On Tour
Exactly a month after our arrival, we set forth on our first tour in the
‘bush.’ The object of our journey was the delimitation of the Northern
Nigeria-Lagos boundary, from Aiede to Owo, and at the former place we
were to meet the Lagos Travelling Commissioner.
We made our preparations mostly by the light of our Kashmir camping
experience, for, beyond generalities, none of my friends in Lokoja—with
the best will in the world—could help me very much, never yet having had
such a problem to tackle! Indeed, I think, had they advised me frankly,
they would have said, ‘Don’t go!’ and they were quite wise and kind
enough to refrain from saying that!
So, on the 28th of May, we rode leisurely out of Lokoja, about four
o’clock, having decided on a short march for the first day—a very sound
precaution, on which we have acted ever since. We jogged down to the Mimi
River, on the far side of which our camp was arranged, the carriers and
servants having been sent on ahead, so that everything was ready for us
in the little ‘rest-house’ (a thatched shelter, innocent of walls), hot
baths announced, and dinner preparing.
Things were not exactly ship-shape that night—they never are at a first
halt—and the sandflies and mosquitoes gave us a bad time; but, all the
same, we were _very_ happy at being out in camp, with a good six weeks
before us, to be crammed with novel experiences, new flowers, new birds,
new butterflies to discover, heaps to learn about everything, and no
drawbacks, saving a little physical discomfort, a comparatively trifling
matter to energetic inquisitive folks like ourselves.
‘A rare holiday’ we said, and so it proved itself, amply!
The next morning we were off early, and rode along through lovely
park-like country, wide stretches of grass, picturesquely dotted with
clumps of palms and light bushes, crossed by streams the courses of
which are marked by a broad band of thick luxuriant foliage—like a dark
green ribbon lying across the sunny plain of grass. I made delighted
acquaintance with the Gloriosa Superba lily, not the magnificent apricot
yellow climbing variety, but a more delicately regal one, with glowing
crimson petals edged with gold, standing up among the grass, slender,
tall and graceful. That night we had heavy rain, but our rest-house,
mercifully, was watertight and very cosy, and we smiled contentedly, and
promised ourselves a cool march for the morrow. And so we had:—it was a
perfect day full of joyful discoveries, climbing beside the narrow path,
like a sheet of flame, was _Mussaenda Elegans_ in full bloom, two furry
grey monkeys sitting solemnly on a rock, birds of wonderful blue, crimson
and yellow, some scarcely larger than beetles, a tiny village tucked
away at the foot of a little round hill, and, later, when we climbed
the Shokko-Shokko hill, great clumps of pure white lilies, the bulbs of
which were the size of a man’s head, as I discovered, when, afterwards,
I bore one back in triumph to Lokoja. At Shokko-Shokko we celebrated my
birthday with a dinner-party of two, and I cannot recall a cheerier or
more light-hearted birthday in my life!
The following day, I had my first view of forest country: I had listened
so often to my husband’s descriptions of the Ashanti forests and their
dreary monotony, and I was ready to cry out to him that it was, after
all, the loveliest thing in the world—though, later on, I quite came
round to his opinion!
It is a rather specially beautiful piece of forest round Oduapi; the
sunshine filters down pleasantly through the branches of huge trees and
swinging creepers, on the thick undergrowth of bushes and ferns; there
are acres and acres of pineapples, the smell of them rather overpowering,
for they are such prickly souls that the natives gather only those which
grow close to the path, while the rest rot in their hundreds; but the
sickening scent attracts perfectly splendid butterflies—positive _coveys_
of them, of all shapes, sizes and colours.
We passed a tiny farm, belonging to an ex-soldier, a Hausa; he and his
family work the little homestead, and the acres increase year by year,
I am glad to say! On this first visit he and his wife came out to greet
us, and, with the simplest kindly hospitality, offered us of their
best—kola-nuts and wild honey, both of which I ate on the spot, to their
great delight. The honey was rather a problem, on a fidgety pony, with a
twig for a fork!
The Chief of Oduapi, a most cheery old gentleman, with a loud and jovial
laugh, came out to meet us, accompanied by his ‘suite,’ and I tried hard
not to laugh—the caparisoned steeds were so quaint, and still more so
their riders, picturesque in flowing gowns, made of velvet, originally
of loud gaudy colours, but softened by time and exposure to perfectly
artistic tones. Oduapi’s gown is always a delight to me, the blue has
become the blue of Gobelin, and the green the softest of sage tints.
Their dignity was sadly impaired by the head-dress of huge flapping straw
Hausa hats, with leather strings—now perching rakishly, now pressed down,
granny-wise, now flapping wildly half-way down the rider’s back, as his
pony plunged and reared.
[Illustration: ‘KUKA’ (BAOBAB) TREES. (p. 14)]
[Illustration: A HAUSA BEAUTY. (p. 19)]
The rest-house at Oduapi is placed in a clearing in the forest—a lovely
spot, with troops of little grey monkeys chattering and swinging in
the trees, the undergrowth alive with birds and butterflies, and an
occasional ‘ough, ough,’ betraying the whereabouts of the larger
dog-faced monkeys, who, however, did not show themselves, though they
seemed to resent our intrusion.
That night, I woke suddenly, listening intently, to hear, for the first
time, the roar of a lion. It was a very awe-inspiring sound, echoing
again and again in the depths of the silent forest, followed by a deep
hoarse cough, and made one, for the moment, consider our thatched shelter
somewhat inadequate! However, we had a fire burning outside, and,
remembering the saying that no lion will tackle a mosquito curtain (and,
further, being _very_ sleepy!), I merely took the precaution of lifting
Timmie, our Irish terrier, on to my bed, and slept placidly till dawn.
After a hot march, we reached Kabba, and though we were most kindly
received by the officer commanding the detachment there we found the
ruinous tumble-down ‘fort’ so uncomfortable that we were glad to leave
again. Afterwards, I saw a good deal more of Kabba, and learnt to love
it, and think it far the most beautiful spot I have seen in Northern
Nigeria. At Lukpa, where the village nestles away among the trees, and
the rest-house is set on a hill with magnificent views all round, an
incident occurred which is worth describing in detail, for it ‘gives one
furiously to think’!
‘The Sahib’—as, from ineradicable Indian habit I still commonly call my
husband—had gone out at sunset, after deer, and, during his absence,
the entire population of the village came streaming up the hill to the
rest-house, all talking loudly and at once, and evidently under the
influence of strong excitement. I was, by that time, well accustomed to
creating a sensation wherever I appeared, no white woman having been seen
previously; but these people struck me as having more than salutations
in their minds and on their clamouring tongues. I had been six weeks in
the country, my knowledge of Hausa was confined to salutations and a
few simple words, so I summoned our interpreter to help me to entertain
my visitors. They chattered, shouted and gesticulated at ‘Paul,’ who
eventually explained to me, smilingly, that they had never seen a white
woman before, and were anxious to offer me a personal welcome. I nodded
and smiled in high gratification, thanked them cordially, and, when I
had exhausted my small stock of polite salutations, told the interpreter
to give them leave to go home. This they did, somewhat reluctantly,
I thought; but after describing the interview with some amusement to
the Sahib, I dismissed the matter from my mind. Six weeks later we
passed through Lukpa again, on our way back to Lokoja, and found it
_deserted_—not a man, woman or child, not a goat, not a fowl—all gone,
obviously fled into the bush! I felt distinctly hurt at this churlish
behaviour on the part of my late admirers, and learnt, long afterwards,
that, on our first visit, our precious interpreter and others of our
party had _seized and killed every goat and fowl in the village_! The
wretched owners had rushed up to the rest-house to complain and implore
protection, and all they got was: ‘Thank you! Thank you! Yes, that’s all
right! You can go home now!’ I am not ashamed to confess that I _cried_
when I made that discovery! The lesson, however, went home to us both,
and drove us to work ceaselessly at the Hausa language, knowing there
could be no security for ourselves, or justice for the people, until we
could be independent of dishonest interpretation.
At Ekiurin, we pitched our tent under a great shady tree in the centre of
the village, and strolled about in the cool of the evening, finding large
plantations of scarlet and yellow Cannas, the seeds of which are pierced
and threaded into Mahomedan rosaries. As a great mark of confidence, I
was shown the interior of the ‘Ju-ju house,’ and was as disappointed as
one usually is at the unravelling of a mystery! The shrine consisted of
a dark, empty room, swept very clean, the walls were roughly coloured
red, and on one was drawn an unshapely, meaningless figure, executed,
apparently, in white chalk. In the verandah, another reddened wall
was decorated with similar designs, and in a prominent place was the
sacrificial stone, black and roughly carved. In a niche in the wall
stood a carved wooden figure, some eighteen inches high, hideous and
much blackened with exposure and nasty gory smears, caused, however, by
nothing less innocent than the blood of an occasional fowl.
And so on to Aiede—the country alternating between grass-land and forest.
I found precious trophies in the shape of terrestrial orchids, varying
in hue from palest mauve to deepest purple, with delicate reddish-brown
stems, and growing about three feet high. There were yellow ones and
some were green, all most wonderfully striped, spotted and splashed with
contrasting colours.
Very prominent features of the Nigerian landscape are the red ant
hills, sometimes attaining a great height, and most fantastic in shape
and appearance. They remind me of a story told of a gallant officer,
more zealous than comprehending, who was engaged in quelling a petty
disturbance in West Africa. This hero, spying one of these queer-looking
clay erections, took it to be a ‘heathen fetish,’ and, plunging his sword
through and through the imaginary idol, exclaimed to the astonished
villagers and his troops: ‘Thus does the Great White Queen destroy the
Black Man’s Ju-ju!’ The villagers, of course, thought him mad, but were
too polite to say so, and the native soldiers must have smiled!
At one small village I created a painful impression, apparently; the
headmen, who came to the usual interview, lay on the ground, their heads
wrapped tightly in their gowns, and groaned aloud, in abject fear, and
no persuasion could induce them to speak or look up till I retired from
the scene! The scare subsided happily, before we left, and they recorded
their opinion that I had come straight from Heaven, and besought me not
to permit it to rain for a day or two. I could but hope for the best, and
felt relieved when we got away without a shower!
The roads, or rather tracks, were terribly bad going when rain caught
us on the march; we crossed mountains, stumbling along among masses of
rock, loose boulders and slippery clay, on foot, of course, riding being
out of the question, and our hearts ached for our plucky little ponies,
labouring and clambering up—the descent in each case being worse and more
dangerous. They were indeed ‘as active as monkeys and as clever as cats.’
On the return journey we tied putties on their knees to save them in case
of a slip, and felt much happier.
Aiede is a straggling, rather dilapidated Yoruba town; it looked
pretty, as there is any amount of vegetation, bright sunshine and cool
shade, but the prevailing smells are atrocious, and the people most
unattractive. They are Yorubas, but appear to be exceptionally lazy
and idle, ignorant and fetish-ridden. Strictly ‘on the quiet,’ I was
taken to see the Ju-ju stone, hidden away inside a circular enclosure:
a large rock against which was propped a roughly carved wooden image,
very ugly, smeared all over with blood, feathers, etc., as was also the
ground. I was told that a sacrifice (of a goat or a fowl) is made there
every morning, so that the image may be ‘watered with blood’; there were
indications of special oblations having been made—possibly on our account!
A compound was pointed out to me as the dwelling of their ‘Ju-ju woman,’
described as ‘white,’ held by the Aiede folks in great reverence; many
sacrifices of dogs are made to her, as she has a particular fancy for
eating them! My Irish terrier ran fearlessly in, and, lest he should get
his throat cut, I rushed in after him, and came face to face with the
old lady. She was a loathsome object, an albino negress, with snow-white
hair, skin of a horrible blanched colour, and a terrible pair of red
eyes. Her astonishment at the sight of me was quite ludicrous; she may
have considered me as a possible rival, about to set up in her line of
business! The Lagos Travelling Commissioner, who we met at Aiede, seemed
to have grave suspicions of the people there in the matter of twin-murder
and human sacrifices—they certainly looked capable of both.
Part of the road from Aiede to Alashigidi was declared impassable for the
ponies, so we sent them round by a longer road and did the eight miles on
foot. It was rather a pleasant variety, and included some rough climbing,
after which I was made acquainted with palm wine; it was icy cold and
quite fresh, and seemed to us delicious, but I suppose we were very
thirsty, for it has never seemed so good, to me, since.
After leaving Alashigidi, the country was dense forest, damp, gloomy and
utterly monotonous, only compensated for by the magnificent butterflies.
We succeeded in capturing a good many, especially of a kind that was, at
that time, new to me—a truly beautiful person, with glorious colouring,
the wings quite iridescent, appearing in one light, pale green, in
another deep glowing purple, in another shimmering white, with a general
effect of mother-of-pearl. Along the banks of the Osé River a rough path
was blazed, to mark the boundary line, and we made an expedition along it
on foot. It was a very interesting experience, penetrating this silent
forest, where no human being had passed before, and delightful to notice
how utterly fearless were the birds and butterflies, scarcely moving
at our approach. The men who hacked out the path for us had immense
difficulty in inducing a large python to ‘move on’—he had to be actually
burnt out before he would remove himself! The river itself was very
lovely, cool and silent in deepest shade, winding noiselessly through the
forest. Our objective was Iporo, a little standing camp, composed of much
dilapidated grass huts in a clearing, on the banks of a stream, really
tinkling and purling exactly like a Scotch burn, and which I flew to
sketch on the spot!
The following morning we started back on our long return journey, passing
from Alashigidi to Erun, where we spent what should have been Coronation
Day. On the strength of this, we decided to hold a _durbar_ of our own,
congratulating ourselves on being far from the crowded streets of London,
and all unconscious of the tragic shadow then hanging over England, while
the King lay dangerously ill.
A number of Chiefs came in from the surrounding villages, to pay their
respects, all arrayed in their bravest attire, and a very gaudy crowd
they were! Erun himself was arrayed in a garment composed of stripes of
crimson and gold plush, embroidered on the breast with gold and sequins;
over this was worn a long mantle of silver grey plush—it made my heart
ache to see its delicate folds trailing in the dust! On his head was a
comical high hat, shaped like a Bishop’s mitre, made entirely of white
and coloured beads; from it, all round, hung a long, thick fringe
of beads, thoroughly concealing his face. This original costume was
completed by a necklace of coral, huge slippers, also of bead-work, and a
staff completely covered with beads in intricate patterns, surmounted by
a bead dicky-bird!
He sat, with immense dignity, under a crimson and gold State umbrella,
with the other Chiefs arranged in a semicircle, strictly according to
precedence, making a brilliant splash of colour with their robes of blue,
purple and green velvet and brocade.
While my husband explained carefully to them why the day had a special
significance for us all, and described what we imagined to be going on at
Westminster, I whiled away the time by making a sketch of the old Chief,
and took some photographs, but found our guests most fidgety folks to
get into a group—at the critical moment some one was sure to get up and
stroll away, or lean across to make a remark to his neighbour!
In the evening, rather to our dismay, they all turned up again, singly
this time, and gave us a good deal of useful information. Before each
other they would say nothing, this being a matter of etiquette, but, in
private, were brimful of troubles, complaints and general talk.
From Erun we made our way back to Kabba, coming in for quantities of
rain, but usually at night, so we had little real inconvenience from
it, except in the matter of fording swollen streams. On one of these
occasions, crawling cautiously into the river, the ponies suddenly
dropped out of their depth, and were obliged to swim for it. It was
decidedly uncomfortable for ponies and riders, but the good little souls
made a valiant struggle against the rushing current, and landed us safe,
though wet, on the far side. The worst part of that business was the
struggle to get off my dripping boots!
We were delighted to leave the stuffy forest behind, and find ourselves
back in the fresh air and breezes of Kabba. It was an uneventful march,
my chief concern the catching of butterflies. We got one or two fine
“Charaxes,” and greatly exercised ourselves over the moths that thronged
the sweet-scented blossoms of the paw-paw trees at night.
We got back to Lokoja about the middle of July, having thoroughly enjoyed
our _trek_, and, myself, feeling very pleased with my initiation into the
methods of African travel.