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To the most beautiful person I have ever met, my
wife, my guide and teacher, Laura. Without you there
is no me. And no dang book.
To Luca, because I’m pedantic.
To Wyatt and Nova, you are pure love and joy. How
did I ever finish this book?
Text and images copyright © 2019 by James Victore.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written
permission from the publisher.
Chronicle books and gifts are available at special quantity discounts to corporations,
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Contents
Foreword by Danielle LaPorte
Introduction
Chapter 1. Voice 12
01. Your parents were wrong 14
02. Have a damn opinion 17
03. The things that made you weird as a kid make you great today
19
04. In the particular lies the universal 20
05. You don’t fit in 22
06. You become who you pretend to be 24
07. Work is serious play 26
08. Creativity is dangerous 29
09. You ain’t weird, you’re free 30
10. Your lot in life 32
Chapter 2. Fear 34
11. You, the reluctant hero 36
12. The success of failure 37
13. Freedom is something you take 38
14. Tombstone 40
15. Beware flaccid platitudes over stock photography 42
16. There ain’t no rules 44
17. Feck perfuction 47
18. This is only a test 48
19. Your ego can’t dance 50
20. Teach your tongue to say, “I don’t know” 51
21. The wrongest answer 52
22. The struggle is everything 54
Chapter 3. Start 56
23. Just start 58
24. All beginnings are hard 60
25. Begin before you’re ready 62
26. What is success? 64
27. Assume success 66
28. Have a plan 67
29. Improvise 68
30. Change the world 70
31. The first rule of business 72
32. Make yourself happy first 74
33. Confidence is sexy 75
34. Excitement breeds excitement 76
35. The cost of freedom 78
Chapter 4. Action 80
36. Action, action, action 82
37. Love, attention, and consistency 83
38. Seek the muse 84
39. Run from comfort 86
40. Help me, help me, help me 87
41. Hold the line 88
42. Always ask for more 90
43. Accept less 91
44. Kill your phone 92
45. Artists sign their work 94
46. Do the work 96
47. Sharpen the ax 97
48. Coffee notes 98
49. Inspiration without action 100
Acknowledgments 158
Credits 159
About the Author 161
Foreword
Danielle LaPorte
James gave us an assignment. Bowls of various drawing utensils
were on the table. He passed each of us an article from the New
York Times to read. There was heavy, thoughtful sighing from the
group. Were we up to the task? Brows furrowed. Nervous tics were
triggered.
When time was up, we broke the silence to present/defend our
sketches on racism, privilege, and cultural divides. James was
listening, deeply, smoothing the tips of his moustache. And then with
equal parts compassion and dagger: “The point . . . ,” he said, “is to
have a fucking opinion.”
Point taken.
Because you can’t make art without an opinion. You can’t teach
the world anything without shattering your assumptions. You cannot
break free of status quo zombification until you learn to discern truth
for yourself.
The anxiety that we normalize, the dulling effect of
unquestioned obligations, the thud of “Is this all there is?” when we
cross the finish line . . . we don’t have to live this way. Just ask the
Creatives on the other side. The Fulfilled People. They are not
without their agonies—in fact the more woke you get, the more pain
you access. But oh, man, the freedom, the depth, the living.
Victore believes that normalcy is barbed wire to the human
spirit. And questions are the wire cutters. This book is a subversive
tool for consciousness-raising from a curmudgeonly mystic who
doesn’t give a shit what anyone thinks, but who is passionately in
love with the world. It’s a plea from the heart: Have a fucking
opinion and go make something with it.
So inspired,
Introduction
We are all born wildly creative. Some of us just forget.
As children we are completely free. We can draw and dream
and invent imaginary worlds, even imaginary friends. This gift of
creativity makes us powerful but also awkward, weird, and
vulnerable.
At some point and for various reasons, our weirdness becomes
less an asset than a target. We learn to hide our great and goofy
qualities in order to dodge criticism and assimilate. We choose not to
stand out or act on our creativity. We take the accepted “adult”
route, content to be paid for learning rote skills and showing up on
time.
In this reality, choosing to accept our weirdness, invent our own
future, and live a purpose-driven life becomes a dangerous idea. It’s
dangerous because it lets the creative beast out of its cage and
allows us to see what we are capable of without seeking permission
or approval. Dangerous because it opens up the possibility that the
life you’re living may not actually be yours, but a template assigned
to you by scared and unimaginative people. These are dangerous
ideas because they challenge your ego, your definition of “normal,”
your crappy job, and your comfort zone. These are dangerous ideas
on creativity and life.
Feck Perfuction is a collection of the lessons I’ve learned,
developed, and followed throughout my career. They come from
psychology, sociology, philosophy, and the crazy things my mom said
—that have all turned out to be true. These are lessons in
unearthing our authentic selves in our personal and professional
lives. They are also the mementos that I use to be confident, find
creative fulfillment, and get paid for being me.
It is not my intention to be inspirational or make you feel good
—but rather to challenge you. I want to ask difficult questions of
you, to force introspection and possibly change. I want to tempt you
with the possibility that your creativity is not a “weekend” thing, but
an integral part of who you are and something that you should start
getting paid for—because inspiration without action is bullshit.
This book will reintroduce you to your voice, reconnect you with
your weird gifts, and help you find your purpose. Full of stern, funny,
and fatherly advice, Feck Perfuction tells you things you don’t want
to hear in a way you want to hear them. It’s your guide, your coach,
and your cheerleader.
I know from experience that this collection makes for resolutely
difficult advice—and is not for everybody. I wrote this book for me,
but I hope you find your dangerous self in it.
With love,
Chapter 1. Voice
Your voice is who you are. Maybe not the
“you” you carry around every day, but
the one yelling from inside, demanding
to be heard. Your voice is the way you
see the world and how you translate it
back. When you train your voice and
allow it to grow and be heard, that
beautiful sound will carve a path for you
to follow for life. Conversely, if you fail to
use your voice, others will be in charge
of it. And you. Never give in, never
surrender. Your voice is your most
powerful tool.
01. Your parents were wrong
Parents are amateurs. I mean no slight to parents or to amateurs; I
am both. But, growing up, we are given only a few options as to our
future path. Either we’re told that we can be anything we want, even
president. Or that we are to follow a predestined, familial path with
a title like MD, PhD, Dr., or Esq. These ideas aren’t necessarily
wrong, but they are misleading. Your purpose on this planet isn’t to
become a millionaire, build a 401K, or even get a good job—your
purpose is to figure out who or what you are. If you can do that,
everything else is frosting. The great oracle herself, Dolly Parton,
tells us, “Find out who you are and do it on purpose.”
Classically this is called “knowing thyself.” Admittedly not an
easy task. Many of us are presented with a track to follow that may
not be our choice. Just because you were born on a farm doesn’t
mean you were born to be a farmer. In my hometown, two fields
were popular (meaning you could possibly make a living at them):
nurse or prison guard. I felt no attraction to either. My calling was
for the arts, but I disregarded it because I was told it was something
“talented” people did, and I didn’t want to grow up to be a “starving
artist.” But the creative urge proved too strong—and painfully
obvious—so I chose to ignore the critics, and to fight and sometimes
fail in order to see my vision through. I still do.
You can’t ignore your DNA. The worst thing you can do is deny
who you are, try to be someone or something you’re not, and live a
life bent and molded by others. As Oscar Wilde put it, “Most people
are other people. Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions, their
lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.” Ouch.
You can be a musician, an accountant, or a sexy, powerful,
creative beast—but you have to be yourself first. You have to follow
that star. Others without the grit and guts will have to be satisfied
with becoming president.
02. Have a damn opinion
There’s an American gospel song with the powerful refrain, “This
little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.” We all have that little light.
It’s lit by our upbringing and our childhood. It’s our history, our
travels, the things we love, and the things we fear. Our little light is
our opinion—and it begs to be illuminated.
Sadly, most of us don’t let our light shine, for two reasons: It’s
too easy and it’s too hard.
It’s too easy because it’s “little.” It’s familiar to us. We pooh-
pooh our own opinion and don’t see the value of what we have to
offer. After all, “Who’d be interested in me or what I have to say or
my voice?” It’s too hard because once we acknowledge it, we have
to trust it and share it with the world, and we live in fear that
someone may not like it. This is a completely valid fear, because the
truth is, not everyone will love your voice. But this division is how
you define your audience, how you find the ones who will love you
for who you are. If you play it safe and choke back your real voice,
you are like a rudderless ship, taking directions from the waves.
Your voice is the story you put into everything you do. It’s what
sets you apart and makes you and your work memorable. It frees
you from following trends or begging for ideas, asking, “What do
they want?” Now your most powerful tool is asking yourself, “What
do I have to say?”
03. The things that made you weird as a
kid make you great today
When I was a kid, I was full of wordplay and jokes. I loved to sing
loudly and poorly. My best talent was entertaining my fifth-grade
friends by drawing naked ladies. They looked more like lumpy
potatoes, but my audience didn’t care. Unfortunately, my level of
energy and enthusiasm lacked appreciation at home or at school. I
was called “creative”—and it was not a compliment.
As kids, we’re all weird. We have our interests and activities,
and we like to run them full throttle. As we get older, we realize
there’s a price to standing out, so we shrink from our weirdness in
fear of anyone finding out who we really are. Being weird or
different—even creative—should be not a source of shame or
embarrassment but a torch to be held high. Weird is about the
courage to be who you were born to be. Nerdy, goofy, fidgety; these
are strengths. These are gifts! The things that made you weird as a
kid are the source of your character and creative powers. These are
the base elements of who you are. Not perfect. Not trying. Just
yourself. If you hide them, you risk never knowing what you’re
capable of.
Professionally, weird is a benefit. For some fields, it’s a damn
prerequisite. Any “successful” actor, chef, musician, athlete, or
comedian, when asked what contributed to their success, will
answer, “When I was a kid . . .” Pop-culture icon and astrophysicist
Neil deGrasse Tyson remembers looking up into the night sky as a
child and says, “The universe called me.”
When you accept your weirdness and believe in your gifts is
when things get really weird. That’s when your cause inspires
others. When people see their own struggle reflected in yours, you
create the potential for shared humanity. Your weirdness speaks to
them. That’s when you find those people who accept you precisely
because you’re weird and different. Ultimately you’ll hear that
glorious refrain: “Oh, you’re weird, too? I thought I was the only
one!” This is how you form relationships and businesses. This is how
you find your audience.
Accept it: You’re weird.
04. In the particular lies the universal
I teach the visual arts, but I push my students to understand that
what their work looks like is less important than what it says. I want
them to express an opinion in their work, to divulge something
personal. Their plaintive cry is usually, “If it’s personal to me, how
could anyone else understand it?” My answer is, “What interests
you, interests others.” What is most particular to us, even though it
may seem personal in its details, can have universal meaning and
value to others.
George Lucas grew up in a small, conservative California town
but yearned to be a filmmaker and loved racing cars. These three
themes—(1) a young man in a repressive society, (2) escape to a
better world, and (3) racing hot-rod cars—all form the story line of
Lucas’s first three major films.
THX 1138 (1971) takes place in a dystopian future where the
young hero, THX, yearns to escape the confines of his state-run
society and does so in a stolen Lola T70 race car.
American Graffiti (1973) takes place in our not-too-distant past
in a small California town. It’s the story of two young men on the
verge of leaving home for college and a more exciting life. One of
the film’s “characters” is a yellow 1932 Ford coupe with the license
plate “THX 138.” And the actor Harrison Ford plays a charming rogue
driving a black hot rod 1955 Chevy.
Stars Wars: A New Hope (1977) takes place “a long time ago in
a galaxy far, far away” and features young Luke Skywalker, who
yearns to escape his small farm and seek adventure. He eventually
teams up with a charming rogue played by Harrison Ford, who pilots
what is essentially a hot rod called the Millennium Falcon. The
references to THX abound throughout the Star Wars saga, as names
of droids and labels on ships. Even the ubiquitous movie theater
sound system Lucas helped develop in 1983 is called THX. Lucas
didn’t have to look far or invent themes to write about. He never
went searching for stories to tell or vehicles to carry them; he just
had to look inside and tell his own story. The themes and details he
drew on were already very particular to him, but now they have
meaning for us.
A less Hollywood application looks like this: A young guitar
player doesn’t ask marketing to run the numbers to see what kind of
song to write. He falls in love with a redhead and is moved to write a
song for her. We, in turn, love him for it.*
The common thought is to rely on trends, fashion, or whatever
the going mode happens to be in order to communicate. Most
marketing and advertising tries to appeal to a wide swath of the
population by hiding behind what everyone else is already doing, by
consciously not taking the lead. But what appeals to everyone is
oatmeal. What works for a wide audience is prepackaged, easy to
digest, and thoroughly bland.
The only thing you learn by following the herd is that the view
never changes. You never learn how to express your own truth or
beauty and never find out the power therein. You never get to know
who you are or what you are capable of.
The more vulnerable and authentic you can be in expressing
your opinion, the deeper the connection you have with others. This
is the value of your opinion—what is most personal and unique to
you is the very thing that, if you risk expressing it, will speak
volumes to others. The hardest part is to trust that your story and
opinions have value.
Your struggle with your weight, your love of bugs or rocks or
fixing old motorbikes—any passion is a legitimate starting point.
Trust your voice, your opinion, and put it in your work. Let it shine.
*Later, the redhead breaks his heart and he writes an even better
song.
05. You don’t fit in
All my life I’ve heard the same refrain from teachers, friends, and
family: “Why can’t you be . . . normal?” What they are really trying
to say is, “You don’t fit in here.” Hell, I agree, I don’t “fit in.” Not
only because I don’t want to, but because I can’t. I just wasn’t born
that way. It’s literally impossible—barring a full frontal lobotomy—for
me, or you, to behave like anyone else. There are times for a little
“get-along-go-along” social lubrication, but as I see it, “fitting in”
denotes a lack of character.
Humans are social creatures. We want to belong and want
people to like us. It’s natural to want more friends, more customers,
and more attention. But when we have to change who we are to
achieve that goal, problems arise. We begin to sell off the parts that
made us different or special in the first place. We lose our
authenticity and our voice. People follow leaders who have
something to say and who stand for something. When an individual
or enterprise has nothing to say, they’re no longer leading but
following.
Knowing that you don’t fit in is your first glimpse of greatness.
It’s the first step toward understanding your gift and finding your
creative potential. You weren’t born to fit in, ready to accommodate
every relationship, every situation, every client. Don’t contort
yourself to fit into a box or a square or a cubicle. The world has
enough safe, bland, dull crap.
You are an artist and a genius. Don’t fit in. Don’t even try.
06. You become who you pretend to be
This idea has been around for over two thousand years and has
been said by everyone from Ovid to Kurt Vonnegut. The first time I
heard it was from my high school track coach. Coach wanted a few
of us to train on the local university’s indoor track—a luxury
forbidden to townies. When we reminded him of that rule, he just
said, “Act like you own the place.” Acting! Why didn’t we think of
that? We had to cop an attitude—coach said so! In pretending to be
brave, we became brave—even if for a short time. This is a practice
that has served me well throughout my career.
Your attitude creates your reality. With the right attitude, you
can become who or what you want. It comes by having faith in
yourself, your ideas, and your abilities, and by saying, “I can do this.
I belong here.” By consistently leaning into your fears you create a
new way of addressing them. You create a new habit. These habits
change your reality. It’s not about “faking it” or presenting a false
exterior, but rather, through practice, creating a positive attitude of
being. This practice becomes a habit, this habit becomes your life.
After all . . . it’s all just theater.
07. Work is serious play
Play is an essential part of life. It’s through childhood play that we
learn about ourselves and the world. But about the time we exit
puberty, we’re told to put away childish things. It’s time to get
serious and get a job. Something that pays well. The fact that we
should actually love or even like said job doesn’t even come up in
the conversation. Thus furthering the dreadful idea that work is just
something we do to make money. In pursuit of adulthood, we join
the Working Dead, spending most of our lives at jobs that financially
sustain us, but are less than satisfying. To continue to develop as
humans, we need play in our lives—and not just on the weekends.
Every job—especially every creative job—has two parts, an
Objective and a Subjective. The Objective is to satisfy the
commercial request: sell the product, attract customers, do what’s
asked of you, get the job done. The Subjective is the much more
engaging—but often left out—ingredient of play. It’s how you sell
and how you attract customers. For example, a chef can cook food
that’s hot and good, fulfilling the objective. Or, through play and
imagination, she can stimulate the mind, surprise and delight, even
create lasting memories. Play serves both the creator and the
audience.
In teaching creativity, I often have to remind students to play, or
at least give them the permission to do so. This is why I ask
students to make 100 sketches on one idea. This process forces
them to plow through all of the logical, usual answers to get to the
good stuff. It frees them to make mistakes and entertain the illogical
and the wrongest answers. Maybe a crazy idea is not so crazy. This
practice helps students become adept at generating ideas faster and
unlocks a wealth of possibilities. Their ability to play now becomes
their professional shorthand to creativity.
New and innovative work comes from the unexpected places,
not the “right” answer, and it’s our childlike sense of wonder,
curiosity, and play that makes it possible.
08. Creativity is dangerous
“A computer in every home? Balderdash!”
Creativity is dangerous. Not creativity as
decoration—the perfect mauve wallpaper to match
the couch—but creativity as inventing and
pioneering. It’s University of Oregon’s running coach
Bill Bowerman ruining his wife’s waffle maker to
create “waffle” shoes for his athletes. This was the
beginning of Nike. The X-Games sprang from
hooligans skateboarding in dry backyard swimming
pools and young tricksters pushing the limits of what
snowboards, bicycles, and dirt bikes could do. Even
NASCAR has its roots in running from the police.
Today’s dangerous ideas include self-driving cars and
privateers planning missions to Mars.
Creative thinking challenges the rules and norms
—the way society works. It’s the New chafing against
human nature’s habit of questioning and rejecting
anything considered new. Every creation signals the
death of what came before. Creativity is change, and
change is both inevitable and natural. You can fight
change, but it won’t end well for you. Or you can
choose to accept it and grow with change.
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CHAPTER IX
AMONG THE YAOS
At last we have finished writing down and translating the text. The
mothers have watched us in complete silence—not so the babies, who
all seem to suffer from colds, and breathe noisily in consequence.
The assertions made in so many works on Africa, as to the happiness
of the native in early childhood, do not stand the test of reality. As
soon as the mother gets up after her confinement, which she does
very soon, the infant is put into the cloth which she ties on her back.
There it stays all day long, whether the mother is having her short
woolly hair dressed by a friend, enjoying a gossip at the well, hoeing,
weeding, or reaping in the burning sun. When she stands for hours
together, pounding corn in the mortar, the baby jogs up and down
with the rhythmic motion of her arms, and when she is kneeling
before the millstone grinding the meal into fine white flour, or
squatting by the hearth in the evening, the rosy morsel of humanity
never leaves its close and warm, but not altogether hygienic nest. The
rosiness does not last long. No provision in the way of napkins being
made, the skin soon becomes chapped and deep cracks are formed,
especially at the joints, and the terrible African flies lay their eggs on
the eyelids of the unfortunate little ones, neither father nor mother
ever raising a hand to drive them away—they never dream of making
this effort for their own benefit! No wonder that the little eyes, which
in the case of our own children we are accustomed to think of as the
most wonderful and beautiful thing in organic nature, should be
bleared and dim. Fungoid ulcers (the result of “thrush”) are seen
protruding in bluish white masses from nose and mouth. The
universal colds are the consequence of the great difference of
temperature between day and night. The parents can protect
themselves by means of the fire and their mats; the child gets wet, is
left lying untouched and uncared for, becomes chilled through, and
of course catches cold. Hence the general coughing and sniffing in
our baraza.[27]
A FRIENDLY CHAT
(1) Seletu, seletu, the songo snake, bring it here and let us play,
bring it here, the songo snake.
(2) Seletu, seletu, the lion, bring him here—seletu, seletu, the lion is
beautiful.
That is all. I think the admiration here expressed for two creatures
very dangerous to the natives is to be explained as a kind of captatio
benevolentiæ rather than as the outcome of any feeling for nature or
of artistic delight in the bright colours of the serpent or the powerful
frame of the lion. Both children and grown-up people are more
concerned about the songo than about any other creature; it is said
to live among the rocks, to have a comb like a cock and to produce
sounds by which it entices its prey.[28] It darts down like lightning on
its victim from a tree overhanging the path, strikes him on the neck,
and he falls down dead. The natives have described the whole scene
to me over and over again with the most expressive pantomime. It is
quite comprehensible that this snake should be feared beyond
everything, and, considering similar phenomena in other parts of the
world, it seems quite natural that they should try to propitiate this
terrible enemy by singing his praises as being eminently fitted to take
part in the dance. Precisely the same may be said of the lion.
Now things become more lively. “Chindawi!” cries one, to be
rendered approximately by “I’ll tell you something!”[29] and another
answers “Ajise!” (“Let it come.”) The first speaker now says, “Aju,
aji,” and passes her right hand in quick, bold curves through the air.
I do not know what to make of the whole proceeding, nor the
meaning of the answer, “Kyuwilili,” from the other side. The dumb
shyness which at first characterized the women has now yielded to a
mild hilarity not diminished by my perplexed looks. At last comes
the solution, “Aju, aji,” merely means “this and that,”[30] and the
passes of the hand are supposed to be made under a vertical sun
when the shadow would pass as swiftly and silently over the ground
as the hand itself does through the air. Kyuwilili (the shadow), then,
is the answer to this very primitive African riddle.
“Chindawi!”—“Ajise!”—the game goes on afresh, and the question
is, this time, “Gojo gojo kakuungwa?” (“What rattles in its house?”) I
find the answer to this far less recondite than the first one
—“Mbelemende” (the bazi pea), which of course is thought of as still
in the pod growing on a shrub resembling our privet. The ripe seeds,
in fact, produce a rattling noise in the fresh morning breeze.
But for the third time “Chindawi!”—“Ajise!” rings out, and this
time the problem set is “Achiwanangu kulingana.” I am quite
helpless, but Matola with his usual vivacity, springs into the circle,
stoops down and points with outstretched hands to his knees, while a
murmur of applause greets him. “My children are of equal size” is the
enigma; its unexpected solution is, “Malungo” (the knees). We
Europeans, with our coldly-calculating intellect, have long ago lost
the enviable faculty of early childhood, which enabled us to personify
a part as if it were the whole. A happy fate allows the African to keep
it even in extreme old age.
By this time nothing more surprises me. A fourth woman’s voice
chimes in with “Ambuje ajigele utandi” (“My master brings meal”).
The whole circle of faces is turned as one on the European, who once
more can do nothing but murmur an embarrassed “Sijui” (“I do not
know”). The answer, triumphantly shouted at me—“Uuli!” (“White
hair!”)—is, in fact, to our way of thinking so far-fetched that I should
never have guessed it. Perhaps this riddle may have been suggested
by the fact that an old white-headed native does in fact look as if his
head had been powdered with flour.[31]
Now comes the last number of a programme quite full enough
even for a blasé inquirer.
“Chindawi!”—“Ajise!” is heard for the last time. “Pita kupite akuno
tusimane apa!”[32] The excitement in which everyone gazes at me is if
possible greater than before; they are evidently enjoying the feeling
of their superiority over the white man, who understands nothing of
what is going on. But this time their excess of zeal betrayed them—
their gestures showed me clearly what their language concealed, for
all went through the movement of clasping a girdle with both hands.
“Lupundu” (a girdle) is accordingly the answer to this riddle, which
in its very cadence when translated,—“Goes round to the left, goes
round to the right, and meets in the middle”—recalls that of similar
nursery riddles at home, e.g., the well-known “Long legs, crooked
thighs, little head, and no eyes.”
Matola himself came forward with an “extra” by way of winding up
the evening. His contribution runs thus:—“Chikalakasa goje
kung’anda, kung’anda yekwete umbo,” which is, being interpreted,
“Skulls do not play” (or “dance”); “they only play who have hair (on
their heads).”
The difficult work of the translator is always in this country
accompanied by that of the commentator, so that it does not take
long to arrive at the fact that this sentence might be regarded as a
free version of “Gather ye roses while ye may,” or “A living dog is
better than a dead lion.” I, too, turning to Matola and Daudi, say
solemnly, “Chikalakasa goje kung’anda, kung’anda yekwete umbo”
and then call out to Moritz, “Bilauri nne za pombe” (“A glass of beer
for each of us”).
The drab liquor is already bubbling in our drinking vessels—two
glasses and two tin mugs. “Skål, Mr. Knudsen”; “Prosit, Professor”—
the two natives silently bow their heads. With heartfelt delight we let
the cool fluid run down our thirsty throats. “Kung’anda yekwete
umbo” (“They only play who have hair on their heads”).... Silently
and almost imperceptibly the dark figures of the women have slipped
away, with a “Kwa heri, Bwana!” Matola and Daudi are gone too,
and I remain alone with Knudsen.
Our manuals of ethnology give a terrible picture of the lot of
woman among primitive peoples. “Beast of burden” and “slave” are
the epithets continually applied to her. Happily the state of things is
not so bad as we might suppose from this; and, if we were to take the
tribes of Eastern Equatorial Africa as a sample of primitive peoples
in general, the picture would not, indeed, be reversed, but very
considerably modified. The fact is that the women are in no danger
of killing themselves with hard work—no one ever saw a native
woman walking quickly, and even the indispensable work of the
home is done in such a leisurely and easy-going way that many a
German housewife might well envy them the time they have to spare.
Among the inland tribes, indeed, the women have a somewhat
harder time: the luxuries of the coast are not to be had; children are
more numerous and give more trouble; and—greatest difference of
all—there are no bazaars or shops like those of the Indians, where
one can buy everything as easily as in Europe. So there is no help for
it; wives and daughters must get to work by sunrise at the mortar,
the winnowing-basket, or the grinding-stones.
At six in the morning the European was tossing restlessly in his
narrow bed—tossing is perhaps scarcely the right expression, for in a
narrow trough like this such freedom of movement is only possible
when broad awake and to a person possessing some skill in
gymnastics. The night had brought scant refreshment. In the first
place a small conflagration took place just as I was going to bed.
Kibwana, the stupid, clumsy fellow, has broken off a good half of my
last lamp-glass in cleaning it. It will still burn, thanks to the brass
screen which protects it from the wind, but it gives out a tremendous
heat. It must have been due to this accident that at the moment when
I had just slightly lifted the mosquito-net to slip under it like
lightning and cheat the unceasing vigilance of the mosquitoes, I
suddenly saw a bright light above and behind me. I turned and
succeeded in beating out the flames in about three seconds, but this
was long enough to burn a hole a foot square in the front of the net.
Kibwana will have to sew it up with a piece of sanda, and in the
meantime it can be closed with a couple of pins.
Tired out at last I sank on my bed, and dropped into an uneasy
slumber. It was perhaps two o’clock when I started up, confused and
dazed with a noise which made me wonder if the Indian Ocean had
left its bed to flood this plain as of old. The tent shook and the poles
threatened to break; all nature was in an uproar, and presently new
sounds were heard through the roaring of the storm—a many-voiced
bellowing from the back of the tent—shouts, cries and scolding from
the direction of the prison, where my soldiers were now awake and
stumbling helplessly hither and thither in the pitchy darkness round
the baraza. A terrific roar arose close beside my tent-wall. Had the
plague of lions followed us here from Masasi? Quick as thought I
slipped out from under the curtain and felt in the accustomed place
for my match-box. It was not there, nor was it to be found elsewhere
in the tent. Giving up the search, I threw myself into my khaki suit,
shouting at the same time for the sentinel and thus adding to the
noise. But no sentinel appeared. I stepped out and, by the light of the
firebrands wielded by the soldiers, saw them engaged in a struggle
with a dense mass of great black beasts. These, however, proved to be
no lions, but Matola’s peaceful cattle. A calf had been taken away
from its mother two days before; she had kept up a most piteous
lowing ever since, and finally, during the uproar of the storm, broke
out of the kraal, the whole herd following her. The two bulls glared
with wildly-rolling eyes at the torches brandished in their faces,
while the younger animals bellowed in terror. At last we drove them
back, and with infinite trouble shut them once more into the kraal.
The white man in the tent has fallen asleep once more, and is
dreaming. The nocturnal skirmish with the cattle has suggested
another sort of fight with powder and shot against Songea’s hostile
Wangoni. The shots ring out on both sides at strangely regular
intervals; suddenly they cease. What does this mean? Is the enemy
planning a flanking movement to circumvent my small force? or is he
creeping up noiselessly through the high grass? I give the word of
command, and spring forward, running my nose against tin box No.
3, which serves as my war chest and therefore has its abode inside
the tent opposite my bed. My leap has unconsciously delivered me
from all imaginary dangers and brought me back to reality. The
platoon fire begins again—bang! bang! bang!—and in spite of the
confused state in which the events of the night have left my head, I
am forced to laugh aloud. The regular rifle-fire is the rhythmic
pounding of the pestles wielded by two Yao women in Matola’s
compound, who are preparing the daily supply of maize and millet
meal for the chief’s household.
I have often seen women and girls at this work, but to-day I feel as
if I ought to give special attention to these particular nymphs, having
already established a psychical rapport with them. It does not take
long to dress, nor, when that is finished, to drink a huge cup of cocoa
and eat the usual omelette with bananas, and then, without loss of
time I make for the group of women, followed by my immediate
bodyguard carrying the camera and the cinematograph.
I find there are four women—two of them
imperturbably pounding away with the long,
heavy pestle, which, however, no longer
resembles cannon or rifle fire, but makes
more of a clapping sound. Matola explains
that there is now maize in the mortars, while
in the early morning they had been pounding
mtama and making the thundering noise
which disturbed my repose. This grain is
husked dry, then winnowed, afterwards WOMAN POUNDING
AT THE MORTAR.
washed and finally placed in a flat basket to
DRAWN BY SALIM
dry in the sun for an hour and a half. Not till MATOLA
this has been done can it be ground on the
stone into flour. Maize, on the other hand, is
first husked by pounding in a wet mortar, and then left to soak in
water for three days. It is then washed and pounded. The flour will
keep if dried.
After a while the pounding ceases, the women draw long breaths
and wipe the perspiration from their faces and chests. It has been
hard work, and, performed as it is day by day, it brings about the
disproportionate development of the upper arm muscles which is so
striking in the otherwise slight figures of the native women. With a
quick turn of the hand, the third woman has now taken the pounded
mass out of the mortar and put it into a flat basket about two feet
across. Then comes the winnowing; stroke on stroke at intervals of
ten and twenty seconds, the hand with the basket describes a
semicircle, open below—not with a uniform motion, but in a series of
jerks. Now one sees the husks separating themselves from the grain,
the purpose served by the mortar becomes manifest, and I find that it
has nothing to do with the production of flour, but serves merely to
get off the husk.
The winnowing is quickly done, and with a vigorous jerk the
shining grain flies into another basket. This is now seized by the
fourth woman, a plump young thing who has so far been squatting
idly beside the primitive mill of all mankind, the flat stone on which
the first handful of the grain is now laid. Now some life comes into
her—the upper stone passes crunching over the grains—the mass
becomes whiter and finer with each push, but the worker becomes
visibly warm. After a time the first instalment is ready, and glides
slowly down, pushed in front of the “runner” into the shallow bowl
placed beneath the edge of the lower stone. The woman draws
breath, takes up a fresh handful and goes to work again.
This preparation of flour is, as it was everywhere in ancient times,
and still is among the maize-eating Indians of America, the principal
occupation of the women. It is, on account of the primitive character
of the implements, certainly no easy task, but is not nearly so hard on
them as the field-work which, with us, falls to the lot of every day-
labourer’s wife, every country maid-servant, and the wives and
daughters of small farmers. I should like to see the African woman
who would do the work of one German harvest to the end without
protesting and running away.
Sulila has taken his place in the centre of his band, holding his
stringed instrument in his left hand, and its bow in his right. This
instrument is a monochord with a cylindrical resonator cut out of a
solid block of wood, the string, twisted out of some hair from the tail
of one of the great indigenous mammals, is fastened to a round piece
of wood. Instead of rosin, he passes his tongue over the string of his
bow, which he then lifts and applies to the string, bringing out a
plaintive note, immediately followed by a terrible bellow from Sulila
himself and an ear-splitting noise from the “xylophones” of the band.
Strictly speaking, I am inclined to regret having come out on a
scientific mission: there is an inexpressible delight in seeing this
strange artist at work, and every diversion caused by the working of
the apparatus means a loss of enjoyment. Sulila is really working
hard—without intermission he coaxes out of his primitive instrument
the few notes of which it is capable, and which are low, and quite
pleasing. Equally incessant is his singing, which, however, is less
pleasing, at least for Europeans. His native audience seem to accept
it as music par excellence, for they are simply beside themselves with
enthusiasm. Sulila’s voice is harsh, but powerful; it is possible that its
strength to some extent depends on his blindness, as, like a deaf
man, he is unable to estimate the extent of the sound-waves he
produces. He takes his words at such a frantic pace that, though my
ear is now somewhat accustomed to the Yao language, I can scarcely
distinguish one here and there.
But the most charming of all Sulila’s accomplishments is the third,
for he not only plays and sings, but dances also. His dance begins
with a rhythmic swaying of the knees, keeping time to the notes of
his fiddle, while, with the characteristic uncertainty of the blind his
face turns from side to side. After a time the swaying becomes deeper
and quicker, the dancer begins to turn, slowly at first, and then more
rapidly, at last he revolves at a tearing speed on his axis. His bow
tears along likewise, his voice sets the neighbouring bush vibrating,
the band hammer away like madmen on their logs—it is a veritable
pandemonium, and the public is in raptures.
As already stated, I could not help secretly regretting the
impossibility of giving myself up unreservedly to the impression of
these performances, but the duty of research must always be the
predominant consideration. The hours spent over the camera,
cinematograph, and phonograph, involve more hard work than
amusement. This cannot be helped, but, if some of the results turn
out satisfactorily, as has fortunately happened in my case, all
difficulties and discomfort are abundantly compensated.
It is not easy to get phonographic records of the voice, even from
natives who can see. You place the singer in front of the apparatus,
and explain how he has to hold his head, and that he must sing right
into the centre of the funnel. “Do you understand?” you ask him on
the conclusion of the lecture. “Ndio” (“Yes”), he answers, as a matter
of course. Cautious, as one has to be, once for all, in Africa, you make
a trial by letting him sing without winding up the apparatus. The
man is still shy and sings too low, and has to be encouraged with a
“Kwimba sana!” (“Sing louder!”). After a second trial—sometimes a
third and fourth—the right pitch is found. I set the apparatus, give
the signal agreed on, and singer and machine start off together. For a
time all goes well—the man stands like a column. Then something
disturbs his balance. He turns his head uneasily from side to side,
and there is just time to disconnect the apparatus and begin
instructions again from the beginning. This is what usually happens;
in many cases undoubtedly it was vanity which induced the singer
coquettishly to turn his head to right and left, saying as plainly as
words could have done, “See what a fine fellow I am!”
With Sulila the case is much worse. He is so in the habit of moving
his head about that he cannot stop it when standing before the
phonograph, and the first records made of his voice are terribly
metallic. With the swift impulsiveness which distinguishes me, and
which, though I have often found cause to regret it, has repeatedly
done me good service in this country, I now make a practice of
seizing the blind minstrel by the scruff of the neck the moment he
lifts up his leonine voice, and holding his woolly head fast as in a
vice, regardless of all his struggles; till he has roared out his
rhapsody to the end. Most of the songs I have hitherto heard from
Yao performers are of a martial character. Here is one which Sulila
sang into the phonograph at Masasi on July 24:—
Tulīmbe, achakulungwa! Wausyaga ngondo, nichichi? Watigi: Kunsulila(1)
kanapagwe. Jaiche ja Masito; u ti toakukwimi. Wa gwasite(?) Nambo Wandachi
pajaiche, kogopa kuona: msitu watiniche; mbamba syatiniche; mbusi syatiniche;
nguku syatiniche; kumala wandu putepute; nokodi papopu; kupeleka mbia
syakalume. Gakuūnda(?) Mtima wasupwiche: Ngawile pesipo Luja. Kunsulila
ngomba sim yaule kwa Bwana mkubwa: Nam(u)no anduwedye atayeye mapesa
gao. Sambano yo nonembesile.[32a]
The meaning of this is:—
“Let us be brave, we elders. They asked: What is a war? They say:
‘Mr. Sulila is not yet born.’ Then comes (the war) of the Mazitu; guns
are fired; then they ran away. But the Germans came; it was
dangerous to see; the bush was burnt, the ants were burnt, the goats
were burnt, the fowls were burnt—the people were finished up
altogether; the tax came up (they had) to bring a hundred jars (of
rupees). They were not satisfied. (Their) heart was frightened. Mr.
Sulila telegraphed to the District Commissioner: ‘He may skin me to
make a bag for his money.’ Now I am tired.”
The tribes in the south-eastern part of our colony are very
backward as regards music; they have nothing that can be called
tune, and their execution never gets beyond a rapid recitative. In
both respects, all of them, Yaos, Makua and Wanyasa alike, are far
behind my Wanyamwezi, who excel in both. Only in one point the
advantage rests with the southern tribes—the words of their songs
have some connected meaning, and even occasional touches of
dramatic force. This is remarkably illustrated by Sulila’s song.
The Mazitu have made one of their usual raids on the unsuspecting
inhabitants of the Central Rovuma district. Which of the many
sanguinary raids on record is meant cannot be gathered from the
words of the song, it may be one of those which took place in the
eighties and nineties, or the recent rising—probably the latter, since,
so far as I am aware, there was never any question of taxes in the
previous disturbances. In this case, moreover, it is not so much a
war-tax that is referred to, as the payment of the hut-tax introduced
some years ago, which has during the last few months been paid in at
Lindi with surprising willingness by people who had been more or
less openly disaffected. This may be looked on as a direct
consequence of the prompt and vigorous action taken by the
authorities.
The interference of the Germans marks a turning point in the
fighting of the natives among themselves. The feeling that more
serious evils are coming upon them is expressed in terms of their
thought by speaking of the destruction of all property. First the bush
is burnt, and all the ants in it destroyed, then comes the turn of the
goats, which here in the south are not very numerous, though the
fowls, which are the next to perish, are. Finally, many people are
killed—Sulila in his ecstasy says all. Now come the conditions of
peace imposed by the victorious Germans: a heavy tax in rupees,
which must be paid whether they like it or not. In the eyes of those
immediately affected the sum assumes gigantic proportions, they
become uneasy and contemplate the step which, here in the south
may be said to be always in the air—that of escaping the
consequences of the war by an emigration en masse. Then appears
the hero and deliverer—no other than Sulila himself. In the
consciousness of his high calling, he, the poor blind man, proudly
calls himself “Mr. Sulila”[33] He sees his country already traversed by
one of the most wonderful inventions of the white strangers—the
telegraph wire. He telegraphs at once to the Bwana mkubwa, that
his countrymen are ready to submit unconditionally,—they have no
thought of resistance, but they have no money. And they are so
terrified that the Bwana might if he chose skin them to make a bag
for the rupees—they would not think of resisting. This is the end of
the song proper—the last sentence, “Now I am tired,” is a personal
utterance on the part of the performer himself, fatigued by the
unwonted mental effort of dictation.
Here at Chingulungulu there are several such minstrels. The most
famous of them is Che Likoswe, “Mr. Rat,” who, at every appearance
is greeted with a universal murmur of applause. Salanga has a still
more powerful voice, but is so stupid that he has not yet succeeded in
dictating the words of one song. If I could venture to reproduce my
records I could at once obtain an accurate text, with the help of the
more intelligent among the audience; but I dare not attempt this at
the present temperature, usually about 88°. I will, however, at least,
give two songs of Che Likoswe’s. One of them is short and
instructive, and remains well within the sphere of African thought,
that is to say, it only contains one idea, repeated ad infinitum by solo
and chorus alternately.
Solo:—“Ulendo u Che Kandangu imasile. Imanga kukaranga”
(“Mr. Kandangu’s journey is ended. The maize is roasted”).
Chorus: “... Ulendo u Che Kandangu....”
Che Likoswe’s “get-up” and delivery are very much the same as
Sulila’s, except that, in conformity with his name, he sings, fiddles
and dances still more vivaciously than his blind colleague, who is
also an older man. He is, moreover, extremely versatile—it is all one
to him whether he mimes on the ground, or on tall stilts—a sight
which struck me with astonishment the first time I beheld it. The
song itself, of course, refers to a journey in which he himself took
part. The most important incident from the native point of view is,
that all the maize taken with them by the travellers was roasted—i.e.,
consumed, before the goal was reached. Mr. Rat’s other song is much
more interesting; it has an unmistakable affinity with Sulila’s war-
song, and gains in actuality for me personally, because it is