THE SHORES OF BUSHLAND AND DESERT
Toward the end of February I left Zinder.
Takoukout, 109 miles farther on, was to be my next camping-place.
Before leaving Zinder I heard plenty of discouraging news of the
journey confronting me: exploits of armed robbers and great scarcity
of food were freely spoken of, by both Europeans and natives, as
existing drawbacks to visiting Aïr; and I began to note that my
Hausa boys were growing restive and suspicious of what lay ahead. In
fact, in the end those fearsome but idle rumours unsettled and
unnerved Mona to such an extent that, when the time drew near to go
forward, I decided to send him back to Kano, deeming it useless to
take him further in such a state of mind. Sakari was little better,
but he was so helpful in skinning, that I was loath to let him go,
and by the aid of increased wages was able to induce him to continue.
It was the old familiar trouble, for I have always found it difficult
to induce natives, most of whom appear to have a strong erratical and
unreliable temperament in their composition, to leave their homes
on a long journey, and, when possibilities of hunger and danger
are added, trouble may be anticipated after the undertaking has
commenced, no matter how auspicious the start, nor how binding the
promises, which were perfectly sincere at the time they were made.
For my own part I had often puzzled over the question: “Why is it
that Aïr has so long been avoided by naturalists and travellers?”
for, so far as I could gather, no one had explored the country in
British interests since Dr. Barth’s geological and anti-slave trade
mission to Central Africa in 1850—seventy years ago; but now I
believed I had a cue, for hunger and danger are indeed companions of
ill-omen sufficiently gruesome to warn away the wise—provided they
are altogether without some opposite neighbours to stand by in time
of stress and modify the fearsome picture. But of this more anon.
It may be said that in leaving Zinder, northward bound, one passes
out into true Sahara and true wilderness. Henceforward the break-up
of the natural bushland sets in, and wide belts of sand desert and
dwarf bush alternate, until the vast sea of sand-plain is reached
about 180 miles north of Zinder. Henceforward, also, the nature of
the country undergoes change; it is more barren than before, which
is reflected at once in the tremendous drop in population which
occurs in the region or province of Damergou; and it is reflected,
also, in the dwarf stature of the ill-nourished acacia trees, which,
by the way, remind me much of the dying-down of the timber forests
of Canada to the dwarf Scrub Pine on the shores of the sub-Arctic
barren grounds. How strikingly similar are those two instances of
landlocked shores, that are boundary between bushland and desert
or plain, though they take effect in continents widely separated,
and of entirely different climatic conditions! In both cases the
trees are ill-thriven and dwarfed, but there is a difference: in
the Sudan the cause is to be found in the unfertile sand and lack
of moisture, while in Canada it is the severity of the winter in
that particular latitude which lays its blight upon the land.
Then, too, as you enter wilderness and land of diminished population,
you pass into country that is poorer in bird life, but richer by
far in big-game than any territory to the south—as shall be seen
as we progress.
The village of Tanout, 85 miles distant, lay across our path to
Takoukout, and I set out with the intention of covering the distance
in five days, which meant fairly stiff going for the well-loaded
camels. As customary, we had the usual trouble with certain animals
and their burdens on the first day out from Zinder, and were on
the road, without pause for rest, from 7 a.m. till 4 p.m., when we
reached Bakimaran after a journey of 18 miles. There is a belt of
barren land which starts about 5 miles south of Zinder and continues
northward until beyond Bakimaran—a belt altogether 25 to 30 miles
in width—and it was across this that we travelled in setting
out. It was drearily bare country, undulating in places with low
rounded rises, sandy or covered with withered grass, and often with
rough outcrops of gravel and boulders and rock, while, in patches,
there was some scraggy bush and an odd tree. Few natives were
encountered until Bakimaran was reached, and cattle and goat-herds,
which are common to inhabited territory, were remarkably scarce,
though the latter circumstance could, perhaps, in a measure be
explained, as there are occasions in the dry season when grazing or
water give out, and it is necessary that the main herds of the people
be driven, often long distances, to find new pasturage. Apropos of
this, there sometimes arises an amusing incident: a thunderstorm
and sudden cloud-burst of heavy rain occurs in a limited locality
and starts the grass growing green; before long a wandering bushman
chances upon this fine pasture, and hastens away to fetch his lean
and hungry herds to it; but on his return he finds to his disgust
that someone, who has also made the discovery, has forestalled
him, and there ensues lively dispute over rights of possession,
which sometimes ends in angry abuse and even fighting—like to
the madness of two hungry dogs that pounce together upon a dish of
appetising food, antagonistic and snarling, although the vessel,
in all probability, contains ample repast for both.
On the following day we departed from Bakimaran before dawn, and
camped at Kaléloua in the afternoon. On the way we passed from
the barren belt into fairly thick bush country, wherein no native
habitations were seen until we reached our destination. The country
now contained some big game. Red-fronted Gazelles were numerous, and
were observed, usually, singly or in pairs, and I had no difficulty
in shooting sufficient meat for my natives and the headmen of
Kaléloua. Also one small band of giraffe were observed, but not
disturbed, much to the disappointment of my natives, who were most
anxious that I should kill those Rakuma-n-daji (Camels of the bush),
which is the quaint Hausa name for those odd-shaped animals.
On the third day, which was a Sunday, we travelled to Dambiri.
During the early part of the day we continued to pass through the
bush belt we had entered on the previous day, but midway on the
journey, after about 20 miles of bush country lay behind, this gave
place again to open plains of sand and dry grass, which continued
to Dambiri, and beyond as far as eye could see. In contour the
open landscape was gently rolling, without any sharp rise, and not
unlike the plain we had passed in leaving Zinder, except in the
ever-growing supremacy of sand and solitude.
The growing poverty of the land is reflected in the natives and
their habitations: the village of Dambiri, like the few others we
had passed since leaving Zinder, was small, and the grass dwellings
and yard fences built with less neatness and thoroughness than
further south, and there was much that was unkempt and uncared for
in the general aspect of the place, while the natives themselves
were poor and raggedly clad. It is curious to note how surely the
gradual change from fertile land to desert land is insistent of
a corresponding falling off in the quantity and quality of the
Hausaland natives, until they reach the very lowest ebb on the
shores of the desert, and cease to venture farther; while another
and vastly different race, the nomad Tuaregs, take up the duel of
existence against nature in the great barren sea-like wastes beyond.
Dambiri, the designation of the village, is not an unpleasant
Hausa name in quality of sound, but one gets rather a set-back
if inquisitive enough to inquire into the literal English
translation, for the meaning of the word is, “a bush cat with a
bad smell”—which, I take it, rather pointedly has reference to
the Civet Cat.
Once a week, on a set day, it is the custom of each village to hold
market; and market-day constitutes the most important occasion
in the routine of native life, for all are born traders, even in
this impoverished territory of small productiveness, and outlying
natives and the inhabitants of other villages travel eagerly, often
long distances, with their quota of humble produce, to swell the
concourse. Sunday was the day of market at Dambiri, so that there
was unwonted stir about the place when we arrived, and much sound
of tom-toms. I will not go into details of market-day at Dambiri,
for the wares and proceedings are similar to those described at Kano;
but I will make mention of the tom-tom music.
Those drum-beats which emanate so persistently from the village,
and which sound so monotonous and aimless to the European stranger,
have in reality a definite purpose to the initiated, for they are
in fact declaring urgent news that is intended to reach the ears
of all, something after the manner of the old-fashioned town-crier
in our own country, who goes forth with a hand-bell to make quaint
public proclamations. Here are a few examples selected out of many:
a certain rattan, or scale of beats, means that a beast (ox, sheep,
or goat) is about to be killed, and that those who want fresh
meat should hasten to purchase it before the excessive heat of the
climate works destruction upon it; another sound denotes that meat
is being sold at the market-place—not at the slaughter-place;
others call the population to foregather before the King’s
dwelling, or to a wedding, or to feast; and yet another warns
the people of the approach of a Saraki (local king) or a Amiru
(emir or prince). In the examples which I have given, it will
be seen that there is some need of urgency in the proclamation;
and that is usually the case. Furthermore, the drum-beats of the
tom-tom travel much farther than the human voice, and as it is often
desired to reach the ears of the people at toil in the fields as
well as those within the village, the inhabitants show cuteness in
thus using their favourite instrument of music (?) for the duties
of the day as well as for pleasure.
On the fourth day we journeyed throughout across strange wide plains
of grass and sand, where no trees grow and but few scattered dwarf
bushes, and camped at Mazia, which has an altitude of 1,700 ft.,
so that a decided ascent has set in since leaving Dambiri (1,500
ft.). In fact, on reaching Tanout next day, the highest altitude
thus far encountered was recorded, namely, 1,800 ft., while a little
further north, above Guinea Valley, the continuation of the same
height of land recorded 1,900 ft., which is the highest point noted
anywhere on my route from Kano to Agades.
During the late afternoon, at Mazia, I shot two Dorcas Gazelles
and one great Arab Bustard to add to our scant supply of food. The
dainty little Dorcas Gazelles are creatures that frequent the open
plains and thin scrub, so that they too furnished evidence that we
were now on the shores of the desert.
Water is not plentiful nor pure at Mazia: in fact, at this season
(I am writing at the end of February), after four or five months
have passed without rainfall, many wells reach a very low ebb,
and pure water was a luxury enjoyed only at Zinder. Elsewhere it
was always much discoloured with vegetable matter, and decaying
timber props and soil; but it is precious enough even so, for it
means no less than life to man and beast in this country of ravenous
sunlight and terrifying dryness.
True to schedule, my caravan completed the 85-mile journey from
Zinder to Tanout in the calculated time, and weary, dust-covered
men and beasts camped at the Fort on the fifth day. On the way the
country continued open and practically bushless, and little changed
from that of the previous day, until the caravan drew near to Tanout,
when three small hills became visible in the direction we were
heading, while many of the low ridges among the sand-dunes were now
strewn with dark glazed and rounded stones and pebbles, which gave to
them a curious and striking resemblance, when viewed from a distance,
to the colour of heather-hills at home in winter-time; also, in the
low ground in the widely sweeping hollows between the rounded rises,
there were often large circular or oval, basin-like, sand-coloured
mud-flats, which, no doubt, hold lakes of water in the flood-rains
of a good year (during some years very little rain falls in the
wet season, which, roughly, is July and August in this territory,
while there are occasions when the country is cruelly handicapped
by two or three successive years of very slight rainfall), but
which now appear to the eye as dry and smooth as a concrete area,
and devoid of a single blade of grass or shrub or boulder—a
cleanliness quite remarkable where no human hand has given aid.
At this season of the year Tanout is surrounded by dreadfully bare
country, and one can scarcely conceive that the dead wastes of sand
of the present time are, at another season, cultivated and green
with the tall luxuriant growth of millet, guinea-corn, and maize;
nevertheless, such is the case. The neighbourhood of Tanout is a
renowned granary in the western Sudan, and it is to this territory
that the Tuaregs of Aïr, who for lack of rain grow very little in
their own country, send their caravans to barter for or purchase
the grains which I have named above, which are the staple foods
they live upon. This in some cases entails a journey of 170 miles
(from Agades), and in others as much as 300 miles (from Timia, the
furthest north inhabited village in Aïr to-day), which figures
should be doubled if one wishes to calculate the full distance,
outward and homeward, that caravans travel before they can bring
food to the doors of their people.
The caravan track from the south runs straight into Tanout fort,
which therefore acts as a barrier across the route, where all who
pass may be questioned as to their identity and business—which is,
in fact, a duty performed at this place, where a check is desired
for military reasons on all native comings and goings. The fort,
which stands facing south on a slight rise, is small; a square
enclosure within high thick mud walls, containing a few humble
hutments set back against the main structure and facing into
the small open barrack square, which serve as quarters for the
Europeans and magazines for military stores. The coloured troops
are camped outside in a group of grass-thatched huts just west of
the fort walls, where a straight avenue, planted with young trees
that hesitate to take root in the ungracious soil, leads down to
the native village, which lies in a dip about a quarter of a mile
to the west. The native village is poorly constructed and primitive,
much like the others in the region, even though this is the capital
of Damergou. At the time of my visit there was one European officer
and three N.C.O.s at the fort in command of the coloured troops;
and a more isolated life than theirs could not well be imagined.
The native population in 1920 within the region of Damergou, of
which Tanout is the capital, is detailed as follows:
Hausa 22,929
Beri-Beri 3,500
Tuareg 2,740
Fulani 370
------
Total Population 29,539
------
I also made some interesting notes with regard to the camels
in this region and the alarming decline which has recently taken
place—alarming because transport and existence in the country are
so much dependent on those animals. It is stated that there were
15,000 camels in Damergou previous to the rising of 1916 in Aïr,
whereas now there remain but 2,800—2,200 the property of Tuaregs,
and 600 belonging to Beri-Beri. The chief reason of this great
loss of animals appears to lie in the fact that at the time of the
rising— which, I am told, had strong religious influence behind
it, of the Senussi persuasion, as well as cunning instigation from
Constantinople, where the Turks were already the sworn enemies of
France in Europe—nearly all the Tuareg natives hastened north
to join the rebel leader, Kaossen, taking with them their camels;
and few of those camels ever returned. If one considers that a
female camel has but one young at a birth, and that many years are
required to rear camels to maturity, it will be seen that the loss
is very serious, since it can hardly be replaced—unless animals
were imported wholesale, which, I fancy, is an impossibility.
[Illustration: BERI-BERI BUSHMEN, DAMERGOU.]
[Illustration: TANOUT VILLAGE.]
In the following two days I completed the journey to my destination
at Takoukout, which is merely the native name of a shallow valley,
wherein a few nomad Tuaregs, who live in gipsy-like families,
herding their cattle and goats and roaming from place to place in
the virgin bush, have excavated numerous pit-like wells to obtain
sufficient water for themselves and their stock.
There are no native villages north of Tanout— none until Agades
is reached, 169 miles away, at the southern end of the mountains
of Aïr.
There is no water anywhere between Tanout and Takoukout at this
season, so, before setting out, one camel was loaded with goat-skins
of water sufficient to serve for the journey.
The country north of Tanout is very irregular, with much of the
ground surface strewn with pebbles and bare of vegetation, while some
strange and picturesque escarpments were passed before descending
into Guinea Valley, which is about 300 ft. below the level of the
high land on which Tanout is situated. In Guinea Valley, 13 miles
north of Tanout, the barren belt, which had first been entered beyond
Kaléloua at a point 50 miles back, is left behind, and in the low
ground there is now more bush-growth, which continues to Takoukout,
and beyond to the very edge of the desert-sea.
After a pleasant cool journey by moonlight, my caravan reached
Takoukout on the second morning after my departure from Tanout;
whereupon I prepared to make a permanent encampment whence to do
some hunting, for in this last belt of bush before the desert is
entered there is much game reported, and, what concerned me most,
ostriches! Lord Rothschild was particularly anxious to secure
specimens of those birds from this isolated region.