I shall withstand the temptation of choosing lion or cheetah, hyæna
or ratel, zebra or other wild horse, giraffe or buffalo, elephant
or rhinoceros, for there are some others which seem to me more
truly distinctive of the steppe. Among these I place in the first
rank the ant-eater, or aard-vark, and the pangolin--the old-world
representatives of the Edentates--which have their head-quarters in
the western hemisphere, and belong to an order whose golden age lies
many ages behind us. Both aard-vark and pangolin are, in North Africa
at least, distinctively steppe animals, for it is only there that the
ant-hills and termitaries are sufficiently numerous to afford them
comfortable maintenance. Like all ant-eaters they lie during the day
rolled up almost in a ball, sleeping in deep burrows which they have
dug out, and which one sees opening alike on the broad, treeless,
grass plain and among the sparse trees and shrubs. Only when night
has set in do they become lively; with clumsy gait they hobble and
jump about in search of food, progressing chiefly by means of their
powerful hind-limbs, resting on the great burrowing claws of their
fore-limbs and on their heavy tail. Their food consists exclusively
of small creatures of all kinds, but especially of the larvæ of ants
and termites, and of worms. Continually jerking its depressed nose
and snuffing about, the ant-eater trots along, and, having discovered
a pathway of the ants or termites, follows this home. Without much
difficulty it makes an opening for its long snout, pushes this into
the hole, and feels about with its tongue for the passages along which
the insects hurry and scurry. Having stretched the tongue, which is
viscid and thread-like, along one of the chief passages, it waits
until it is covered with ants or termites, and then retracts it into
the narrow mouth. So minute are the individual morsels that this may
seem a somewhat miserable mode of making a meal, but the tongue is, in
its way, just as effective as the powerful claws, and the ant-eater
makes its way through life very comfortably. Nor are the animals by any
means so helpless as they seem. The weak pangolin is protected more
effectively by his armour, which is strong enough to turn a sword, than
by the weapons on its feet; the aard-vark is able to use its claws most
effectively, and can also give such smart side-blows with its heavy
tail that it readily gets rid of an antagonist who is not of superior
strength. But if a really formidable enemy draws near and is detected
in time, the aard-vark burrows with the utmost rapidity, throwing out
sand and dust with such force and in such quantities that an almost
impenetrable, because blinding, veil saves it from attack until it is
at a safe depth underground. Only to man with his far-reaching weapons
does it fall an easy prey, for he stabs it asleep in its burrow, and
kills it almost infallibly if the entrance to the hole be fairly
straight and not too long. Thus, fate is too strong for even this
old-world creature, and will sooner or later wipe out its name from the
book of the living.
[Illustration: Fig. 29.--Hyæna-dogs pursuing Antelope.]
Among the steppe beasts of prey one of the best known and most
distinctive is a dog. A connecting link between the dogs and the
hyænas, not only in form but to a certain extent in its markings,
this animal--the hyæna-dog or Cape hunting-dog--is one of the most
noteworthy figures in the steppe-picture, and also in its nature
and habits one of the most interesting of all the carnivores of
this region. Excepting certain monkeys, I know of no mammal so
self-assertive, so wantonly aggressive, so emulous of exploits as
this dog is, or, at any rate, seems to be. There is no limit to his
ambition; no other mammal is quite secure from his attack. In large
packs they traverse the broad steppe-land on eager outlook for booty.
They ravage the sheep-flocks of the settlers and nomads; they follow
persistently at the heels of the swiftest and most agile antelopes;
audaciously they press in even upon men; fearlessly they dislodge,
thanks perhaps to their noisy bravado, the other carnivores of the
region which they frequent. Behind the strongest and most formidable
antelope a pack rushes in full cry, barking, howling, whining, and
now and then uttering a clear note of triumph. The antelope exerts
all its strength, but the murderous dogs lose no ground, they cut off
corners and prevent it doubling back, they come nearer and nearer
and force it to stand at bay. Conscious of its strength and of its
powers of defence, the antelope uses its pointed horns with skill
and good effect; one dog after another may be hurled to the ground
fatally transfixed; but the others fix on its throat and body, and
the noble creature’s death-rattle soon puts an end to their howling.
Without fear of man these dogs fall upon domestic animals of all kinds,
tearing up the smaller sorts with the bloodthirstiness of martens,
and mutilating those which are too large to be readily mastered. Nor
are they afraid of domestic dogs, but fight with them to the death
and leave them lifeless on the field. Thoroughly broken in and tamed,
trained for several generations, they should become the most excellent
of sporting-hounds; but the task of subjugation is certainly not an
easy one. They do indeed become used to their master, and display some
liking, even a certain fondness for him, but all in their own way.
When called from their kennel, they jump up and down in the highest
of spirits, fight with one another out of sheer joy, rush at their
approaching master, leap up on him, try to show their gladness in the
most extravagant ways, and are finally unable to express it except by
biting him. A boisterous mischievousness and an uncontrollable impulse
to bite are characteristic of almost all their doings. More excitable
than almost any other creature, they move every member, they quiver in
every fibre, when any novel occurrence attracts or occupies them; their
mercurial vivacity is expressed in exaggerated gaiety and next moment
in savage wildness. For they bite whatever comes in their way, without
any provocation, probably without any ill-will, simply for fun. They
are the most marvellous creatures in all the steppes.
In those parts of the steppe which I have been more particularly
considering--the Kordofan, Sennaar, and Taka regions--the animal life
is not subject to destructive or disturbing influences to the same
extent as in the south of Africa or in Central Asia. To those animals
which do not migrate, or do not lie in death-like sleep for months, the
winter may bring privations or even sharp want, but it does not involve
the pangs of starvation or the torments of thirst; it does not force
desperate creatures to leave an impoverished home, or seek for happier
lands in mad flight. It is true that the animals of the North African
steppes have their migrations and journeyings; but they do not flee
in a panic as do those which inhabit other steppe-lands, and forsake
them in hundreds of thousands before a threatened destruction. Of the
immense herds of antelopes, such as crowd together in the south of
Africa, one never hears in the north. All the gregarious mammals and
birds gather together when the winter sets in, and disband when the
spring draws near; all the migratory birds go and come about the same
time; but all this takes place in an orderly, old-established fashion,
not spasmodically nor without definite ends. There is, however, one
power from whose influence the animal life of these steppe-lands is not
exempt,--and that is fire.
Every year, at the time when the dark clouds in the south and the
lightning which flashes from them announce the approach of spring,
during days when the south wind rages over the steppe, the nomad
herdsman takes a firebrand and hurls it into the waving grass. Rapidly
and beyond all stopping the fire catches. It spreads over broad
stretches; smoke and steam by day, a lurid cloud by night, proclaim its
destructive and yet eventually beneficial progress. Not unfrequently it
reaches the primeval forest, and the flames send their forked tongues
up the dry climbing-plants to the crowns of the trees, devouring the
remaining leaves or charring the outer bark. Sometimes, though more
rarely, the fire surrounds a village and showers its burning arrows on
the straw huts, which flare up almost in a moment.
[Illustration: Fig. 30.--Zebras, Quaggas, and Ostriches flying before a
Steppe-fire.]
Although a steppe-fire, in spite of the abundance of combustible
material, is rarely fatal to horsemen or to those who meet fire by
fire, and just as rarely to the swift mammals, it exerts, nevertheless,
a most exciting influence on the animal world, and puts to flight
everything that lives hidden in the grass-forest. And sometimes the
flight becomes a stampede, to hasten which the panic of the fugitives
contributes more than the steady advance of the flames. Antelopes,
zebras, and ostriches speed across the plain more quickly than the
wind; cheetahs and leopards follow them and mingle with them without
thinking of booty; the hunting-dog forgets his lust for blood; and
the lion succumbs to the terror which has conquered the others. Only
those which live in burrows are undismayed, for they betake themselves
to their safe retreats and let the sea of fire roll over them.
Otherwise it fares hardly with everything that creeps or is fettered
to the ground. Few snakes and hardly the most agile of the lizards are
able to outrun the fire. Scorpions, tarantulas, and centipedes either
fall victims to the flames, or become, like the affrighted swarms of
insects, the prey of enemies which are able to defy the conflagration.
For as soon as a cloud of smoke ascends to the sky and gradually
grows in volume, the birds of prey hasten thither from all quarters,
especially serpent-eagles, chanting goshawks, harriers, kestrels,
storks, bee-eaters, and swifts. They come to capture the lizards,
snakes, scorpions, spiders, beetles, and locusts, which are startled
into flight before the flames. In front of the line the storks and the
secretary-birds stalk about undaunted; above them amid the clouds of
smoke sweep the light-winged falcons, bee-eaters, and swifts; and for
all there is booty enough. These birds continue the chase as long as
the steppe burns, and the flames find food as long as they are fanned
by the storms. Only when the winds die down do the flames cease.
It is thus that the nomad clears his pasture of weeds and vermin,
and prepares it for fresh growth. The ashes remain as manure, the
life-giving rains carry this into the soil, and after the first
thunder-storm all is covered with fresh green. All the former tenants,
driven away in fear, return to their old haunts, to enjoy, after the
hardships of winter and the recent panic, the pleasures of ease and
comfort.
THE PRIMEVAL FORESTS OF CENTRAL AFRICA.
Rich as the African steppe really is, incomparably rich as it seems
when compared with the desert, it nowhere exhibits the full luxuriance
of tropical vegetation. It indeed receives everywhere the blessing of
life-giving water; but this lasts too short a time to have a permanent
influence. With the cessation of the rains the power of growth comes
to an end, and heat and drought destroy what the rains have produced.
Therefore only those plants can flourish in the steppe the course
of whose life is run within a few weeks; those which are capable of
outlasting centuries never attain to full development. Only in the
low grounds, traversed by streams which never dry up, and watered
by these as well as by the rains, where sunlight and water, warmth
and moisture, work together, does the magic wealth of tropical lands
develop and endure. Here have arisen forests which, in magnificence
and beauty, grandeur and luxuriance, are scarce inferior to those of
the most favoured lands of lower latitudes. They are primeval forests
in the true sense of the word, for they grow and disappear, become old
and renew their youth without help of man; even to this day they are
sufficient unto themselves, and they support an extraordinary wealth of
animal life.
The storms of spring carry the rain-laden clouds from the south over
the African countries lying north of the equator. Accordingly, these
forests do not burst suddenly on the eye of the traveller journeying
from the north, but become gradually more characteristic the farther
south he penetrates. The nearer he approaches to the equator the more
brilliantly the lightning flashes, the louder and more continuously
the thunder rolls, the more noisily the rain-torrents fall, so much
the more luxuriantly do all plants thrive, so much the richer in
forms does the fauna become; the earlier the rainy season sets in
the longer it lasts, and so much the greater is the charm it works.
In exact proportion to the increase of moisture, the forest becomes
denser, loftier, and more extensive. From the banks of the streams the
plant-growth spreads into the interior, and takes possession of every
available space, from the thickly-covered ground to the tops of the
highest trees. Trees which are only dwarfs elsewhere, become giants
here; known species become the hosts of still unknown parasites, and
between them a plant-world hitherto unseen struggles towards the light.
Even here, however, at least in the northern belt of the forest, the
heat and drought of winter have still so strong an influence that they
periodically destroy the foliage of the trees and condemn at least most
of them to some weeks of complete inactivity. But the awakening call
of spring rings the more clearly through the sleeping wood; the life
which the first rains of the fertilizing season call forth stirs the
more powerfully after the rest of winter.
I shall select spring-time in these countries to depict the primeval
forest as best I can. The south wind, herald and bearer of the
rain-clouds, must still be in contest with the cooling breezes from the
north if the forest is to reveal all its possible magnificence, and one
must penetrate to its heart by one of its arteries, the rivers, if one
wishes to see the fulness of its life. Let us take the Azrek or “Blue
Nile”, rising in the mountains of Habesh, as our highway; for with it
are linked the most exquisite pictures which a long life of travel have
won for me, and I may prove a better guide on it than on another. I
very much doubt, however, whether I shall prove such an interpreter of
the forest as I should like to be. For the primeval forest is a world
full of splendour, and brilliance, and fairy-like beauty; a land of
marvels whose wealth no man has been able fully to know, much less to
carry away; a treasure-house which scatters infinitely more than one
can gather; a paradise in which the creation seems to take shape anew
day by day; an enchanted circle which unfolds before him who enters
it pictures, grand and lovely, grave and gay, bright as daylight and
sombre as night; a thousand integral parts making up a whole infinitely
complex, yet unified and harmonious, which baffles all description.
One of the light little craft which one sees at Khartoum (the capital
of the Eastern Soudan, lying at the junction of the two Nile streams)
is transformed into a travelling boat, and bears us against the waves
of the much-swollen Azrek. The gardens of the last houses of the
capital disappear, and the steppe reaches down to the very bank of the
river. Here and there we still see a village, or isolated huts lying
prettily under mimosas and often surrounded by creeping and climbing
plants which hang from the trees; nothing else is visible save the
waving grass-forest and the few steppe trees and shrubs which rise
from its midst. But after a short journey the forest takes possession
of the bank, and spreads out its thorny or spine-covered branches
even beyond it. Thenceforward our progress is slow. The wind blowing
against us prevents sailing, the forest renders towing impossible.
With the boat-hook the crew pull the little craft foot by foot, yard
by yard, farther up the stream, till one of their number espies a gap
where he can gain a foothold in the thick hedge-wall of the bank, and,
committing his mortal body to the care of Muhsa, the patron-saint of
all sailors, and praying for protection from the crocodiles which are
here abundant, he takes the towing-rope between his teeth, plunges
into the water, swims to the desired spot, fastens the rope round the
trunk of a tree, and lets his companions pull the boat up to it. Thus
the boatmen toil from early morning till late in the evening, yet they
only speed the traveller perhaps five, or at most ten miles on his way.
Nevertheless the days fly past, and none who have learned to see and
hear need suffer from weariness there. To the naturalist, as to every
thoughtful observer, every day offers something new; to the collector,
a wealth of material of every kind.
Every now and again one comes upon traces of human beings. If one
follows them from the bank, along narrow paths hemmed in on either side
by the dense undergrowth, one arrives at the abodes of a remarkable
little tribe. They are the Hassanie who dwell there. Where the forest
is less dense, and where the trees do not form a three-or four-fold
roof with their crowns, but consist of tall, shady mimosas, Kigelias,
tamarinds, and baobabs, these folk erect their most delightful tent-or
booth-like huts, so different from all the other dwellings one sees
in the Soudan. “Hassanie” means the descendants of Hassan, and Hassan
means the Beautiful; and not without reason does this tribe bear this
name. For the Hassanie are indisputably the handsomest people who
dwell in the lower and middle regions of the river-basin, and the
women in particular surpass almost all other Soudanese in beauty of
form, regularity of feature, and clearness of skin. Both men and women
faithfully observe certain exceedingly singular customs, which among
other people are, with reason, considered immoral. The Hassanie are
therefore at once famous and notorious, sought out and avoided, praised
and scoffed at, extolled and abused. To the unprejudiced traveller,
eager to study manners and customs, they afford much delight, if not
by their beauty at least by their desire for approbation, which must
please even the least susceptible of men. This trait is much more
conspicuous in them than even the self-consciousness which beauty
gives: they must and will please. The preservation of their beauty is
their highest aim, and counts for more than any other gain. To avoid
sunburning, which would darken their clear brown skins, they live
in the shade of the forest, contenting themselves with a few goats,
their only domestic animals except dogs, and foregoing the wealth that
numerous herds of cattle and camels afford their nomadic relatives.
That their charms may be in no way spoiled, they strive above all to
become possessed of female slaves, who relieve them of all hard work;
to decorate face and cheeks they endure heroically, even as little
girls, the pain inflicted by the mother as she cuts with a knife three
deep, parallel, vertical wounds in the cheeks, that as many thick,
swollen scars may be formed, or as she pricks forehead, temples, and
chin with a needle and rubs indigo powder into the wounds, so producing
blue spirals or other devices; to avoid injury to their dazzling white,
almost sparkling teeth, they eat only lukewarm food; to preserve as
long as possible their most elaborate coiffure, which consists of
hundreds of fine braids, stiffened with gum arabic and richly oiled,
they use no pillow save a narrow, crescent-shaped, wooden stand, on
which they rest their heads while sleeping. To satisfy their sense of
beauty, or perhaps in order that they may be seen and admired by every
inhabitant or visitor, they have thought out the singular construction
of their huts.
These huts may be perhaps best compared to the booths to be seen at
fairs. The floor, which consists of rods as thick as one’s thumb bound
closely together, rests upon a framework of stakes rising about a
yard from the ground, thus making the dwelling difficult of access to
creeping pests, and raising it from the damp ground. The walls consist
of mats; the roof, overhanging on the north side, which is left open,
is made of a waterproof stuff woven from goat’s hair. Neatly plaited
mats of palm-leaf strips cover the floor; prettily-wrought wicker-work,
festoons of shells, water-tight plaited baskets, earthen vessels,
drinking-cups made from half a bottle-gourd, gaily-coloured utensils
also plaited, lids, and other such things decorate the walls. Each
vessel is daintily wrought and cleanly kept; the order and cleanliness
of the whole hut impress one the more that both are so uncommon.
In such a hut the Hassanie dreams away the day. Dressed in her best,
her hair and skin oiled with perfumed ointment, a long, lightly-woven,
and therefore translucent piece of cloth enveloping the upper part of
her body, a piece of stuff hanging petticoat-like from the waist, her
feet adorned with daintily-worked sandals, neck and bosom hung with
chains and amulets, arms with bracelets of amber, her nose possibly
decorated with a silver, or even a gold ring, she sits hidden in
the shade and rejoices in her beauty. Her little hand is busy with
a piece of plaiting, some house utensil or article of dress, or
perhaps it holds only her tooth-brush, a root teased out at both ends,
and admirably adapted to its purpose. All the work of the house is
done by her slave, all the labour of looking after the little flock
by her obliging husband. The carefully thought-out and remarkable
marriage-relations customary in the tribe, and adhered to in defiance
of all the decrees and interference of the ruler of the land, guarantee
her unheard-of rights. She is mistress in the most unlimited sense
of the word, mistress also of her husband, at least as long as her
charms remain; only when she is old and withered does she also learn
the transitoriness of all earthly pleasure. Till then, she does what
seems good in her eyes, her freedom bounded only by the limits which
she has herself laid down. As long as the crowns of the trees do not
afford complete shade around her hut she does not go out of doors, but
offers every passer-by, particularly any stranger who calls upon her, a
hearty welcome, and with or without her husband’s aid, does the honours
of the tribe with almost boundless hospitality. Yet it is only when
the evening sets in that her real life begins. Even before the sun has
set, there is a stir and bustle in the settlement. One friend visits
her neighbour, others join them; drum and zither entice the rest, and
soon slender, lithe, supple figures arrange themselves for a merry
dance. Delicate hands dip the drinking-cups into the big-bellied urn,
filled with Merieza or dhurra beer, that the hearts of the men also may
be glad. Old and young are assembled, and they celebrate the evening
festival the more joyfully that it is honoured by the presence of
strangers. The hospitality of all the Soudanese is extraordinary, but
in no other race is it so remarkable as among the Hassanie.
In the course of our journey we come upon other settlements of these
forest-shepherds, sometimes also on the villages of other Soudanese,
and at length, after travelling nearly a month, we reach the desired
region. The dense forest on both banks of the river prevents our
searching gaze from seeing farther into the country. In this region
there are no settlements of men, neither fields nor villages, not
even temporarily inhabited camps; the ring of the axe has not yet
echoed through these forests, for man has not yet attempted to
exploit them; in them there dwell, still almost unmolested, only
wild beasts. Impenetrable hedges shut off the forests, and resist
any attempt to force a way from the stream to the interior. Every
shade of green combines to form an enchanting picture, which now
reminds one of home, and again appears entirely foreign. Bright green
mimosas form the groundwork, and with them contrast vividly the silver
glittering palm-leaves, the dark green tamarinds, and the bright green
Christ-thorn bushes; leaves of endless variety wave and tremble in
the wind, exposing first one side and then the other, shimmering and
glittering before the surfeited and dazzled eye, which seeks in vain
to analyse the leafy maze, to distinguish any part from the whole.
For miles both banks present the same appearance, the same denseness
of forest, the same grandeur, everywhere equally uninterrupted and
impenetrable.