TIMBUCTOO
THE MYSTERIOUS
BY
FELIX DUBOIS
Translated from the French by
DIANA WHITE
With One hundred and fifty-three Illustrations from
Photographs and Drawings made on the spot
and Eleven Maps and Plans
[Illustration]
LONDON
WILLIAM HEINEMANN
1897
_All rights reserved_
CONTENTS
I FROM PARIS TO THE NIGER, 1
II THE NIGER, 18
III THE VALLEY OF THE NIGER, 40
IV THE TOWNS OF THE NIGER, 56
V JENNE, 80
VI THE SONGHOIS, 89
VII THE MOORS IN THE SUDAN, 122
VIII JENNE--YESTERDAY AND TO-DAY, 143
IX FROM JENNE TO TIMBUCTOO, 189
X TIMBUCTOO, 208
XI TIMBUCTOO ACROSS THE CENTURIES, 223
XII THE COMMERCE AND LIFE OF TIMBUCTOO, 250
XIII THE UNIVERSITY OF SANKORÉ, 275
XIV POLITICS AND LITERATURE, 297
XV EUROPE AND TIMBUCTOO, 321
XVI THE FRENCH CONQUEST, 352
INDEX, 373
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
A Train in the Sudan: Native Passengers, 3
A Railway Station, 4
On the Road: Dioulas Halting, 10
On the Road: Europeans Travelling, 11
A Commissariat Transport, 12
The Commissariat: in Fort Bammaku, 13
Bammaku, 16
The Niger at Koulikoro, 17
A Fishing-Village on the Banks of the Niger, 19
Scene on the Niger, 20
My Yacht, 24
On the Banks of the Niger: The Venus
Anadiomenes, 25
The Military Salute, 26
Pasture on the Shores of the Niger, 27
The Shores of Lake Debo at Gourao: Gunboat
Station, 29
Mount St. Charles, at the Entrance to Lake
Debo, 30
Mount St. Henri, 31
Oyster-Beds at Segu, 32
Through the Sea of Grass, 33
The Ferry-Boat, 35
Going Ashore in the Evening, 37
The Valley of the Niger’s Source, 43
The Tembi in the Sacred Wood, 46
A Waterfall in the Valley of the Niger’s
Source, 48
‘Prepare to receive Cavalry,’ 56
The Rocky Barrier at Sotouba, 61
A Workshop on the Banks of the Niger, 62
Cotton in the Sudanese Markets, 64
Weavers on the Banks of the Niger, 66
Segu, 67
Segu: The Ancient Palace of Ahmadou transformed
into a Fort (Exterior), 68
The Fort of Segu: View of the Interior, 69
Arrival of the Courier: Segu, 70
Postal Canoe on the Niger, 71
Bearer of an Urgent Message, 72
Entrance to Mademba’s Palace, 73
A Courtyard in Mademba’s Palace, 74
Fama Mademba, 75
Sansanding: Corner of the Market, 77
‘The Bosos in the bow abruptly ceased plying
their bamboo poles,’ 79
Jenne, 80-81
Boats on the Niger, 82
Jenne: A Corner of the Town, 83
House in Jenne, 84
A Street in Jenne, 85
House in Jenne, 86
A Street in Jenne, 87
A Passenger on the River, 88
Houses in Jenne, 92
Jenne: A Corner of the Town, 101
Jenne: The Fishing Port, 105
A House in Jenne, 108
View of Jenne, 111
A Corner in Jenne, 119
Native Child, 121
A Street in Jenne, 132
Jenne, 134
Jenne, 139
A Square in Jenne, 142
Brick-making, 149
House in Jenne, 151
The Old Mosque restored, 157
The Ruins of the Old Mosque, 161
The Cemetery in the midst of the Ruins, 162
View of the Interior of Jenne and the Old
Mosque, 164
Building a Large Boat, 167
Jenne: A Corner of the Quay, 169
The Chief of the Town of Jenne, 173
Market in the Streets, 174
Precincts of the Dwellings of the Great
Merchants, 175
The Commercial Harbour, 176
Shops of Itinerant Merchants, 177
Women selling in the Streets, 178
The Great Market of Jenne, 179
The Money-Changer, 180
The Butcher, 181
Corner of the Market, 182
Jenne: The Hairdresser, 183
Jenne: The Barber, 185
A Commercial Fleet upon the Niger, 190
On the Niger, 192
The Fort of El Oual Hadj, 194
The Arrival at Kabara, 197
The Quays of Kabara, 198
Kabara: The Graves of the Aube Expedition, 199
On the Quays of Kabara, 200
Scene at Kabara, 201
The Fort of Kabara, 202
The Convoy, 203
The Dwarf Forest, 204
Fording the Stream on the way to Timbuctoo, 205
‘Our’ Oumaira,’ 206
Inscription on Cross, 207
Distant View of Timbuctoo, 208-209
A Street at the Entrance to the Town, 210
Timbuctoo: The Great Market, 212
A Large House, 214
The Straw Huts, with Straw Enclosures, 215
Timbuctoo: A Street, 216
Timbuctoo: A Corner of the Town, 217
My Courtyard at Timbuctoo, 220
Scene in Timbuctoo, 221
Moors in the Neighbourhood of Timbuctoo, 224
Moorish Women, 225
Moorish Encampment, 226
School in a Moorish Encampment, 227
Moorish Flocks in the Neighbourhood of
Timbuctoo, 228
Touareg with ‘Nicab’ and ‘Litham,’ 229
Touaregs and their Flocks, 230
A Pool at the Gates of Timbuctoo, 233
Panorama of Timbuctoo, 240-241
‘A Veiled Man in Sombre Garments,’ 242
A Thoroughfare in Timbuctoo, 245
Sudanese wearing the ‘Dissa,’ 247
Timbuctoo: A Corner of the Town, 248
A Caravan, 250-251
A Block of Salt, 253
A Salt Merchant, 254
Retailing Salt, 255
Caravan, 256
The Port of Timbuctoo, 258
Halt of a Caravan, 259
Unloading Camels, 260
The Gardens of Timbuctoo, 262
Traders from the Country of Mossi, 264
Street in the Arabian Quarter, 265
Gold Merchants, 267
A Lady of Timbuctoo, 271
A Bakehouse in the Street, 273
Musician, 274
The Mosque of Sankoré, 279
The Tombs Surrounding Timbuctoo, 284
Tomb of a Saint, 286
A School at Jenne, 290
A School in the Street, 291
A Schoolmaster, 293
A Sewing-School in the Sudan, 296
The Grand Mosque of Timbuctoo, 300
Behind the Mosque of Sankoré, 305
Oratory of Sidi Yaia, 311
A Sudanese Scene: A Reading in the Street, 317
Cross raised to one of the Companions of Mungo
Park, 324
Laing’s House, 326
Caillié’s House, 335
Barth’s House, 344
View taken from the Terrace of Barth’s House, 347
Tail-piece, 351
General View of Fort Bonnier, 356
Entrance to Fort Bonnier, 361
Fort Philippe, 363
Colonel Bonnier’s Tomb at Timbuctoo, 367
A House: Typical of Timbuctoo Restored, 369
The Policeman at Timbuctoo, 370
MAPS AND PLANS
The Sources of the Niger Tembi, 44
Map of the Nigerian Regions as far as Timbuctoo, 49
The Region of the Three Deltas, 52
Map of the Songhoi Emigration, 94
The Early Songhoi Empire, 98
The Songhoi Organisation, 113
Map of Jenneri, 144
The Island and Town of Jenne, 146
Plan of the Old Mosque, 155
Timbuctoo and Kabara, showing Inundations, 196
Plan of Timbuctoo, 341
CHAPTER I
FROM PARIS TO THE NIGER
The journey from Paris to the Niger is scarcely so simple as that from
Nice to Algeria.
Having fallen asleep in a railway carriage on your departure from
Paris, you awake six weeks later on a canoe-barge upon the Niger.
The steamer lands you at the entrance to the Senegal, in a country
which has belonged to France for centuries, and yet is only known to
the general public by its thermometrical mention, inscribed between
‘_bains ordinaires_’ and ‘_culture des vers à soie_’ at 40° centigrade
as ‘the temperature of Senegal.’ These rudimentary notions are not
even accurate. Will you believe that for months there you wear your
greatcoat morning and evening, the mean temperature registered at the
local observatory being 24°, not 40°?
From Dakar (the port of Senegal, and the finest harbour on the west
coast of Africa) you go by train to St. Louis, the capital of the
colony. Greeting to those one hundred and seventy odd miles of iron
road! They are the first laid by Europeans in Negraic Africa, and date
from 1882. Civilisation has stamped other of its signs upon these
virgin soils. In St. Louis and at Rufisk (an important commercial
town in Dakar Bay) you find the streets lighted by electricity; and
universal suffrage is vigorously handled under the form of legislative
elections, municipalities, and general elections. Betting and
horse-racing are treated with equal vigour.
A small service of steamers starts regularly twice a week from
the quays of St. Louis for the Sudan. The management on board is
comfortable and dear; and you play poker in the saloon just as on any
big self-respecting steamer. For eight days you watch the banks of the
Senegal monotonously unfold; then comes the morning when you moor on
a broken bank at the foot of a huge tree. This is Kayes, the port and
actual capital of the Sudan.
A pestilential corner, and the solution of the following difficult
problem: How to be at the same time a town in the middle of a swamp
and a swamp in the middle of a town. This anomalous method of building
a town makes you think for a moment that you have arrived at the end
of the world, but you recover your self-possession on seeing the
telegraph wires crossing the street and on hearing the whistle of the
locomotives. A railway in fact continues the path from the Senegal to
the Niger, and will one day carry the traveller right up to Bammaku so
easily that we shall be able to reckon it a fortnight from Paris to the
Niger.
At present the railway only extends 108 of the 341 miles that separate
Kayes from Bammaku. For the first 78 miles its track (reduced to a
three-foot way as are certain local lines in France) is normal and open
to commercial traffic. Its administration and maintenance are in the
hands of military engineers, and the trains arrive at both ends with
remarkable punctuality. Its only mistake is in stopping at Bafoulaba,
where the Bafing and the Bakoy unite to form the Senegal. After that
you have to content yourself, for the present, with a décauville for
the 130 miles to Dioubaba.
[Illustration: A TRAIN IN THE SUDAN: NATIVE PASSENGERS]
I found my caravan, which had gone on in front, awaiting me at
Dioubaba. I picked up luggage, porters, and horse there, and a curious
adventure in addition. I had stumbled upon a white horse in the early
part of my journey. I say stumbled, for I should assuredly never have
bought such a thing; the colonial administration had kindly placed it
at my disposal. A white horse! What a predicament! Bad luck, as every
one knows, bad luck for the rest of the journey! How could I avert such
an evil omen? Providence obligingly came to my rescue by one of those
secret ways which are His.
[Illustration: A RAILWAY STATION]
I luckily noticed at Kayes that my saddle-cloth was missing, and I
tried all the shops (not a long business) without being able to find
another. In these countries the only thing you can find that you want
or can rely upon is--yourself. I had to fall back upon one of those
blankets they sell to the negro, and chose one that was cheap and red,
but soft to the horse’s back. He, the horse, had come by luggage-van as
far as Bafoulaba, but as the décauville was unable to carry him further
in that manner, I sent him on by road to Dioubaba, whilst I made use
of the little railway. It is just as well to avoid twenty-eight miles
of road on horseback when you have some hundreds in prospect. It was
night when the miniature train entered the leafy vault at Dioubaba,
that serves as station and waiting-room. My people were all asleep, and
my horse peacefully grazing. Nothing abnormal there, apparently. But
at starting next morning, as I was about to bestride my mount for the
first time, what did I see?--A scarlet horse! Imagine my joy! It was
evidently the finger of God that had thus transformed my steed,--aided
by heat, perspiration, and the negro blanket. Behold me now, full of
confidence for the rest of my journey.
The adventure did not end here, for in spite of repeated groomings and
washings it proved impossible to restore my charger to his original
colour. The dye, detestable for blankets, is admirable for horses. My
animal was the wonder of the natives of all the villages we passed
through. ‘Ah! these white men,’ they said, ‘they can even make scarlet
horses!’
Enough of the horse! Let us now review my equipment. First among them
is my _valet-de-chambre_, butler, etc., etc., for numerous functions
accumulate in the Sudan under the modest title of ‘_garçon_.’ He is a
black, thick-lipped fellow, with a European straw hat, a white vest
with shiny leather buttons, short breeches with narrow blue-and-white
stripes, naked legs, and feet ditto. One of the survivors of the
Bonnier affair, in which he figured under the title of ‘Captain
Nigote’s servant.’ His master was the solitary officer who escaped
from the Touaregs, only to die shortly after my arrival. Splendid
testimonials. The doctor says he is ‘an excellent sick-nurse.’ I
immediately engage him upon that, with the idea that if I leave my
bones in the desert it will at least be with the conviction that they
have been well cared for. To sum him up: he is a well-balanced person,
no chatterbox, but dignified, as becomes a person of note.
There is nothing tragic nor historical about my cook. He is my joy,
except in those deadly moments when I rage with despair. I engaged
him rather hurriedly. ‘Can you cook?’ ‘Oh yes!’ he replied, with
the assurance of every good nigger when questioned concerning his
capabilities. If I had said, ‘Can you paint like Raphael and Murillo?’
he would have answered ‘Oh yes,’ with equal conviction. In reality he
can whistle a few bars of the Marseillaise tolerably well, and can boil
water and eggs--hard. I do all the rest.
The third and last person of my establishment is the groom. A silent,
bearded fellow, with Semitic profile. He leads the horse up to me
when we start, holds the stirrup, and disappears for the rest of the
journey, reappearing at the end of it to hold the stirrup, and vanish
again--with the animal. Never a word says he to me, and never a word
say I to him. I do not even know his name: he is a riddle, an enigma.
It would not surprise me to learn that he is the nigger from Porte St.
Denis, though I have not yet heard the clock ticking in his stomach.
Around this trinity circle twenty-two natives, uniform as to rarity
of drapery, but very varied as to coiffure. Some have hair like
astrachan or door-mats; the heads of others are shaved as bare as a
lawyer’s chin; some have a tuft in the middle, others again rejoice in
a circular fringe like the beard of some old sea-dog. Scarcely less
variegated are the colours of their skins: treacle black, charcoal
black, dull prune, shiny prune, coffee colour, Seine colour--a whole
scale is well represented.
Place half a hundredweight of baskets and cases upon each head, and you
have a very complete sketch of the equipment necessary for travel in
the Sudan.
Having made use of various means of locomotion, since leaving Paris,
for accomplishing his journey with comfort and rapidity, the traveller
now finds himself face to face with the most primitive of all--the
road, I may add, the African road. That is to say, something vague,
that has nothing in common with its European prototype but the name;
something to which levelling, ballasting, a firm soil, and even bridges
are unknown. And it is only now that the soul of the African traveller
thrills and tastes of joy. Another life is beginning for him, the true
life, the only life--the life of the bush.
What makes this life so intoxicating to all who experience it, from
the officer straight from the military academy down to the private or
marine-artilleryman fresh from a village school; from the aristocrat of
royal descent to the professor of rhetoric? It captivates all alike;
the ministerial quill-driver become colonial official, the engineer,
the artist, and the man of commerce who superintends a factory.
Its charm cannot easily be explained to the sedentary; it escapes
analysis, being as subtle as it is penetrating.
Let me see. The food is indifferent, the water is indifferent, the
sleeping is indifferent, and your health is often in a precarious
state. Heat and fatigue are the only things superior in quality, and
yet your heart is filled to overflowing with contentment. As it can
hardly be their inconveniences that make the hours spent in the bush
so delightful, it must be the sensations that are grafted on them,
and the wonderful pictures accompanying them. It is the mingling of
the human with the free life of forests and plains that have existed
for thousands and thousands of years; and the fact that you are
contemplating that life with centuries of civilisation beating in
your veins. It is something, too, in the manner in which these people
express their thoughts. You are accosted by giants who could crush you
between their finger and thumb, and who address you humbly, ‘Greet one
of God’s poor.’ In another village an old skeleton of a chief totally
ignores your arrival, your presence, even your visit. You stand near
enough to touch his foot, and he continues impassively squatting and
reading his Koran, until you half expect to hear the whistling of a
lance through the air, to see the flash of a sabre, or hear the cocking
of an old musket. Then, again, some old negress stops your horse,
mumbling words that are unintelligible. She smiles at you, and offers
you a handful of sweet roots. To give her pleasure, and because her
wrinkled smile recalls the fact that such poor old things took pity
on René Caillié and Mungo Park (your predecessors in this corner of
Africa), and saved them from dying of hunger, you accept her present
of cold cooked roots. Her joy is great, and by some small donation you
double it. To put the finishing touch to her pleasing contentment, you
bite one of her offerings and continue your way, absently munching the
sweet batatas, whose flavour so strangely recalls the _marron glacé_.
Memory is sent galloping in pursuit of visions of your native land, and
you recall the fact that it is snowing and hailing hard there, while
you have been gently cooking since daybreak.
And then life in the bush means flocks of guinea-fowls running about
in the thickets, and coveys of young partridges that rise, careless
of sportsmen, from under your horse’s very hoofs. It means strange,
intoxicating scents that suddenly envelop you, and leave you as
suddenly as they came; and a delirium of sunsets passionately colouring
a sky that was monotonously colourless the moment before. And nights!
One night we encamped in the huts surrounding a village square, and my
men lighted huge fires in the open air. The gleams from their flames
carved a vault of red and gold upon the darkness, and under this arch a
fantastic ballet took place. The wings of bats, illuminated from below,
made streaks of light upon the night, like the trails of falling
stars, and were distantly encircled with satellites of fireflies.
But I can only give a tenth part, and that feebly, of the unexpected
sights and sensations I enjoyed. You cannot taste life’s choicest
morsels reclining in an arm-chair.
* * * * *
Dioubaba, the terminus of the décauville, is situated in the heart
of lovely mountain and river scenery. Its landscape would realise a
handsome income in Europe. The river Bakoy, hitherto closely confined,
here breaks into a rocky waterfall, some hundreds of yards in length,
full of rapids and foaming currents. The horizon is bordered by
mountain-tops, and the river-banks are covered by gigantic trees
festooned with garlands of long creepers. A sergeant of the engineers
acts as station-master, and a sapper attends to the telegraph. They are
perfectly happy, they say; and are married, according to the custom
of the country, of course, to two gay little natives with charming
ways. This society is completed by Bibi, a young hippopotamus, lately
captured, and very tame. With a discretion, unlooked for in such an
animal, he spends the day in the Bakoy, so as not to interfere with his
friends’ occupations. They go to the bank when in want of amusement and
call ‘Bibi! Bibi!’ Bibi’s pink muzzle soon appears; he looks round for
them with his little black eyes, and, dripping and wriggling, he runs
up to be caressed.
* * * * *
The road from Dioubaba to Bammaku cuts from east to west across the
massive Foota Jallon range that separates the basin of the Senegal
from that of the Niger. It is full of pictures recalling the Forest
of Fontainebleau, and is so abundantly watered that you fall asleep
every night to the sound of some gurgling cascade or waterfall. I know
nothing more suggestive than this road, the main artery of the Sudan.
You see the colonial life coming and going upon it from day to day;
and it also reflects the retrospective image of the life that rolled
along the great European highways before the days of coaches. Without
the highwaymen, however, for we have made enormous progress since the
pacification of the Sudan ten years ago. Then, travellers encamped upon
it with sentinels posted at night as if they were in the country of an
enemy. To-day it is as safe as the Champs Elysées.
[Illustration: ON THE ROAD: DIOULAS HALTING]
Not that vehicles are numerous, but people are, and animals. They are
principally parties of porters that you meet; some travelling to their
destination laden with cases, and bundles, and sacks of millet; others
returning, freed from their burdens, dancing and capering along the
road to the sound of flute or drum, joyous as children let loose from
school. There are _dioulas_, too, or native commercial travellers, with
their servants or slaves and their wives and children, all driving
donkeys laden with salt and pearls, etc.
[Illustration: ON THE ROAD: EUROPEANS TRAVELLING]
A meeting between Europeans is particularly pleasant. You exchange bows
and a declension of names, and titles when you have them; and a long
talk ensues between two people who have never seen each other in their
lives before. News of the interior is exchanged for news of Europe or
the coast. You hear what is passing in the countries to which you are
going and in the countries to which you are not going. You exchange
a thousand little services, and, above all, the time! For watches in
these climates develop the most fantastic manners, and the only thing
you can be sure of is that they will never tell you the time even
approximately. After this you turn your backs upon one another with all
the grace in the world, and each resumes his journey.
The Europeans you meet are mostly government officials, officers,
and privates. Some are returning to France for a holiday, having
fulfilled their year or eighteen months of service, while others
are newly arrived to take their vacant places. Sometimes you pass a
hand-ambulance from which the head of some unlucky invalid emerges,
and, if you are good-natured and furnished with plenty of provisions,
it is very easy to play the good Samaritan on these occasions.
[Illustration: A COMMISSARIAT TRANSPORT]
Unfortunately the man of commerce only furnishes the smallest share of
these encounters: and why? The answer is to be found in the road itself
and the troops of porters you are incessantly meeting upon it, for
the head of man is too limited a means of transport to permit a very
extensive traffic. Why not use vehicles then? The account given above
of the _pseudo_ roads of the Sudan will answer this question, for they
exist only in name. The commissariat department knows something of all
this, for the forts we have set up in our vast Nigerian possessions
must be victualled. Europeans, surrounded by black troops, live in
them, keeping the country in order, civilising it, organising it,
and preparing it for occupation. It is of course necessary to supply
these garrisons with European provisions, such as cases of wine, great
iron boxes of flour, coffee, sugar, barrels of salt meat, and arms,
ammunition, clothes, tools, etc. To carry these stores to the river
(the only easy means of transport) the commissariat possesses carts
which are set upon this pretence of a road; at what cost of time,
trouble, and money it would take volumes to tell. One meets these
transports from time to time, struggling with the chasms and other
asperities of the so-called roads. They are commanded by artillery
officers, and are always accompanied by a veterinary; but I prefer to
leave to your imagination the condition to which the unhappy mules are
reduced, even though they only do ten or twelve miles a day. It is a
terrible thing this victualling, its shadow pursues you all along the
road. Encampments are provided every ten or twelve miles with straw
huts for the men and picket-lines for the animals. You can follow the
progress of the transports by the litter of rags, bits of paper and
abandoned carts they leave behind them. Two forts mark the road from
Badoumba to Kita. Neither is garrisoned, and both have fallen a prey
to the commissariat department. Their various outworks and approaches
are strewn with a litter of cases on which one reads medicines,
sugar, candles, oil, etc., and the names of the places to which these
stores are destined--Farannah, Siguiri, Segu, or Timbuctoo. The forts
themselves are filled from end to end with squatting porters awaiting
their share of burdens; and you hear, in the snatches of conversation
and the orders that are flying about, of nothing but ‘cases’ and
‘transport.’ The impatience with which Europeans and natives alike are
awaiting the continuation of the rail from Dioubaba to Bammaku becomes
suddenly comprehensible.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE COMMISSARIAT: IN FORT BAMMAKU]
At last beyond Kundu (a third fort, completely abandoned) you reach
the line of cleavage between the Senegal and Niger. So far the country
has been pleasantly varied, recalling somewhat of Switzerland without
giving an equal impression of fertility; but in the next and last
twenty-five miles of the road springs and rivulets multiply at every
step. Agriculture, interspersed with charming glimpses of silvery
water, spreads over uninterrupted fields for the rest of the way. The
villages cluster closer together, and are more densely populated. In a
delightful valley of the great Kati mountains a stream tumbles along
between two rocky ledges, which start suddenly aside and spread into a
fan, to disappear upon the distant banks of the Niger.
It was not without a certain amount of emotion that I approached the
great river, and for this reason. It was four years now since I first
started for the Niger and failed to reach it! My then companion,
Captain Faidherbe, was making his third attempt to reach that serpent
of Western Africa. In his first he followed the Flatters Mission along
the Southern Nigerian route. In the second, starting from the frontier
of Portuguese Guinea, he was stopped by wars among the natives. For the
third time he started from Benty and the Mellacorée, in the company of
the painter Adrien Marie and myself, only to be cut short by Samory’s
troops at a distance of twenty-five miles from its banks; and two years
ago he died without having seen the Niger.
The memory of his ill-fortune possessed me, and grew more intense with
every stage of the journey. I had an idea that some of his ill-luck
must pursue me. Assuredly I too shall not see this Niger, I thought.
And now at last, after doubling the stages for the last five days (so
great was my anxiety to reach it), my horse begins to stumble down the
steep and rocky declivity that leads to the river. I dismount, and a
fresh anxiety seizes me. Suppose it is only another great disillusion
to which I am advancing?
The narrow path widens suddenly; its rocky sides are flung right
and left like the leaves of a door. ‘There is the Djoliba,’ says my
historical servant, as calmly as if he were announcing ‘Dinner is
served.’ It is an impressive spectacle from the height of the road that
still clings to the hill. A vast horizon lies at my feet bathed in the
splendours of a tropical sunset, and down there, in a plain of gold and
green and red, shines a silver trail bordered by a line of darkness.
There it is, a mere vapour, the dream of a river in a valley of dreams,
and the dark line is the hills by which it flows, almost invisibly.
‘God is great’ as they say here. There is no disillusion, as is so
often the case in the realisation of the unknown. I can scarcely take
my eyes from the serenely majestic panorama that is spread before me.
And now come what may! I remount my horse and urge him to a gallop
along the road, bordered by trees, that stretches across the plain.
A postern stops me, bearing a placard on which is written in white
letters on black, like the name of a railway station: Bammaku.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE NIGER AT KOULIKORO]