BACK IN SOKODE
The first stage of our journey to Malfakasa, the half-way house, so
to speak, between Bassari and Sokode, led us down to the Kamaa River
along a beautiful, well-kept road, planted on either side with mango
trees. The Kamaa in the dry season is, like most West African rivers,
practically without water; but during the rainy season it is frequently
quite unfordable, and many a poor native, I was informed, has lost his
life in its treacherous whirlpools, while attempting a crossing that
looks perhaps easy, but is in reality excessively dangerous.
[Illustration: A NATIVE VILLAGE IN NORTHERN TOGO
This village, though built in the Konkombwa style, is inhabited by
people of the Tschokossi tribe. The guinea corn stalks are left
standing round the place as a form of protection used in the old days
against the poisoned arrows of their enemies.]
To us, of course, the crossing presented no difficulty. The road on the
far side of the river, too, though rocky, is fairly good, undulating
up and down, and twining in and out amongst an open bush country until
the foot of the Malfakasa Mountain is reached. Then commences a fearful
climb of about two hours' duration. For the greater part of the way
riding was out of the question. We had to lead our horses, clambering
painfully up slippery slopes, dragging them after us, often threading
our way between huge boulders where there was hardly room for them
to pass. Arrived at the top of the shoulder of the mountain, we had to
go along the ridge for about half an hour, then followed an exceedingly
steep, well-nigh perpendicular descent of about two hundred feet, to
the almost dry boulder-strewn bed of a small stream; and out of which a
corresponding though not so steep rise led up to a little plateau where
the rest-house is situated.
From here a lovely view is obtained over the whole surrounding country,
reminding me somewhat of that seen from our old house at Aledjo. The
round huts, too, were very clean and comfortable; but, owing to lack
of room on the tiny plateau, they are situated rather too close to
the native compound and songu, whence the smell of cooking, and other
even more potent odours, was wafted in a manner more pronounced than
pleasant. I noticed this the more on account of a splitting headache
from which I suffered, due no doubt to the heat and the hardships
of the ascent. I was, too, exceedingly tired; so for the last time
I rolled myself in my horse-rug, with my saddle for a pillow, and
despite the pain from my throbbing temples, was soon lost in blissful
unconsciousness.
I awoke feeling almost my old self, and able to properly appreciate
the magnificent scenery that surrounded us on all sides. One needs
to spend, as I had done, two or three months traversing the brown
sun-baked veldt of the northern Togoland Sudan, in order to fully
enjoy the sight of these verdure-clad mountains. Here one seemed
alone with Nature, and with Nature's God. There was no village
near, only a few resident negroes to look after the rest-house
for European travellers, and its native equivalent, the songu.
To right and left, in front and behind, wherever the eye ranged,
it rested on a wilderness of wild mountain country, peak on peak
jumbled together in chaotic, yet magnificent confusion. To the north
was the outstanding mass of Tabalo Mountain, where is situated a
curious village, called by the natives Uro-Ganede-Bo, which means
"The-Place-where-the-Crown-Prince-is-educated." Here, in the olden days
of Togo native history, the eldest son of the reigning Uro, or king,
of Paratau, lived alone with his tutors, who instructed him in the
arts of war and of peace, and in the duties appertaining to a native
ruler. The place, I was informed, is practically impregnable to attack
from a native army, no matter how large, and even a European force
would find it a hard nut to crack. Here, in this mountain fortress, the
young prince remained closely secluded until he came of age, and even
afterwards he was only permitted to pay an occasional brief, flying
visit to Paratau, never permanently leaving his rocky retreat until
such time as his father, the old Uro, died, and he was called down with
much ceremony, and the beating of many drums, to reign in his stead.
We are now looking forward eagerly to a return to civilisation. At
Sokode, our next stage, we are in touch with the telegraph once more,
and there are rumours that a big motor car has been put upon the road
since we have been away, and is available for the journey down to the
rail-head at Atakpame. It is time we emerged from the wilderness, for
our stock of provisions is beginning to give out. Here at Malfakasa
we opened our last tin of condensed milk. The last of our coffee and
butter we used before reaching Bassari. Our table salt gave out long
previously, and we have had to make shift with the coarse native
article, carefully sifted.
The country round here is the home of a curious little bush fowl, which
looks exactly like an English bantam. We used to see them running
alongside the road on our way up, and when I first caught sight of
one I called out to Schomburgk: "Hullo! We must be nearing a village.
Here's a chicken straying about the track." Later on I learnt that they
were wild birds, and indigenous to the mountain regions of West Africa.
Malfakasa means "Long Gun"; malfa--gun, and kasa--long; and the story
goes that it derived its name from a famous outlaw who, many years
ago, used to sit up here with a gun and rob the caravans, and levy
blackmail on such solitary travellers as desired to pass. Of course
I cannot vouch for the truth of this yarn, which is in the nature of
a native tradition, but it seems to me that it is very likely to be
true. Anyhow, it is difficult to conceive a better place for a robber
stronghold than this rocky, isolated peak, with its steep, tortuous,
boulder-strewn approaches.
After resting the usual part of a day and a night at Malfakasa, we set
out for Sokode very early the next morning, the conversation during the
first part of the journey turning almost entirely on whether we should
be able to secure the motor car of which we had heard, to take us down
to Atakpame. If this is available, and native rumours crystallize as
to its existence, at all events, the nearer we get to Sokode, then we
shall be able to accomplish in one day what otherwise will take us
seven. Moreover, just south of Sokode one enters the tsetse-fly belt,
which extends downwards as far as a point above twenty-five miles north
of Lome; so if we cannot get the car, we must either travel by hammock
and bicycle, or else ride our horses down after dark, as these animals
cannot, of course, be taken through a fly-infested area in the daytime.
The view on the road leading down from Malfakasa is fully as beautiful
and picturesque as that leading up to it from the north. On quitting
the plateau, one sees far away to the north-east the Sudu Mountains,
and in between the great level Tim plain. This plain, or steppe, got
its name in rather a curious way. Mostly the various districts, or
areas of country, in West Africa take their names from the tribes
inhabiting them. Thus, one speaks of the Konkombwa country, the Gourma
country, and so on. Now the Tim plain is inhabited by our old friends
the Tschaudjo, who, as I have previously explained, came riding on
horses from the north, conquering or driving out the aborigines before
them, and harrying the country with fire and sword. The invaders were
called by the original inhabitants of the soil Kotokoli, which means
"warriors" or "robbers," the two terms being interchangeable, and,
amongst primitive peoples, frequently identical; and the strange,
barbaric "lingo" they spoke--strange and barbaric that is to say to
the peaceful aborigines--was dubbed by them "tim." When they took
possession of the plain, and settled there, the neighbouring tribes no
longer cared, perhaps no longer dared, to call them by the opprobrious
name of Kotokoli (robbers), and so they used to refer to them as the
folk who spoke "tim," and in time this became a general term for the
country inhabited by them. It is perhaps the only instance in West
Africa of a land being named after a language, and not after a people.
After a not unpleasant and interesting twenty-mile ride, we at length
reached Sokode, where the District Commissioner, Herr von Parpart,
being still absent, we made a bee-line for the post office. Here we
found a huge mail awaiting us, and many cablegrams. We soon set the
wires humming in return; in fact, we indulged in a regular telegraphic
orgie: after which we went over to the house of our old friend Mr.
Kuepers, the Government schoolmaster at the station, from whom we
received a most hearty and hospitable welcome. We also heard from him
full particulars concerning the motor car, about the very existence of
which up till now we had been more or less doubtful. It was, he told
us, a big and powerful automobile, capable not only of carrying our
entire party, but also of transporting our personal luggage, leaving
only the heavy baggage to be carried by man transport. It had been put
on the road by the Togo Company, and was now at Atakpame, whence it
could be summoned by telegraph, the cost of hiring it for the journey
being ninepence per mile.
This, of course, was splendid news, and put us all in the best of
spirits, which were further enhanced by the receipt of a second
communication from the Moving Picture Sales Agency in London, saying
that all the rest of the films to hand had turned out well, and were of
the highest possible quality. That night we stayed at the rest-house
near the station, and sat up late talking of home and friends. The
one drop of bitterness in our overflowing cup of happiness was the
knowledge that we should now have to part from our horses, to whom we
had become very much attached. Next day, however, we received a wire
from the Hon. W. H. Grey, whom we had met on the steamer on the outward
voyage, offering to take over all our animals, and to transport them
to Accra, where they would be well cared for and looked after. This,
again, was very acceptable news, for it would have caused us infinite
pain and regret to have had to sell the faithful animals, that had
carried us safely for so many hundreds of miles, back to the natives,
to be ill-treated as only a native can ill-treat a horse, and to be
tortured by the horrible bits they habitually use. Nevertheless, when
they left that night for the coast, after a final caress and a feed of
sugar, we all felt a bit down-hearted. I know I felt it like parting
from old friends. Schomburgk had detailed a soldier to accompany them
on the downward journey, and had given him the strictest and most
minute instructions as to each day's itinerary. He was also warned
on no account to permit them to travel before nightfall, after which
the dreaded tsetse-fly sleeps. This is, of course, the insect that is
responsible for the fatal sleeping-sickness in man. We, however, saw
no cases of this terrible disease while we were in Togo, although it
is known to exist there and according to some accounts is spreading.
As regards domestic animals--horses, oxen, and so forth--they can be
moved safely through the worst fly-belts if proper care be taken. They
must be shut up in a hut during the daytime, and for preference in a
hut situated in or near a village, since the tsetse invariably shuns
the habitations of man, preferring to live out its life in the low,
unhealthy localities it most frequents, near to water, stagnant if
possible, and with plenty of thick tropical undergrowth wherein it can
breed and take refuge from its many enemies.
We stayed five days in Sokode, paying visits, resting from the fatigue
of our long journey, and generally enjoying ourselves. Amongst other
notable people we called upon, was the Mallam of Dedaure. "Mallam," I
perhaps ought to explain, meant originally a priest or teacher, but the
term is now applied loosely in West Africa to any native who, owing to
his wealth or learning, has raised himself far above the common herd.
This particular Mallam struck me as being absolutely the finest-looking
native I had seen during our trip. Tall, beautifully proportioned,
with clear-cut aquiline features, a small well-kept beard, and always
exquisitely dressed, he would have been a striking figure anywhere,
let alone out here in the heart of the African bush. Schomburgk said
he was the best specimen of a native he had come across anywhere in
Africa, and I can quite believe him. I imagine, though, that he is by
no means a full-blooded Togo native, but has Arab blood in his veins,
and probably a goodly proportion of it. He was a well-educated man, and
before we left he wrote on a board in exquisite Arabic characters what
he assured me was a eulogistic account, and personal description, of my
humble self.
What impressed me most during my stay in Sokode, however, was the
splendidly-appointed Government school, of which Mr. Kuepers is the
principal. He is assisted by several native teachers, and it is really
wonderful to see the way in which the scholars--all boys--from the bush
villages hereabouts assimilate the knowledge that is put before them.
Mr. Kuepers assured me that they make far apter and better pupils than
do European children of a similar age. Their minds seem to be more
quick and ready to receive outside impressions. It is like writing
with a new pen on a perfectly blank sheet of paper, or sowing seed in
virgin soil. And this rapid progress they make is the more remarkable,
in view of the fact that these little African kiddies, when they begin
to attend school, have first to be taught the German language, or at
least enough of it to enable them to understand their lessons, to
grasp the purport of the questions asked, and to frame their answers.
Unfortunately, however, this quickness of perception, and the desire to
learn, does not last beyond a certain age. Directly the boy begins to
blossom into a man, which in this climate and amongst the black races
is somewhere between the thirteenth and the fourteenth year, he comes
to a dead stop as it were. Restless and uneasy, he cannot be brought
to fix his mind upon his tasks, and seizes the first opportunity to
return to his native village, where, it is to be feared, he quickly
forgets most, if not all, of what he has learnt. There are exceptions,
of course, but this is the general rule. In the pregnant words of one
of the native teachers, spoken with no touch of lightness, but solemnly
and even sadly: "When the young native Afrikander begins to think
about women, he thinks no longer any more about lessons."
On one of my visits to the school, I was asked to put some questions to
the children, and I asked a small boy of eight or thereabouts, "What
is a mouse?" His answer, transcribed word for word from my note-book,
was as follows: "A mouse is a small animal, with four legs, two eyes,
and a thin long tail; on its back are brown hairs, and it has white
hairs under its stomach." The description is incomplete, but I doubt
if one English or German child out of a hundred, of a like age, could
have given offhand as good a one. I also asked a class generally the
old, old "catch" question in mental arithmetic of our childhood's days:
"If a herring and a half cost three-halfpence, what is the price of
eleven herrings?" I had previously announced that I would give a penny
to every child who answered it correctly, and that I would allow them
three minutes by my watch to think it out. It was most interesting to
watch their thoughtful, intent little black faces, as they wrestled
inwardly with the puzzling problem. When time was called, hardly a
child but gave some sort of an answer, many being obviously mere
guess-work; but two of the scholars earned their pennies, and more
than earned them, for not only were their answers correct, but they
explained to me how they arrived at them.
[Illustration: KONKOMBWA AT ARCHERY PRACTICE
These people are still in the bow-and-arrow stage of martial evolution;
nor are the bows they use remarkable for power or strength of
construction. Their arrows, however, are invariably poisoned, and the
slightest scratch from one means death.]
The children are very prettily mannered. If one meets a group of them
on the road, they will line up, stand rigidly to attention, and give
one a smiling "Good morning." If, as frequently happens, one comes
across them seated by a stream, and repeating their lessons together
in the sort of a sing-song chorus they greatly affect, the same thing
happens. Of course, however, these children are picked children. Only
a certain number are taken from each village, and not above a certain
number in all. At present the sum total for whom accommodation is
available is about one hundred; but new school buildings are being
erected; then the classes will be very largely augmented. The children
are taken entire charge of by the Government during the time they
are at school. A small daily sum is allowed each child for food and
lodging, this being handed over _pro rata_ to certain approved native
women living in the village, who undertake in return to board and sleep
so many of them. Each child is also given by the Government a little
blue smock, and books, slates, pencils, and so forth are of course
provided free.
On the evening before the day we had fixed for our departure, Herr
von Parpart asked us to dinner. This gentleman, by the way, was not
at Sokode when we were here on our upward journey. If he had been, we
certainly should not have stayed at Paratau. He is a most courteous,
considerate man, who radiates energy, kindness, and good-nature;
altogether a splendid example of the best type of German official.
At the dinner-party were a Mr. and Mrs. Dehn, who were going up to
Bassari to relieve Mr. Muckè, who was going home on leave. It follows,
therefore, that she will be the second white woman in Togoland north of
Sokode.
Prior to going in to dinner, we were seated outside the house on a
little hillock, the top of which had been artificially flattened,
chatting together and enjoying the cool evening air. It was a dark
night, with very little moonlight. Suddenly, from a grove behind us,
came the sound of children's voices singing an old German part-song.
It was a choir of Mr. Kuepers' little scholars, and the musical treat
had been arranged by him in our honour. I never heard anything more
beautiful; or, under the circumstances, more affecting. Song after song
of our childhood's days the young choristers reeled forth. Mrs. Dehn,
who had only recently come out, started to use her handkerchief; and I
think I should shortly have followed suit, had not our host come up at
the crucial moment and led me into dinner.
The meal was a grand success, reminding me of the one Baron Codelli
had treated us to on our arrival at Kamina from the coast six months
previously. There was the same beautifully arranged table, the same
sheen of damask and glitter of silver, the same noiseless, trained
service, the same carefully chosen and perfectly cooked food. Everybody
was in the highest spirits, and I enjoyed myself immensely. We sat
late, and should have sat later at our host's urgent invitation, only
that the motor-car had arrived that day from Atakpame, and we were due
to start early in the morning. It seemed strange, by the way, to find
my hammock--thoughtfully provided by my kind host--waiting at the door
to take me home, in the same way as the electric brougham belonging to
the house waits at home to whisk away the late-departing guest.
We had told our boys to call us at 5 A.M., but I confess that, for my
part, it required no small effort of will to induce me to rise and
dress. Out in the bush one is not used to dissipation. I wished now
that I had refused that last half glass of champagne, or had dispensed
with the liqueur. I will say no more.
Outside, the cold morning air acted as a tonic. There was the big car,
panting to be off. It held seven people comfortably, and our ten boxes.
Soon we were speeding along our homeward road, and my spirits rose with
each succeeding mile. It was grand to fly along down the route up which
we had toiled so slowly, to cover in an hour a stage that had taken
us a whole day to traverse on cycles or by hammock. At Djabotaure,
however, there came a sudden halt. Our left-hand hind wheel tyre burst
with a loud report, and my heart sank within me at the prospect of
being stranded here in this desolate spot, two days--by carriers--from
Sokode and five from Atakpame. Luckily we carried a spare tyre, but it
was a non-skidder, and from now on our driver had to be very careful.
The road in the Sokode district was perfect, that in the Atakpame
district was not quite so good; and we were all more or less anxious,
for we carried no more spare tyres, and another breakdown would have
meant several days' delay. The bridges of planks, covered in some
instances with clay, were negotiated in fear and trembling, for they
had, of course, not been constructed for heavy motor traffic, and our
big car, with its load, weighed a good bit over a ton. The natives
we met seemed greatly interested in the new machine, which had not
yet lost its novelty for them, and stood gaping after it much as the
rustics used to do in Europe, I am told, when motor-cars first began to
be used there. One big negro varied the ordinary proceeding by standing
facing the car in the middle of the road, and backed as we approached,
at the same time edging sideways. As a result he tumbled over backwards
into a ditch, and the last I saw of him, as we sped by, was a pair of
big flat feet projecting upwards, and waving wildly from the side of
the road.
We overtook our horses at a village en route, and paused to see that
our instructions were being properly carried out. At Blita, too, we
stopped for breakfast, selecting this particular rest-house because
it is the only one between Sokode and Atakpame that boasts a table.
Here we used up absolutely the last of our provisions, and I remember
thinking to myself that if a breakdown were to occur now, we should
not only be subject to an irritating and vexatious delay, but that we
should probably go hungry into the bargain. However, nothing happened;
mechanism and tyres both held; and shortly after noon we rolled into
Atakpame, and thence to Kamina.