It was not long coming; the new arrivals set up the war-song, and Gidi Mavunga thought it time to make a demonstration.  Drawing an old cutlass and bending almost double, he began to rush about, slashing and cutting down imaginary foes, whilst his men looked to their guns.  The greenhorn would have expected a regular stand-up fight, ending in half-a-dozen deaths, but the Papagayo snatched away his father’s rusty blade, and Chico Furano, seizing the warrior’s head, despite the mildest of resistance, bent it almost to the ground.  Thus valour succumbed to numbers.  “He is a great man,” whispered my interpreter, “and if they chaunt their battle-song, he must show them his bravery.”  The truly characteristic scene ended in our being supplied with some fourteen black pots full of flesh, fowl, beans, and manioc, together with an abundance of plantains and sugar-cane; a select dish was “put in fetish” (set aside) for Gidi Mavunga, and the friendly foes all sat down to feast.  The querelle d’Allemand ended with a general but vain petition for “t’other bottle.”

Fahrenheit showed 90deg. in the shade, as we bade adieu to the little land-bay, and made for the high rugged wall to the north-north-east separating the river valley from the inner country.  On the summit we halted to enjoy the delicious sea-breeze with its ascending curve, and the delightful prospect far below.  Some 1,300 feet beneath us appeared the Nzadi, narrowed to a torrent, and rushing violently down its highly inclined bed, a straight reach running east and west, in length from four and a half to five miles.  As we fronted north, the Morro (cliff) Kala fell bluff towards its blue bight, the Mayumba Bay of the chart, on our left; to the right a black gate formed by twin cliffs shut out the upper stream from view.  The panorama of hill-fold and projection, each bounded by deep green lines, which argued torrents during the rains; the graceful slopes sinking towards the river and indenting the bed and the little tree-clad isle, Zun gachya Idi (Tuckey’s “Zunga Tooly Calavangoo”) hugging the northern side, where the Lufu torrent adds its tribute to the waters, convinced me that the charms of Congo scenery had not been exaggerated.  Yet the prospect had its element of sadness; the old ruffian, Gidi Mavunga, recounted how he had burned this place and broken that, where palm-clumps, grass-clearings, and plantations lying waste denoted the curse of Ham upon the land.

Our course now wound north-eastwards along hill-shoulders, rich in flowery plants and scented mimosa.  After two hours’ walking, we came suddenly upon the Morro or cliff of the river-trough, now about 1,000 feet deep.  Here the prospect again shifted; the black gate opened, showing the lowest of the long line of rapids called Borongwa ya Vivi, with the natives and their canoes, like flies upon bits of straw.

On the southern bank was a small perennial influent, lined with bright green above, and with chocolate brown below, within some twenty yards of its mouth.  It arises, they say, near S. Salvador, and is not navigable, although in places it bears canoes.  The people call it Npozo, possibly it represents the S. Salvador River of old travellers.  The distance was three direct or five indirect miles north of the stony cone, Zululu ke Sombe.