the lights in the
room may suffice. This is usually the case for news
and documentaries where you want to show the actual
natural environment. But for other programs, espe-
cially dramas and comedies, you may find that natural
lighting and sets are inadequate and that you need to
spend a good deal of time working to combine avail-
able natural light with additional lighting you set up.
Similarly, getting clean sound can be a challenge when
doing field production, as unwanted extraneous noises
may interfere with what you want to record.
In general, field production uses a smaller crew
than studio production because there is less equip-
ment. In fact, some news crews consist of one person
who sets up the camera, attaches the microphone, and
then steps in front of the camera to report the story.
Various types of field production will be discussed in
more detail in Chapter 12.

Figure 1.6 A truck used for remote production

Remote Production
Remote production, as noted previously, is a com-
bination of studio and field production, although it
resembles studio production in that the outputs of the
cameras are fed into a switcher and then either go out
live or are recorded. However, remotes, such as the
coverage of a football game, can be more complicated
than studio productions and require a larger crew. In
fact, sports productions (or parades or awards cere-
monies) usually require many more camera operators
than a studio production because of the size of the
venue and all the angles that must be covered. As with
field production, the location’s sound and lighting may
create challenges that will need to be overcome.
The control room will either be in a truck or set up
in a designated area convenient to the production. (See
Figure 1.6.) These control rooms often resemble stu-
dio control rooms, albeit a little more cramped. There
may be more recording and playback devices because
of the need for instant replays and feature inserts. Edit-
ing equipment may also be used during production,
for example, to put together game highlights to be
shown during halftime. The control room may have
the capability to send footage back to master control
or to uplink it to a satellite.
(a), and the control room inside a remote truck (b).
(Photos courtesy of Game Creek Video.)
Sometimes studio, field, and remote production
are all used during the course of a program. For exam-
ple, a newscast coming from a studio may include an
edited story of a fire that was shot in the field earlier in
the day as well as a live feed from a remote unit about
to start televising a baseball game.
THE PRODUCTION PATH
A nother way to look at production is to consider
a model that consists of five basic control func-
tions related to audio and video—transducing, chan-
neling, selecting/altering, monitoring, and recording/
playback. (See Figure 1.7.) This isn’t the only model of
production, but it serves as an appropriate overview of
the video process.
Transducing
Transducing involves converting what we hear or
see into electrical energy, or vice versa. For exam-
ple, a microphone transduces spoken sound into

AUDIO
FUNCTION transducing channeling
VIDEO
Figure 1.7 A model showing basic control functions.
electrical waveforms that can travel through wires
and be recorded. A diaphragm within the micro-
phone vibrates in response to sound waves and cre-
ates a current within electronic elements of the mic
(see ­Chapter 7). It vibrates differently depending on
whether the sounds are loud or soft, high-pitched or
low-pitched. In essence, the microphone arranges elec-
trons in a type of “code” that represents each particular
sound. These electrons then travel through equipment
as electrical energy until they come to a speaker. The
speaker does the opposite of what a microphone does;
it transduces the electrical waveforms back into sound
waves that correspond to those originally picked up by
the microphone.
A camera operates in the same way. It transduces
light waves into electrical waveforms that can be
stored or moved from place to place. When this elec-
trical energy reaches a video monitor, it is transduced
into a moving picture that the eye can see. Whether
the production is studio, field, or remote, microphones
and cameras act as transducers.
Channeling
Channeling refers to moving video and sound from
one place to another. In television studios this is typi-
cally accomplished over wires called cables. Outlets in
the studio allow the cables for the cameras and mics to
run through the walls to the control room rather than
being strewn all over the studio floor (see Figure 1.2).
The most common way for the electrical signal to leave
or enter a piece of equipment is through a connector.
Chapter 1 Introduction to Video Production ● 9
selecting/altering monitoring recording/playing back
For example, one end of a camera cable will plug into
a connector on the camera, and the other end will plug
into a connector in the wall.
The channeling in studios and remote trucks is
fairly similar. The walls of the truck and studio have
places to plug in cameras and microphones, and these
signals will then be transported through connectors
and wires to audio consoles, switchers, recorders,
monitors, and other equipment.
As you will see throughout this book, modern
video production equipment usually uses digital
signals. This means that audio and video informa-
tion can travel over computer network connections.
One advantage of these connections is that infor-
mation can travel not just within the confines of a
single room or building but also across town or to
the other side of the world. Increasingly, channeling
can be accomplished without wires at all, by using
the airwaves in the same manner as a home wireless
(wi-fi) network.
In the field, channeling is generally much simpler.
Because the camera and recorder are one piece of
equipment, external wires for video are often unnec-
essary. Although some cameras have built-in mics, an
external microphone needs channeling to the cam-
corder, usually through a wire and connector.
Selecting and Altering
Signals that are transduced by microphones and cam-
eras are usually channeled to an audio console or a
switcher, where they can be selected. The switcher has
10 ● Introduction to Video Production

buttons, each of which represents one of the video sig- audio you are recording through headphones plugged
nals—camera 1, camera 2, server 2, graphics genera- into the camera.
tor, satellite feed, and so forth. The person operating
the switcher pushes a button to select the appropriate
signal. Most switchers also allow for altering pictures Recording and Playback
to some degree. For example, you can take the picture
Recording equipment retains sound and picture in
from camera 1 and squeeze it so it only appears in
a permanent electronic form for later playback (see
the upper left-hand corner of the frame. (This will be
Chapter 10). For many years the only material avail-
explained in more detail in Chapter 9.)
able for recording and playing back audio and video
Similarly, the audio board can be used to select
was tape. However, today tape is seldom used, as other
one sound to go over the air, or it can mix together sev-
forms of recording media—such as hard drives, optical
eral sounds, such as music under a spoken announce-
discs, and solid state media—have taken its place.
ment. Most audio consoles can also alter sounds, such
Some of the equipment discussed in this section
as making a person’s voice sound thin and tinny, per-
performs more than one function. For example, some
haps to represent a character from another planet.
recording devices allow for several channels of audio
Once again, these functions are similar for studio
and enable you to select which sound you want. Also,
and remote production. In field production, sounds
monitors act as transducers. There is no need to get
and pictures are also selected and altered, but usually
hung up on categorizing each piece of equipment spe-
this is done during the editing process, after the mate-
cifically according to its basic control function, but
rial has been shot. Most editing software can select,
it is necessary to acknowledge that both picture and
mix, and alter, so that the end result looks or sounds
sound go through a process. When you are sending
just like what would come from a switcher or an audio
someone’s voice into a microphone, for example, you
console.
should take into account the way the sound might be
channeled, selected, altered, monitored, recorded, and
played back, so that you record it in a manner that will
Monitoring allow it to reach the final stage properly. The same is
true for an image created by a camera.
Monitoring allows you to hear and see the material
you are working with at various stages along the way.
In addition to a monitor for each signal, a control
room normally has a preview monitor, which is used CONVERGENCE AND THE DIGITAL AGE
to set up effects before they go out on the air, and a
program monitor to show what is currently being sent
out from the switcher.
D uring your professional career in video produc-
tion, one thing will be certain—change. As noted
earlier, one of the most important changes currently
Speakers are used for audio monitoring; some are
taking place is the convergence of media forms made
used to hear the current program audio, while others
possible by digital technology.
are used to monitor the sound from a particular piece
of equipment. Sometimes, the sound is fed not into a
speaker but only into the audio operator’s headset. In
that way the sound does not interfere with what crew Differences between Analog and Digital
members are saying to each other. Both sound and light travel through the air naturally
Pictures and sound can also be monitored with in the form of waves. For many years, the transduc-
specialized electronic equipment. A VU (volume unit) ing process always resulted in electronic signals for
meter, for example, shows how loud audio is, and a sounds and video that were in the form of waves as
waveform monitor shows the brightness levels of a well. These signals were called analog because the elec-
camera image. These pieces of equipment show things tronic waveform that resulted from the transducing
you cannot necessarily see or hear by using a video process was analogous to the original sound or light
monitor or speakers (see Chapters 5 and 7). wave. (See Figure 1.8.) In other words, it contained
Studios and trucks both have many monitoring representations of the same essential elements—such
devices, while monitoring in field production is often as loudness, brightness, pitch, and color—that charac-
limited to seeing the picture you are taking through the terized the original sound or light wave. These repre-
display or viewfinder of the camera and listening to the sentations varied continuously over a range of values;
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 DANCE ON STILTS AT THE GIRLS’ UNYAGO, NIUCHI

Newala, too, suffers from the distance of its water-supply—at least

the Newala of to-day does; there was once another Newala in a lovely
valley at the foot of the plateau. I visited it and found scarcely a trace
of houses, only a Christian cemetery, with the graves of several
missionaries and their converts, remaining as a monument of its
former glories. But the surroundings are wonderfully beautiful. A
thick grove of splendid mango-trees closes in the weather-worn
crosses and headstones; behind them, combining the useful and the
agreeable, is a whole plantation of lemon-trees covered with ripe
fruit; not the small African kind, but a much larger and also juicier
imported variety, which drops into the hands of the passing traveller,
without calling for any exertion on his part. Old Newala is now under
the jurisdiction of the native pastor, Daudi, at Chingulungulu, who,
as I am on very friendly terms with him, allows me, as a matter of
course, the use of this lemon-grove during my stay at Newala.
 FEET MUTILATED BY THE RAVAGES OF THE “JIGGER”
(Sarcopsylla penetrans)

The water-supply of New Newala is in the bottom of the valley,

some 1,600 feet lower down. The way is not only long and fatiguing,
but the water, when we get it, is thoroughly bad. We are suffering not
only from this, but from the fact that the arrangements at Newala are
nothing short of luxurious. We have a separate kitchen—a hut built
against the boma palisade on the right of the baraza, the interior of
which is not visible from our usual position. Our two cooks were not
long in finding this out, and they consequently do—or rather neglect
to do—what they please. In any case they do not seem to be very
particular about the boiling of our drinking-water—at least I can
attribute to no other cause certain attacks of a dysenteric nature,
from which both Knudsen and I have suffered for some time. If a
man like Omari has to be left unwatched for a moment, he is capable
of anything. Besides this complaint, we are inconvenienced by the
state of our nails, which have become as hard as glass, and crack on
the slightest provocation, and I have the additional infliction of
pimples all over me. As if all this were not enough, we have also, for
the last week been waging war against the jigger, who has found his
Eldorado in the hot sand of the Makonde plateau. Our men are seen
all day long—whenever their chronic colds and the dysentery likewise
raging among them permit—occupied in removing this scourge of
Africa from their feet and trying to prevent the disastrous
consequences of its presence. It is quite common to see natives of
this place with one or two toes missing; many have lost all their toes,
or even the whole front part of the foot, so that a well-formed leg
ends in a shapeless stump. These ravages are caused by the female of
Sarcopsylla penetrans, which bores its way under the skin and there
develops an egg-sac the size of a pea. In all books on the subject, it is
stated that one’s attention is called to the presence of this parasite by
an intolerable itching. This agrees very well with my experience, so
far as the softer parts of the sole, the spaces between and under the
toes, and the side of the foot are concerned, but if the creature
penetrates through the harder parts of the heel or ball of the foot, it
may escape even the most careful search till it has reached maturity.
Then there is no time to be lost, if the horrible ulceration, of which
we see cases by the dozen every day, is to be prevented. It is much
easier, by the way, to discover the insect on the white skin of a
European than on that of a native, on which the dark speck scarcely
shows. The four or five jiggers which, in spite of the fact that I
constantly wore high laced boots, chose my feet to settle in, were
taken out for me by the all-accomplished Knudsen, after which I
thought it advisable to wash out the cavities with corrosive
sublimate. The natives have a different sort of disinfectant—they fill
the hole with scraped roots. In a tiny Makua village on the slope of
the plateau south of Newala, we saw an old woman who had filled all
the spaces under her toe-nails with powdered roots by way of
prophylactic treatment. What will be the result, if any, who can say?
The rest of the many trifling ills which trouble our existence are
really more comic than serious. In the absence of anything else to
smoke, Knudsen and I at last opened a box of cigars procured from
the Indian store-keeper at Lindi, and tried them, with the most
distressing results. Whether they contain opium or some other
narcotic, neither of us can say, but after the tenth puff we were both
“off,” three-quarters stupefied and unspeakably wretched. Slowly we
recovered—and what happened next? Half-an-hour later we were
once more smoking these poisonous concoctions—so insatiable is the
craving for tobacco in the tropics.
Even my present attacks of fever scarcely deserve to be taken
seriously. I have had no less than three here at Newala, all of which
have run their course in an incredibly short time. In the early
afternoon, I am busy with my old natives, asking questions and
making notes. The strong midday coffee has stimulated my spirits to
an extraordinary degree, the brain is active and vigorous, and work
progresses rapidly, while a pleasant warmth pervades the whole
body. Suddenly this gives place to a violent chill, forcing me to put on
my overcoat, though it is only half-past three and the afternoon sun
is at its hottest. Now the brain no longer works with such acuteness
and logical precision; more especially does it fail me in trying to
establish the syntax of the difficult Makua language on which I have
ventured, as if I had not enough to do without it. Under the
circumstances it seems advisable to take my temperature, and I do
so, to save trouble, without leaving my seat, and while going on with
my work. On examination, I find it to be 101·48°. My tutors are
abruptly dismissed and my bed set up in the baraza; a few minutes
later I am in it and treating myself internally with hot water and
lemon-juice.
Three hours later, the thermometer marks nearly 104°, and I make
them carry me back into the tent, bed and all, as I am now perspiring
heavily, and exposure to the cold wind just beginning to blow might
mean a fatal chill. I lie still for a little while, and then find, to my
great relief, that the temperature is not rising, but rather falling. This
is about 7.30 p.m. At 8 p.m. I find, to my unbounded astonishment,
that it has fallen below 98·6°, and I feel perfectly well. I read for an
hour or two, and could very well enjoy a smoke, if I had the
wherewithal—Indian cigars being out of the question.
Having no medical training, I am at a loss to account for this state
of things. It is impossible that these transitory attacks of high fever
should be malarial; it seems more probable that they are due to a
kind of sunstroke. On consulting my note-book, I become more and
more inclined to think this is the case, for these attacks regularly
follow extreme fatigue and long exposure to strong sunshine. They at
least have the advantage of being only short interruptions to my
work, as on the following morning I am always quite fresh and fit.
My treasure of a cook is suffering from an enormous hydrocele which
makes it difficult for him to get up, and Moritz is obliged to keep in
the dark on account of his inflamed eyes. Knudsen’s cook, a raw boy
from somewhere in the bush, knows still less of cooking than Omari;
consequently Nils Knudsen himself has been promoted to the vacant
post. Finding that we had come to the end of our supplies, he began
by sending to Chingulungulu for the four sucking-pigs which we had
bought from Matola and temporarily left in his charge; and when
they came up, neatly packed in a large crate, he callously slaughtered
the biggest of them. The first joint we were thoughtless enough to
entrust for roasting to Knudsen’s mshenzi cook, and it was
consequently uneatable; but we made the rest of the animal into a
jelly which we ate with great relish after weeks of underfeeding,
consuming incredible helpings of it at both midday and evening
meals. The only drawback is a certain want of variety in the tinned
vegetables. Dr. Jäger, to whom the Geographical Commission
entrusted the provisioning of the expeditions—mine as well as his
own—because he had more time on his hands than the rest of us,
seems to have laid in a huge stock of Teltow turnips,[46] an article of
food which is all very well for occasional use, but which quickly palls
when set before one every day; and we seem to have no other tins
left. There is no help for it—we must put up with the turnips; but I
am certain that, once I am home again, I shall not touch them for ten
years to come.
Amid all these minor evils, which, after all, go to make up the
genuine flavour of Africa, there is at least one cheering touch:
Knudsen has, with the dexterity of a skilled mechanic, repaired my 9
× 12 cm. camera, at least so far that I can use it with a little care.
How, in the absence of finger-nails, he was able to accomplish such a
ticklish piece of work, having no tool but a clumsy screw-driver for
taking to pieces and putting together again the complicated
mechanism of the instantaneous shutter, is still a mystery to me; but
he did it successfully. The loss of his finger-nails shows him in a light
contrasting curiously enough with the intelligence evinced by the
above operation; though, after all, it is scarcely surprising after his
ten years’ residence in the bush. One day, at Lindi, he had occasion
to wash a dog, which must have been in need of very thorough
cleansing, for the bottle handed to our friend for the purpose had an
extremely strong smell. Having performed his task in the most
conscientious manner, he perceived with some surprise that the dog
did not appear much the better for it, and was further surprised by
finding his own nails ulcerating away in the course of the next few
days. “How was I to know that carbolic acid has to be diluted?” he
mutters indignantly, from time to time, with a troubled gaze at his
mutilated finger-tips.
 Since we came to Newala we have been making excursions in all
directions through the surrounding country, in accordance with old
habit, and also because the akida Sefu did not get together the tribal
elders from whom I wanted information so speedily as he had
promised. There is, however, no harm done, as, even if seen only
from the outside, the country and people are interesting enough.
The Makonde plateau is like a large rectangular table rounded off
at the corners. Measured from the Indian Ocean to Newala, it is
about seventy-five miles long, and between the Rovuma and the
Lukuledi it averages fifty miles in breadth, so that its superficial area
is about two-thirds of that of the kingdom of Saxony. The surface,
however, is not level, but uniformly inclined from its south-western
edge to the ocean. From the upper edge, on which Newala lies, the
eye ranges for many miles east and north-east, without encountering
any obstacle, over the Makonde bush. It is a green sea, from which
here and there thick clouds of smoke rise, to show that it, too, is
inhabited by men who carry on their tillage like so many other
primitive peoples, by cutting down and burning the bush, and
manuring with the ashes. Even in the radiant light of a tropical day
such a fire is a grand sight.
Much less effective is the impression produced just now by the
great western plain as seen from the edge of the plateau. As often as
time permits, I stroll along this edge, sometimes in one direction,
sometimes in another, in the hope of finding the air clear enough to
let me enjoy the view; but I have always been disappointed.
Wherever one looks, clouds of smoke rise from the burning bush,
and the air is full of smoke and vapour. It is a pity, for under more
favourable circumstances the panorama of the whole country up to
the distant Majeje hills must be truly magnificent. It is of little use
taking photographs now, and an outline sketch gives a very poor idea
of the scenery. In one of these excursions I went out of my way to
make a personal attempt on the Makonde bush. The present edge of
the plateau is the result of a far-reaching process of destruction
through erosion and denudation. The Makonde strata are
everywhere cut into by ravines, which, though short, are hundreds of
yards in depth. In consequence of the loose stratification of these
beds, not only are the walls of these ravines nearly vertical, but their
upper end is closed by an equally steep escarpment, so that the
western edge of the Makonde plateau is hemmed in by a series of
deep, basin-like valleys. In order to get from one side of such a ravine
to the other, I cut my way through the bush with a dozen of my men.
It was a very open part, with more grass than scrub, but even so the
short stretch of less than two hundred yards was very hard work; at
the end of it the men’s calicoes were in rags and they themselves
bleeding from hundreds of scratches, while even our strong khaki
suits had not escaped scatheless.

NATIVE PATH THROUGH THE MAKONDE BUSH, NEAR

MAHUTA

I see increasing reason to believe that the view formed some time
back as to the origin of the Makonde bush is the correct one. I have
no doubt that it is not a natural product, but the result of human
occupation. Those parts of the high country where man—as a very
slight amount of practice enables the eye to perceive at once—has not
yet penetrated with axe and hoe, are still occupied by a splendid
timber forest quite able to sustain a comparison with our mixed
forests in Germany. But wherever man has once built his hut or tilled
his field, this horrible bush springs up. Every phase of this process
may be seen in the course of a couple of hours’ walk along the main
road. From the bush to right or left, one hears the sound of the axe—
not from one spot only, but from several directions at once. A few
steps further on, we can see what is taking place. The brush has been
cut down and piled up in heaps to the height of a yard or more,
between which the trunks of the large trees stand up like the last
pillars of a magnificent ruined building. These, too, present a
melancholy spectacle: the destructive Makonde have ringed them—
cut a broad strip of bark all round to ensure their dying off—and also
piled up pyramids of brush round them. Father and son, mother and
son-in-law, are chopping away perseveringly in the background—too
busy, almost, to look round at the white stranger, who usually excites
so much interest. If you pass by the same place a week later, the piles
of brushwood have disappeared and a thick layer of ashes has taken
the place of the green forest. The large trees stretch their
smouldering trunks and branches in dumb accusation to heaven—if
they have not already fallen and been more or less reduced to ashes,
perhaps only showing as a white stripe on the dark ground.
This work of destruction is carried out by the Makonde alike on the
virgin forest and on the bush which has sprung up on sites already
cultivated and deserted. In the second case they are saved the trouble
of burning the large trees, these being entirely absent in the
secondary bush.
After burning this piece of forest ground and loosening it with the
hoe, the native sows his corn and plants his vegetables. All over the
country, he goes in for bed-culture, which requires, and, in fact,
receives, the most careful attention. Weeds are nowhere tolerated in
the south of German East Africa. The crops may fail on the plains,
where droughts are frequent, but never on the plateau with its
abundant rains and heavy dews. Its fortunate inhabitants even have
the satisfaction of seeing the proud Wayao and Wamakua working
for them as labourers, driven by hunger to serve where they were
accustomed to rule.
But the light, sandy soil is soon exhausted, and would yield no
harvest the second year if cultivated twice running. This fact has
been familiar to the native for ages; consequently he provides in
time, and, while his crop is growing, prepares the next plot with axe
and firebrand. Next year he plants this with his various crops and
lets the first piece lie fallow. For a short time it remains waste and
desolate; then nature steps in to repair the destruction wrought by
man; a thousand new growths spring out of the exhausted soil, and
even the old stumps put forth fresh shoots. Next year the new growth
is up to one’s knees, and in a few years more it is that terrible,
impenetrable bush, which maintains its position till the black
occupier of the land has made the round of all the available sites and
come back to his starting point.
The Makonde are, body and soul, so to speak, one with this bush.
According to my Yao informants, indeed, their name means nothing
else but “bush people.” Their own tradition says that they have been
settled up here for a very long time, but to my surprise they laid great
stress on an original immigration. Their old homes were in the
south-east, near Mikindani and the mouth of the Rovuma, whence
their peaceful forefathers were driven by the continual raids of the
Sakalavas from Madagascar and the warlike Shirazis[47] of the coast,
to take refuge on the almost inaccessible plateau. I have studied
African ethnology for twenty years, but the fact that changes of
population in this apparently quiet and peaceable corner of the earth
could have been occasioned by outside enterprises taking place on
the high seas, was completely new to me. It is, no doubt, however,
correct.
The charming tribal legend of the Makonde—besides informing us
of other interesting matters—explains why they have to live in the
thickest of the bush and a long way from the edge of the plateau,
instead of making their permanent homes beside the purling brooks
and springs of the low country.
“The place where the tribe originated is Mahuta, on the southern
side of the plateau towards the Rovuma, where of old time there was
nothing but thick bush. Out of this bush came a man who never
washed himself or shaved his head, and who ate and drank but little.
He went out and made a human figure from the wood of a tree
growing in the open country, which he took home to his abode in the
bush and there set it upright. In the night this image came to life and
was a woman. The man and woman went down together to the
Rovuma to wash themselves. Here the woman gave birth to a still-
born child. They left that place and passed over the high land into the
valley of the Mbemkuru, where the woman had another child, which
was also born dead. Then they returned to the high bush country of
Mahuta, where the third child was born, which lived and grew up. In
course of time, the couple had many more children, and called
themselves Wamatanda. These were the ancestral stock of the
Makonde, also called Wamakonde,[48] i.e., aborigines. Their
forefather, the man from the bush, gave his children the command to
bury their dead upright, in memory of the mother of their race who
was cut out of wood and awoke to life when standing upright. He also
warned them against settling in the valleys and near large streams,
for sickness and death dwelt there. They were to make it a rule to
have their huts at least an hour’s walk from the nearest watering-
place; then their children would thrive and escape illness.”
The explanation of the name Makonde given by my informants is
somewhat different from that contained in the above legend, which I
extract from a little book (small, but packed with information), by
Pater Adams, entitled Lindi und sein Hinterland. Otherwise, my
results agree exactly with the statements of the legend. Washing?
Hapana—there is no such thing. Why should they do so? As it is, the
supply of water scarcely suffices for cooking and drinking; other
people do not wash, so why should the Makonde distinguish himself
by such needless eccentricity? As for shaving the head, the short,
woolly crop scarcely needs it,[49] so the second ancestral precept is
likewise easy enough to follow. Beyond this, however, there is
nothing ridiculous in the ancestor’s advice. I have obtained from
various local artists a fairly large number of figures carved in wood,
ranging from fifteen to twenty-three inches in height, and
representing women belonging to the great group of the Mavia,
Makonde, and Matambwe tribes. The carving is remarkably well
done and renders the female type with great accuracy, especially the
keloid ornamentation, to be described later on. As to the object and
meaning of their works the sculptors either could or (more probably)
would tell me nothing, and I was forced to content myself with the
scanty information vouchsafed by one man, who said that the figures
were merely intended to represent the nembo—the artificial
deformations of pelele, ear-discs, and keloids. The legend recorded
by Pater Adams places these figures in a new light. They must surely
be more than mere dolls; and we may even venture to assume that
they are—though the majority of present-day Makonde are probably
unaware of the fact—representations of the tribal ancestress.
 The references in the legend to the descent from Mahuta to the
Rovuma, and to a journey across the highlands into the Mbekuru
valley, undoubtedly indicate the previous history of the tribe, the
travels of the ancestral pair typifying the migrations of their
descendants. The descent to the neighbouring Rovuma valley, with
its extraordinary fertility and great abundance of game, is intelligible
at a glance—but the crossing of the Lukuledi depression, the ascent
to the Rondo Plateau and the descent to the Mbemkuru, also lie
within the bounds of probability, for all these districts have exactly
the same character as the extreme south. Now, however, comes a
point of especial interest for our bacteriological age. The primitive
Makonde did not enjoy their lives in the marshy river-valleys.
Disease raged among them, and many died. It was only after they
had returned to their original home near Mahuta, that the health
conditions of these people improved. We are very apt to think of the
African as a stupid person whose ignorance of nature is only equalled
by his fear of it, and who looks on all mishaps as caused by evil
spirits and malignant natural powers. It is much more correct to
assume in this case that the people very early learnt to distinguish
districts infested with malaria from those where it is absent.
This knowledge is crystallized in the
ancestral warning against settling in the
valleys and near the great waters, the
dwelling-places of disease and death. At the
same time, for security against the hostile
Mavia south of the Rovuma, it was enacted
that every settlement must be not less than a
certain distance from the southern edge of the
plateau. Such in fact is their mode of life at the
present day. It is not such a bad one, and
certainly they are both safer and more
comfortable than the Makua, the recent
intruders from the south, who have made USUAL METHOD OF
good their footing on the western edge of the CLOSING HUT-DOOR
plateau, extending over a fairly wide belt of
country. Neither Makua nor Makonde show in their dwellings
anything of the size and comeliness of the Yao houses in the plain,
especially at Masasi, Chingulungulu and Zuza’s. Jumbe Chauro, a
Makonde hamlet not far from Newala, on the road to Mahuta, is the
most important settlement of the tribe I have yet seen, and has fairly
spacious huts. But how slovenly is their construction compared with
the palatial residences of the elephant-hunters living in the plain.
The roofs are still more untidy than in the general run of huts during
the dry season, the walls show here and there the scanty beginnings
or the lamentable remains of the mud plastering, and the interior is a
veritable dog-kennel; dirt, dust and disorder everywhere. A few huts
only show any attempt at division into rooms, and this consists
merely of very roughly-made bamboo partitions. In one point alone
have I noticed any indication of progress—in the method of fastening
the door. Houses all over the south are secured in a simple but
ingenious manner. The door consists of a set of stout pieces of wood
or bamboo, tied with bark-string to two cross-pieces, and moving in
two grooves round one of the door-posts, so as to open inwards. If
the owner wishes to leave home, he takes two logs as thick as a man’s
upper arm and about a yard long. One of these is placed obliquely
against the middle of the door from the inside, so as to form an angle
of from 60° to 75° with the ground. He then places the second piece
horizontally across the first, pressing it downward with all his might.
It is kept in place by two strong posts planted in the ground a few
inches inside the door. This fastening is absolutely safe, but of course
cannot be applied to both doors at once, otherwise how could the
owner leave or enter his house? I have not yet succeeded in finding
out how the back door is fastened.

MAKONDE LOCK AND KEY AT JUMBE CHAURO

 This is the general way of closing a house. The Makonde at Jumbe
Chauro, however, have a much more complicated, solid and original
one. Here, too, the door is as already described, except that there is
only one post on the inside, standing by itself about six inches from
one side of the doorway. Opposite this post is a hole in the wall just
large enough to admit a man’s arm. The door is closed inside by a
large wooden bolt passing through a hole in this post and pressing
with its free end against the door. The other end has three holes into
which fit three pegs running in vertical grooves inside the post. The
door is opened with a wooden key about a foot long, somewhat
curved and sloped off at the butt; the other end has three pegs
corresponding to the holes, in the bolt, so that, when it is thrust
through the hole in the wall and inserted into the rectangular
opening in the post, the pegs can be lifted and the bolt drawn out.[50]

MODE OF INSERTING THE KEY

With no small pride first one householder and then a second

showed me on the spot the action of this greatest invention of the
Makonde Highlands. To both with an admiring exclamation of
“Vizuri sana!” (“Very fine!”). I expressed the wish to take back these
marvels with me to Ulaya, to show the Wazungu what clever fellows
the Makonde are. Scarcely five minutes after my return to camp at
Newala, the two men came up sweating under the weight of two
heavy logs which they laid down at my feet, handing over at the same
time the keys of the fallen fortress. Arguing, logically enough, that if
the key was wanted, the lock would be wanted with it, they had taken
their axes and chopped down the posts—as it never occurred to them
to dig them out of the ground and so bring them intact. Thus I have
two badly damaged specimens, and the owners, instead of praise,
come in for a blowing-up.
The Makua huts in the environs of Newala are especially
miserable; their more than slovenly construction reminds one of the
temporary erections of the Makua at Hatia’s, though the people here
have not been concerned in a war. It must therefore be due to
congenital idleness, or else to the absence of a powerful chief. Even
the baraza at Mlipa’s, a short hour’s walk south-east of Newala,
shares in this general neglect. While public buildings in this country
are usually looked after more or less carefully, this is in evident
danger of being blown over by the first strong easterly gale. The only
attractive object in this whole district is the grave of the late chief
Mlipa. I visited it in the morning, while the sun was still trying with
partial success to break through the rolling mists, and the circular
grove of tall euphorbias, which, with a broken pot, is all that marks
the old king’s resting-place, impressed one with a touch of pathos.
Even my very materially-minded carriers seemed to feel something
of the sort, for instead of their usual ribald songs, they chanted
solemnly, as we marched on through the dense green of the Makonde
bush:—
 “We shall arrive with the great master; we stand in a row and have
no fear about getting our food and our money from the Serkali (the
Government). We are not afraid; we are going along with the great
master, the lion; we are going down to the coast and back.”
With regard to the characteristic features of the various tribes here
on the western edge of the plateau, I can arrive at no other
conclusion than the one already come to in the plain, viz., that it is
impossible for anyone but a trained anthropologist to assign any
given individual at once to his proper tribe. In fact, I think that even
an anthropological specialist, after the most careful examination,
might find it a difficult task to decide. The whole congeries of peoples
collected in the region bounded on the west by the great Central
African rift, Tanganyika and Nyasa, and on the east by the Indian
Ocean, are closely related to each other—some of their languages are
only distinguished from one another as dialects of the same speech,
and no doubt all the tribes present the same shape of skull and
structure of skeleton. Thus, surely, there can be no very striking
differences in outward appearance.
 Even did such exist, I should have no time
to concern myself with them, for day after day,
I have to see or hear, as the case may be—in
any case to grasp and record—an
extraordinary number of ethnographic
phenomena. I am almost disposed to think it
fortunate that some departments of inquiry, at
least, are barred by external circumstances.
Chief among these is the subject of iron-
working. We are apt to think of Africa as a
country where iron ore is everywhere, so to
speak, to be picked up by the roadside, and
where it would be quite surprising if the
inhabitants had not learnt to smelt the
material ready to their hand. In fact, the
knowledge of this art ranges all over the
continent, from the Kabyles in the north to the
Kafirs in the south. Here between the Rovuma
and the Lukuledi the conditions are not so
favourable. According to the statements of the
Makonde, neither ironstone nor any other
form of iron ore is known to them. They have
not therefore advanced to the art of smelting
the metal, but have hitherto bought all their
THE ANCESTRESS OF
THE MAKONDE
iron implements from neighbouring tribes.
Even in the plain the inhabitants are not much
better off. Only one man now living is said to
understand the art of smelting iron. This old fundi lives close to
Huwe, that isolated, steep-sided block of granite which rises out of
the green solitude between Masasi and Chingulungulu, and whose
jagged and splintered top meets the traveller’s eye everywhere. While
still at Masasi I wished to see this man at work, but was told that,
frightened by the rising, he had retired across the Rovuma, though
he would soon return. All subsequent inquiries as to whether the
fundi had come back met with the genuine African answer, “Bado”
(“Not yet”).
 BRAZIER

Some consolation was afforded me by a brassfounder, whom I

came across in the bush near Akundonde’s. This man is the favourite
of women, and therefore no doubt of the gods; he welds the glittering
brass rods purchased at the coast into those massive, heavy rings
which, on the wrists and ankles of the local fair ones, continually give
me fresh food for admiration. Like every decent master-craftsman he
had all his tools with him, consisting of a pair of bellows, three
crucibles and a hammer—nothing more, apparently. He was quite
willing to show his skill, and in a twinkling had fixed his bellows on
the ground. They are simply two goat-skins, taken off whole, the four
legs being closed by knots, while the upper opening, intended to
admit the air, is kept stretched by two pieces of wood. At the lower
end of the skin a smaller opening is left into which a wooden tube is
stuck. The fundi has quickly borrowed a heap of wood-embers from
the nearest hut; he then fixes the free ends of the two tubes into an
earthen pipe, and clamps them to the ground by means of a bent
piece of wood. Now he fills one of his small clay crucibles, the dross
on which shows that they have been long in use, with the yellow
material, places it in the midst of the embers, which, at present are
only faintly glimmering, and begins his work. In quick alternation
the smith’s two hands move up and down with the open ends of the
bellows; as he raises his hand he holds the slit wide open, so as to let
the air enter the skin bag unhindered. In pressing it down he closes
the bag, and the air puffs through the bamboo tube and clay pipe into
the fire, which quickly burns up. The smith, however, does not keep
on with this work, but beckons to another man, who relieves him at
the bellows, while he takes some more tools out of a large skin pouch
carried on his back. I look on in wonder as, with a smooth round
stick about the thickness of a finger, he bores a few vertical holes into
the clean sand of the soil. This should not be difficult, yet the man
seems to be taking great pains over it. Then he fastens down to the
ground, with a couple of wooden clamps, a neat little trough made by
splitting a joint of bamboo in half, so that the ends are closed by the
two knots. At last the yellow metal has attained the right consistency,
and the fundi lifts the crucible from the fire by means of two sticks
split at the end to serve as tongs. A short swift turn to the left—a
tilting of the crucible—and the molten brass, hissing and giving forth
clouds of smoke, flows first into the bamboo mould and then into the
holes in the ground.
The technique of this backwoods craftsman may not be very far
advanced, but it cannot be denied that he knows how to obtain an
adequate result by the simplest means. The ladies of highest rank in
this country—that is to say, those who can afford it, wear two kinds
of these massive brass rings, one cylindrical, the other semicircular
in section. The latter are cast in the most ingenious way in the
bamboo mould, the former in the circular hole in the sand. It is quite
a simple matter for the fundi to fit these bars to the limbs of his fair
customers; with a few light strokes of his hammer he bends the
pliable brass round arm or ankle without further inconvenience to
the wearer.
SHAPING THE POT

SMOOTHING WITH MAIZE-COB

CUTTING THE EDGE

 FINISHING THE BOTTOM

LAST SMOOTHING BEFORE

BURNING

FIRING THE BRUSH-PILE

 LIGHTING THE FARTHER SIDE OF
THE PILE

TURNING THE RED-HOT VESSEL

NYASA WOMAN MAKING POTS AT MASASI

Pottery is an art which must always and everywhere excite the
interest of the student, just because it is so intimately connected with
the development of human culture, and because its relics are one of
the principal factors in the reconstruction of our own condition in
prehistoric times. I shall always remember with pleasure the two or
three afternoons at Masasi when Salim Matola’s mother, a slightly-
built, graceful, pleasant-looking woman, explained to me with
touching patience, by means of concrete illustrations, the ceramic art
of her people. The only implements for this primitive process were a
lump of clay in her left hand, and in the right a calabash containing
the following valuables: the fragment of a maize-cob stripped of all
its grains, a smooth, oval pebble, about the size of a pigeon’s egg, a
few chips of gourd-shell, a bamboo splinter about the length of one’s
hand, a small shell, and a bunch of some herb resembling spinach.
 Nothing more. The woman scraped with the
shell a round, shallow hole in the soft, fine
sand of the soil, and, when an active young
girl had filled the calabash with water for her,
she began to knead the clay. As if by magic it
gradually assumed the shape of a rough but
already well-shaped vessel, which only wanted
a little touching up with the instruments
before mentioned. I looked out with the
MAKUA WOMAN closest attention for any indication of the use
MAKING A POT. of the potter’s wheel, in however rudimentary
SHOWS THE a form, but no—hapana (there is none). The
BEGINNINGS OF THE embryo pot stood firmly in its little
POTTER’S WHEEL
depression, and the woman walked round it in
a stooping posture, whether she was removing
small stones or similar foreign bodies with the maize-cob, smoothing
the inner or outer surface with the splinter of bamboo, or later, after
letting it dry for a day, pricking in the ornamentation with a pointed
bit of gourd-shell, or working out the bottom, or cutting the edge
with a sharp bamboo knife, or giving the last touches to the finished
vessel. This occupation of the women is infinitely toilsome, but it is
without doubt an accurate reproduction of the process in use among
our ancestors of the Neolithic and Bronze ages.
There is no doubt that the invention of pottery, an item in human
progress whose importance cannot be over-estimated, is due to
women. Rough, coarse and unfeeling, the men of the horde range
over the countryside. When the united cunning of the hunters has
succeeded in killing the game; not one of them thinks of carrying
home the spoil. A bright fire, kindled by a vigorous wielding of the
drill, is crackling beside them; the animal has been cleaned and cut
up secundum artem, and, after a slight singeing, will soon disappear
under their sharp teeth; no one all this time giving a single thought
to wife or child.
To what shifts, on the other hand, the primitive wife, and still more
the primitive mother, was put! Not even prehistoric stomachs could
endure an unvarying diet of raw food. Something or other suggested
the beneficial effect of hot water on the majority of approved but
indigestible dishes. Perhaps a neighbour had tried holding the hard
roots or tubers over the fire in a calabash filled with water—or maybe
an ostrich-egg-shell, or a hastily improvised vessel of bark. They
became much softer and more palatable than they had previously
been; but, unfortunately, the vessel could not stand the fire and got
charred on the outside. That can be remedied, thought our
ancestress, and plastered a layer of wet clay round a similar vessel.
This is an improvement; the cooking utensil remains uninjured, but
the heat of the fire has shrunk it, so that it is loose in its shell. The
next step is to detach it, so, with a firm grip and a jerk, shell and
kernel are separated, and pottery is invented. Perhaps, however, the
discovery which led to an intelligent use of the burnt-clay shell, was
made in a slightly different way. Ostrich-eggs and calabashes are not
to be found in every part of the world, but everywhere mankind has
arrived at the art of making baskets out of pliant materials, such as
bark, bast, strips of palm-leaf, supple twigs, etc. Our inventor has no
water-tight vessel provided by nature. “Never mind, let us line the
basket with clay.” This answers the purpose, but alas! the basket gets
burnt over the blazing fire, the woman watches the process of
cooking with increasing uneasiness, fearing a leak, but no leak
appears. The food, done to a turn, is eaten with peculiar relish; and
the cooking-vessel is examined, half in curiosity, half in satisfaction
at the result. The plastic clay is now hard as stone, and at the same
time looks exceedingly well, for the neat plaiting of the burnt basket
is traced all over it in a pretty pattern. Thus, simultaneously with
pottery, its ornamentation was invented.
Primitive woman has another claim to respect. It was the man,
roving abroad, who invented the art of producing fire at will, but the
woman, unable to imitate him in this, has been a Vestal from the
earliest times. Nothing gives so much trouble as the keeping alight of
the smouldering brand, and, above all, when all the men are absent
from the camp. Heavy rain-clouds gather, already the first large
drops are falling, the first gusts of the storm rage over the plain. The
little flame, a greater anxiety to the woman than her own children,
flickers unsteadily in the blast. What is to be done? A sudden thought
occurs to her, and in an instant she has constructed a primitive hut
out of strips of bark, to protect the flame against rain and wind.
This, or something very like it, was the way in which the principle
of the house was discovered; and even the most hardened misogynist
cannot fairly refuse a woman the credit of it. The protection of the
hearth-fire from the weather is the germ from which the human
dwelling was evolved. Men had little, if any share, in this forward
step, and that only at a late stage. Even at the present day, the
plastering of the housewall with clay and the manufacture of pottery
are exclusively the women’s business. These are two very significant
survivals. Our European kitchen-garden, too, is originally a woman’s
invention, and the hoe, the primitive instrument of agriculture, is,
characteristically enough, still used in this department. But the
noblest achievement which we owe to the other sex is unquestionably
the art of cookery. Roasting alone—the oldest process—is one for
which men took the hint (a very obvious one) from nature. It must
have been suggested by the scorched carcase of some animal
overtaken by the destructive forest-fires. But boiling—the process of
improving organic substances by the help of water heated to boiling-
point—is a much later discovery. It is so recent that it has not even
yet penetrated to all parts of the world. The Polynesians understand
how to steam food, that is, to cook it, neatly wrapped in leaves, in a
hole in the earth between hot stones, the air being excluded, and
(sometimes) a few drops of water sprinkled on the stones; but they
do not understand boiling.
To come back from this digression, we find that the slender Nyasa
woman has, after once more carefully examining the finished pot,
put it aside in the shade to dry. On the following day she sends me
word by her son, Salim Matola, who is always on hand, that she is
going to do the burning, and, on coming out of my house, I find her
already hard at work. She has spread on the ground a layer of very
dry sticks, about as thick as one’s thumb, has laid the pot (now of a
yellowish-grey colour) on them, and is piling brushwood round it.
My faithful Pesa mbili, the mnyampara, who has been standing by,
most obligingly, with a lighted stick, now hands it to her. Both of
them, blowing steadily, light the pile on the lee side, and, when the
flame begins to catch, on the weather side also. Soon the whole is in a
blaze, but the dry fuel is quickly consumed and the fire dies down, so
that we see the red-hot vessel rising from the ashes. The woman
turns it continually with a long stick, sometimes one way and
sometimes another, so that it may be evenly heated all over. In
twenty minutes she rolls it out of the ash-heap, takes up the bundle
of spinach, which has been lying for two days in a jar of water, and
sprinkles the red-hot clay with it. The places where the drops fall are
marked by black spots on the uniform reddish-brown surface. With a
sigh of relief, and with visible satisfaction, the woman rises to an
erect position; she is standing just in a line between me and the fire,
from which a cloud of smoke is just rising: I press the ball of my
camera, the shutter clicks—the apotheosis is achieved! Like a
priestess, representative of her inventive sex, the graceful woman
stands: at her feet the hearth-fire she has given us beside her the
invention she has devised for us, in the background the home she has
built for us.
At Newala, also, I have had the manufacture of pottery carried on
in my presence. Technically the process is better than that already
described, for here we find the beginnings of the potter’s wheel,
which does not seem to exist in the plains; at least I have seen
nothing of the sort. The artist, a frightfully stupid Makua woman, did
not make a depression in the ground to receive the pot she was about
to shape, but used instead a large potsherd. Otherwise, she went to
work in much the same way as Salim’s mother, except that she saved
herself the trouble of walking round and round her work by squatting
at her ease and letting the pot and potsherd rotate round her; this is
surely the first step towards a machine. But it does not follow that
the pot was improved by the process. It is true that it was beautifully
rounded and presented a very creditable appearance when finished,
but the numerous large and small vessels which I have seen, and, in
part, collected, in the “less advanced” districts, are no less so. We
moderns imagine that instruments of precision are necessary to
produce excellent results. Go to the prehistoric collections of our
museums and look at the pots, urns and bowls of our ancestors in the
dim ages of the past, and you will at once perceive your error.
MAKING LONGITUDINAL CUT IN
BARK

DRAWING THE BARK OFF THE LOG

REMOVING THE OUTER BARK

 BEATING THE BARK

WORKING THE BARK-CLOTH AFTER BEATING, TO MAKE IT

SOFT

MANUFACTURE OF BARK-CLOTH AT NEWALA

To-day, nearly the whole population of German East Africa is
clothed in imported calico. This was not always the case; even now in
some parts of the north dressed skins are still the prevailing wear,
and in the north-western districts—east and north of Lake
Tanganyika—lies a zone where bark-cloth has not yet been
superseded. Probably not many generations have passed since such
bark fabrics and kilts of skins were the only clothing even in the
south. Even to-day, large quantities of this bright-red or drab
material are still to be found; but if we wish to see it, we must look in
the granaries and on the drying stages inside the native huts, where
it serves less ambitious uses as wrappings for those seeds and fruits
which require to be packed with special care. The salt produced at
Masasi, too, is packed for transport to a distance in large sheets of
bark-cloth. Wherever I found it in any degree possible, I studied the
process of making this cloth. The native requisitioned for the
purpose arrived, carrying a log between two and three yards long and
as thick as his thigh, and nothing else except a curiously-shaped
mallet and the usual long, sharp and pointed knife which all men and
boys wear in a belt at their backs without a sheath—horribile dictu!
[51]
Silently he squats down before me, and with two rapid cuts has
drawn a couple of circles round the log some two yards apart, and
slits the bark lengthwise between them with the point of his knife.
With evident care, he then scrapes off the outer rind all round the
log, so that in a quarter of an hour the inner red layer of the bark
shows up brightly-coloured between the two untouched ends. With
some trouble and much caution, he now loosens the bark at one end,
and opens the cylinder. He then stands up, takes hold of the free
edge with both hands, and turning it inside out, slowly but steadily
pulls it off in one piece. Now comes the troublesome work of
scraping all superfluous particles of outer bark from the outside of
the long, narrow piece of material, while the inner side is carefully
scrutinised for defective spots. At last it is ready for beating. Having
signalled to a friend, who immediately places a bowl of water beside
him, the artificer damps his sheet of bark all over, seizes his mallet,
lays one end of the stuff on the smoothest spot of the log, and
hammers away slowly but continuously. “Very simple!” I think to
myself. “Why, I could do that, too!”—but I am forced to change my
opinions a little later on; for the beating is quite an art, if the fabric is
not to be beaten to pieces. To prevent the breaking of the fibres, the
stuff is several times folded across, so as to interpose several
thicknesses between the mallet and the block. At last the required
state is reached, and the fundi seizes the sheet, still folded, by both
ends, and wrings it out, or calls an assistant to take one end while he
holds the other. The cloth produced in this way is not nearly so fine
and uniform in texture as the famous Uganda bark-cloth, but it is
quite soft, and, above all, cheap.
Now, too, I examine the mallet. My craftsman has been using the
simpler but better form of this implement, a conical block of some
hard wood, its base—the striking surface—being scored across and
across with more or less deeply-cut grooves, and the handle stuck
into a hole in the middle. The other and earlier form of mallet is
shaped in the same way, but the head is fastened by an ingenious
network of bark strips into the split bamboo serving as a handle. The
observation so often made, that ancient customs persist longest in
connection with religious ceremonies and in the life of children, here
finds confirmation. As we shall soon see, bark-cloth is still worn
during the unyago,[52] having been prepared with special solemn
ceremonies; and many a mother, if she has no other garment handy,
will still put her little one into a kilt of bark-cloth, which, after all,
looks better, besides being more in keeping with its African
surroundings, than the ridiculous bit of print from Ulaya.
MAKUA WOMEN