R. E. Baker was engaged as conductor of our waggons on one of our
journeys from Bulawayo to the Zambesi, and a more capable cattle-man
than he did not, I am sure, exist between the Cape and Cairo.
If an ox wouldn't pull, he made it. If an ox went sick, he cured it with
amazing rapidity.
Baker, though English by descent, was a Cape Dutchman through and
through. A bad-natured ox he named "Englishman," and flogged the
wretched beast into a better frame of mind.
On the other hand, he would walk miles to find good grazing for his
cattle, and to see Baker caress an ox was a thing to remember. Not being
a cattle-man myself, I thought our conductor was gouging out the eye of
an ox. It certainly looked uncommonly like it. He was forcing his fist
with a rotary movement into the beast's eye.
In answer to my questioning, he explained that he was caressing the ox,
that cattle appreciated the attention; you had to be vigorous or you
tickled the poor thing, and oxen didn't like being tickled.
He was obviously right, for each ox, as Baker approached, seemed to
know what to expect and tamely submitted.
A few days out from Bulawayo Baker came back from the water carrying
fish. He had caught them, he said, in the large water-hole. It never
occurred to me that there would be any fish in the almost dried-up
rivers which we crossed from time to time. Baker assured me that where
there was water there were fish, but you must know how to catch them.
A day or two later we outspanned close to some water-holes. Baker said
he was going to catch some fish, and asked me whether I would like to
come too. I said I should, and began unpacking a rod and some tackle
which I had bought in London with the intention of fishing for
tiger-fish in the Zambesi.
Baker watched me unpack and make my selection. He seemed much amused.
Presently he drew from his pocket his own tackle, which appeared to me
to be a confused mass of tangled string and hooks.
We set out. Baker stopped at a small deep hole containing clear water.
It was my turn to smile. The pool he was going to fish in was a little
larger than a water-butt.
I went on, and found a fairly long pool. The water was rather muddy, and
I found little depth anywhere. However, I hoped for the best, and fished
just clear of the bottom. I used as bait a small piece of meat from a
wild pigeon's breast, recommended by Baker.
I have a certain amount of patience, but not, I fancy, quite sufficient
to entitle me to describe myself as a fisherman. After about two hours
of this fiddling, I gave it up and went in search of Baker.
To my amazement, he had quite a score of fish on the grass by his side.
"Did you catch all those?" I asked.
"Yes."
"In that hole?"
"Why, yes."
"How on earth do you do it?"