THE NIGER
The Niger, with its vast and misty horizons, is more like an inland
ocean than a river. Borne along upon it, scarcely seeing land, the
traveller is carried away by those endless dreams which haunt the
infinitudes of the sea. Its waters break upon its banks in the
monotonously cadenced waves of the Mediterranean shores; and when
winds, grown to violence in the desert, swell its waves into a great
race, sea-sickness will convince the most rebellious that the river
Niger is of kin to oceans.
* * * * *
Its shores, no less than its waves, resemble those of the ocean. Only
occasionally rising into cliffs, as at Koulikoro, they more frequently
call to mind our own Atlantic strands, being formed, not of the white
impalpable dust of the desert, but of the true reddened shingle of the
beach.
Like the oceans, the Niger possesses its sailors, not merely occasional
seamen, but whole populations, privileged to serve it exclusively,
living for it and by it alone. They are the Somnos or Bosos, and are
not the aboriginals of the Nigerian countries, but were among the first
of those great migrations of people who saw Western Africa across the
centuries. The history of their origin is shrouded in a legend which
the ancient among them are very willing to impart.
[Illustration: A FISHING-VILLAGE ON THE BANKS OF THE NIGER]
‘Our ancestors,’ they say, ‘came from the great mountains of the East.’
Do they mean the mountains of Ethiopia? Could they have come from the
hills surrounding the Upper Nile? They have no idea. Nothing in their
features recalls the marked type of the Eastern African, and their
skins are as black to-day as those of the natives of the Sudan. The one
thing their legend preserves for certain is, that even in those early
times they were a purely aquatic people. They fished and navigated
for the king of their country, being bond-servants, apparently, to
the crown. The Sudanese to this day do not reckon them among the free
tribes.
Thus they boated and fished upon their rivers, until one day the king
wished them to build him houses and bridges. This was a task alien
to their caste, the work of slaves according to their ideas, and
therefore repugnant to them. In revenge they offered their king a
present of poisoned tortoise, of which he ate and died; whereupon they
took flight in their vessels, carrying all the boats with them, to
ensure against pursuit. They followed the course of river after river
in their flight until they arrived at the Niger, which, according to
them, flowed to the north.
[Illustration]
And there they live to this day, lining its streams and tributaries
with villages that recall the fishing-hamlets of our own coasts. They
form the sole population of these settlements and occupy distinct
quarters in the towns and cities, thus emphasising the fact that the
Bosos still belong exclusively to the river. All this gave me a reflex
affection for them which increased with knowledge, gained by many
days spent in the midst of their lives. I have seen them set out to
the capture of their great prey (the alligator and sea-cow), looking,
the black Bosos in his black canoe, like a bronze group against the
blinding light. In the bow of the long, narrow, unsteady pirogue one of
their number stands upright in a fine attitude of attack, whilst the
other, crouching in the stern, noiselessly obeys the directions of his
companion. Silently, almost without movement, they advance until the
watchful eye in the bow discerns some alligator asleep on the tide, or
some great bearded fish dozing betwixt wind and water. Then the nude
silhouette in the bow is strained by a beautiful movement of the free
body, the right arm is poised, and the harpoon flung, striking the
great beast unawares.
The Bosos is not only the fisherman, he is also the boatman of the
Niger, and I have seen him exert admirable physical qualities in this
latter capacity, yielding nothing in sobriety and endurance to the
ocean-going sailor. The six or eight men forming the crew of my boat
worked day and night, alternately sitting to wield the paddle when
the water was deep, and standing, when the bottom could be felt, to
ply the long bamboo poles. This variation was the only relaxation
they allowed themselves besides a few moments for their meals. And
what meals they were! If I had permitted it, a few handfuls of millet
seed, neither cooked nor ground, but merely moistened with water,
would have amply satisfied them. Sometimes when the moon was late in
rising, or slumber proved too inviting, one of their number would chant
some monotonous and melancholy refrain to which the singer improvised
brief couplets which were taken up in chorus by his comrades. Now and
again they would rouse themselves to greater exertions by their cry of
‘Tara (quickly), tara, Bosos!’ The six or seven days of our journeying
were only broken by some four or five hours of indifferent repose,
uncomfortably snatched at the bottom of the boat, and disturbed by
the continued paddling of their companions. Could any men of our race
furnish a like example of endurance? The chatter and laughter were a
little less perhaps in the last few days, and they had recourse rather
more frequently to powdered tobacco (their only stimulant), which some
thrust up their nostrils and others into their mouths. These were the
only signs of unusual fatigue which they permitted to appear. Nor were
their exertions undertaken from any motives of devotion, but for a
man whom they had never seen until a few moments before starting, and
whom they knew they would leave soon after reaching their destination.
Moreover, my very eagerness to press forward was unintelligible to
them. Time has neither value nor meaning for them; they do not even
know their own ages, and their life is merely a road, sometimes long,
sometimes short, but in any case leading nowhere.
For the first few days I had to discipline and threaten a little, and,
when warnings failed, to distribute a few blows. A strict impartiality
always determined these awards, and since a rigid sense of justice is
preserved in all primitive natures, they bore me no ill-will for the
chastisement. With the mark of the blow still showing grey on their
black shoulders, they would seize the first and least pretext to shout
with laughter, while the boat slipped along with increased rapidity to
the cry of ‘Tara, tara, Bosos!’
* * * * *
One more tribute I will pay them. Alone among them, distant many days’
journey from the white man, and travelling through an imperfectly
conquered, sometimes openly hostile country, never once did I feel
that my safety was in any way threatened. Was it entirely owing to the
superiority of the white man, a conviction of which becomes firmly
impressed upon one (in spite of natural modesty and philosophy) as one
traces one’s path through these virgin countries? Did not this sense of
security proceed as much from a contemplation of the attractive manners
daily displayed before my eyes, the litany of greetings exchanged
with the unknown occupants of the canoes we met or overtook, and the
good-nature and disinterestedness evinced by all? Fishing Bosos would
spontaneously offer my men a share of their catch, a fine fish, or a
portion of alligator. Hardly slackening the pace to receive the gift,
thanks would still be flying when we had left the giver far behind.
‘Tara, tara, Bosos!’
Is it surprising that the hours spent upon the vast dominions of the
Niger should seem pleasant to me? Is it not probable that they will
represent the happiest hours of my life as I watch my staff of travel
burning on my hearth? They will remain as the souvenirs of a cruise
into infinite space and liberty, as a brief escape from the thousand
fetters mankind has placed upon man under the pretence of progress.
Their memory is a vision of a primeval existence ignorant of good and
evil, living, without effort and without laws, an upright and good
life. It was, in short, a flight from all the falseness and corruption
that civilisation has put into the heart of man, the realisation of
the dream which, though played with by many philosophies, has been
accomplished by none.
Ah, that delightful, that matchless cruise, which you, fortunate
possessors of fast, sumptuous, and elegant yachts, can never enjoy!
My yacht would have ill-supported any one of those adjectives, for it
was a whimsical mixture of European barge and aboriginal canoe. It had
borrowed from the former its breadth of beam and its flat bottom, and
from the latter its sharply pointed extremities and its deplorable
facility for springing a leak. A thatched hollow served me amidships as
bedroom, dining-room, study, and dressing-room. I enjoyed, moreover,
an amphibious existence, for the water unceasingly trickled through
the flooring into my apartment. A small folding bedstead was my only
piece of furniture. Table, cupboards, desk, washstand, and sideboard
were represented by different packages, wicker baskets, bottle-cases,
and portmanteaux. A long box filled with earth served as kitchen and
stove, and was placed fore and aft in accordance with the direction of
the wind. In the remaining very limited spaces the seven or eight men
who handled the boat were distributed, together with two bleating sheep
(representing our meat-supply) and some clucking hens. The game brought
down by lucky shots, and the fish and other properties of my men, were
extra; and, in addition to all this, some place had to be found for the
kitchen fuel. For the benefit of those who like figures and complicated
problems, I will add that my Noah’s ark measured twenty-six feet three
by seven feet six in the widest part.
[Illustration: MY YACHT]
Obviously it would have embarrassed me to give one of those Trouville
or Cannes _fêtes_ to which my fellow-yachtsmen are accustomed, but
luckily the occasion never arose. Yet _fêtes_ there were, provided day
and night by the Niger with a variety and splendour that the richest
merchant in sugar-plums could not have equalled. Its waters were now
blue as the Mediterranean, now grey as the North Sea, and now again
they were apparelled in the green of the great ocean; while Venus
Anadiomenes in black sported upon its banks. If these latter were
not smilingly coiling their tresses, it was only because their hair
was short and greased with butter. Failing this poetic occupation,
they were engaged in alternately scrubbing their cooking utensils
and washing their children in the splashing wave. Art, however, lost
nothing by that, for, in their constantly changing attitudes, their
perfect nudity only served to call attention to their marvellously
sculptured torsos and their bronze skins, touched into gold by the
brightness of the sunshine.
[Illustration: ON THE BANKS OF THE NIGER: THE VENUS ANADIOMENES]
Here and there upon the great strands were playing the strange childish
forms, with the great heads and stomachs balanced on the slender limbs,
of the negro babies. Drolly would they interrupt their games and run
close to the river-bank to watch the white man pass, making him the
while--a military salute! Nothing more comical could be imagined than
these little naked caricatures with one arm stiffly raised at an
angle. If I smiled, they gave me back the same broad laugh the Venus
Anadiomenes had tossed me with their ‘Anissagai’ (Good day)--the same
that my Bosos laughed a minute after they had been struck. This gentle
laughter, with neither intellect nor malice in it, is always ready to
their lips, even in the most serious circumstances, and is as necessary
to their existence apparently as food or water. It is the happy mirth
of a childish people, ignorant of the physical and moral torments from
which the more perfect man results.
[Illustration: THE MILITARY SALUTE]
The placid fisher with the line also greets us in military fashion.
This form of salutation seems to be the only thing that our
civilisation has brought them so far. Poor souls! when the rest has
followed they will have ceased to laugh.
* * * * *
Between Segu and the regions bordering Timbuctoo I passed wonderful
herds of oxen, horses, goats, and sheep. Unlike the stunted cattle and
emaciated hacks of the countries of the Niger’s source, these oxen had
imposing humps, and the horses were on the lines of Arabs. The sheep,
too, were astonishing. Long fleece replaced the close wool of the
southern animal, and their flocks were to be counted by such thousands
of heads that I was greeted at long distances by ovations of bleating.
[Illustration: PASTURE ON THE SHORES OF THE NIGER]
Travelling one day between Lake Debo and Sarafara, it was given me to
see quite another sort of herd. We were touching upon a large plain
bordered by a distant wood, when suddenly, at sunset, four black
lions appeared walking in Indian file. They advanced with slow and
solemn steps, pausing with heads erect as the sound of our paddles
reached them. After fixing upon us a look that was half-displeased,
half-disdainful, they turned their backs upon us, and, still keeping
the same order, disappeared with unmoved slowness and solemnity in the
wooded green of the distance. The scene was so captivating that the
thought of my Winchester never entered my head. The gun was always at
hand, however, to spread a little perturbation (impossible to effect
more appreciable results) among the families of hippopotami who,
towards evening, thrust their pink muzzles out of the water, and to
annoy the numerous alligators who relaxed in sunny slumbers throughout
the day.
The feathered species did not get off so cheaply, however, especially
the wild ducks, whom, at my leisure, I would invite to my table in the
shape of roast or stew. The white ospreys, the Niger’s favourite bird,
were truly innumerable. They dappled the banks, looking like flakes of
precious snow, with silky reflections made lustrous by the sun. The
gracious outlines of their slender forms, the supple necks and long
slim legs, stood out in such dainty visions from the green grass and
grey banks that one shot them remorsefully. Alas! their death-warrant
is written and attached to the base of their slender necks; for it is
there, and not on their heads, that the fragile plumes grow--delicate
emblems of themselves and of those alone who should be privileged
to wear them. From these plumes, in fact, are made those precious
_parures_ which, mounted in jewelled clasps, place such a charming
point of pride upon the forehead of brunette and blonde alike. The
allurement of such a spoil, seen in imagination adorning some cherished
head, dispels all remorse, and hastens the fall of the trigger.
The confidence of these charming birds is very great, for the native,
disdainful of its flesh and ignorant of the value of its plumes, has
never hunted it. They alight boldly in the midst of the flocks of sheep
that have such an inexplicable attraction for them, and it is very
quaint to see groups of two or three ospreys surround each sheep, and
with gravely measured steps follow its browsing until the innocent
ruminant looks like some captive surrounded by its gaolers.
Other birds of valuable feather dart about the sands, such as the
marabou, metallic blackbirds, kingfishers in every shade of wonderful
azure, and flocks of guinea-fowls, flamingoes, and pelicans. Sometimes,
on approaching the sedgy banks, a strange rustling is followed by a
cloud of dust. It is caused by those tiny creatures, scarcely bigger
than crickets, the millet-eaters. I must not forget to mention the
trumpet-bird among my intimate friends--a large black wader, whose note
might easily be mistaken for the horn of our tramways.
* * * * *
As infinitely varied as the colours of the kingfisher are the scenes in
which this medley of life unfolds. At Toulimandio the shores are formed
of high woods of wonderful verdure, dark and deep as velvet, and the
mountains seen in the distance are the last ramifications of the Foota
Jallon range. Were it not for the unaccustomed proportions of the river
and the marvellous sun, there would be nothing specially tropical about
this country.
[Illustration: THE SHORES OF LAKE DEBO AT GOURAO: GUNBOAT STATION]
Little by little the woods thin and the trees diminish in height. The
river-bed is strewn with trunks torn from the banks by the floods, and
many more hang disconsolately over the water, certain victims to the
approaching inundations.
At Nyamina, Segu, and Sansanding, the woods give place to great plains
of tillage and cattle-rearing, that spread further than the eye can
reach, and close upon them follows, with Lake Debo, a maritime scene.
This lake is a huge basin of water by the side of the river, and,
the two hillocks guarding its entrance being passed, a veritable sea
spreads before you. Water everywhere, always, and for ever. Its shores
are invisible, for no distant mountains betray their boundaries, as is
the case with the Swiss lakes.
[Illustration: MOUNT ST. CHARLES, AT THE ENTRANCE TO LAKE DEBO]
An equally unexpected vision awaits the traveller beyond Lake Debo;
and it is now a landscape from Normandy or England that is disclosed
to eyes stupefied by such an apparition in the heart of tropical
Africa. Great meadows of a moist, intense green are bordered by
park-like woods. So vivid is the impression that you are disappointed
not to see the turrets and battlements of a Lancashire manor, or the
slated roofs of some Château of the Eure, rising from their midst. The
superb troops of humped cattle, large and sleek, scarcely dispel this
northern illusion.
All this changes after Sarafara, and it is now the tangle of a tropical
forest that defiles before my yacht, now some Eastern scene that I
have already witnessed in Egypt or Syria. Palm-trees, slenderly erect,
dominate a scanty vegetation containing the melancholy green of the
olive-trees of Palestine, and thickets of low bushes that recall the
fig-trees of Judæa.
[Illustration: MOUNT ST. HENRI]
El Oual Hadj passed, bright green stretches of quite another character
appear, and the villages no longer crowd together upon the bank, but
are scattered out of sight, far removed from the river-banks on account
of the floods. The only perceptible signs of life come from the fires
of these villages, that streak the sky with ribbons of smoke by day
and tinge it with red at night. You may travel miles and miles without
seeing a living thing, man or beast, upon the shores. An atmosphere
of secrecy hovers over the country: you suddenly recall the fact
that those mysterious Touaregs are still momentarily its masters and
oppressors, and you slip sixteen balls into your Winchester.
Finally, on the borders of Timbuctoo the dunes of the Sahara begin to
oppose the sterility of their bare whiteness to the river, increasing
in number until the desert itself is behind them.
* * * * *
[Illustration: OYSTER-BEDS AT SEGU]
Varied as these scenes are, they possess a still further element of
change in the formidable rising and falling of the river. A scene known
at the height of the waters is unrecognisable in the fall. Taking
the same route after some months’ interval, you seem to be following
an entirely different river. Where before you sailed in the midst of
plains, you now pass between banks some twenty-six feet high. There,
where a vast stretch of water gave the impression of a sea, you find
a combination of pools and sandbanks recalling the flat shores of
the ocean at low tide. At Timbuctoo it flows in swift and foaming
torrents, its sides and bed being encumbered with rocks. The towns and
villages, at which you had gone ashore to the nearest houses, are now
perched upon mounds encircled by vigorously growing grass, and wearing
the little airs of a Rhenish _burg_. Fields of tobacco-plants and
kitchen gardens flourish on the uncovered banks, while before Segu the
oyster-beds pierce the surface of the water. This is in the fall.
[Illustration: THROUGH THE SEA OF GRASS]
All the effects of the rise originate from below Lake Debo, at Mopti,
where the river is joined by another as important as itself, namely,
the Bani. Towards December they have become a vast mass of waters
rushing to the north, and entire plains are submerged to a considerable
depth. On the right of Lake Debo an immense region to which the little
arm of Koli-Koli formerly gave access, has now become a fief of the
Niger. The greatest surprise of all awaits the traveller here, for it
is literally a sea of grass. How does that strike you, my luxurious
fellow-yachtsmen? It is in truth a singular element, being neither
land nor water, but a strange mixture of both; without being a marsh,
however, for, the waters not being stagnant, the passing breeze raises
no fetid odour. From a depth of six to eight feet the tall grasses
emerge, thick and green, and wearing all the appearance of a great
field. One of our sheep was so deceived by it that he threw himself
overboard, thinking to arrive on pasturage, but committed suicide
instead.
Between banks perfectly clear cut, though formed solely by grass, winds
that Koli-Koli which has brought hither and spread afar all these
waters. The boundaries of Lake Korienza are no less sharply defined in
this bizarre element.
In crossing this region my Bosos recommended the abandonment of the
easy, but infinitely capricious and winding, course of the Koli-Koli.
The journey, they say, will be greatly lessened by cutting straight
across this sea of green, a change of route that suits me to perfection.
Paddling being no longer possible, the men, leaning heavily on their
bamboos, push the boat vigorously through the grass, which, parting
in front, closes together behind us with loud rustling and crackling.
We are no longer upon the water, but seem, and it is a truly exotic
sensation, to be sliding under a tropical sun over grassy steppes
streaked with watery paths. This region of navigable grass is a world
apart; the repeated passage of canoes has worn away the green and
traced ribbons of water on its surface, in the same manner that the
constant tread of man and beast upon the earth destroys the grass and
exposes the bare soil. These paths, as conventionality would require
of them, are beautifully flowered. Placid water-lilies adorn their
surfaces with cups of white, mauve, and yellow, and they are further
encompassed by a strange tropical bindweed looking like chaplets of
floating onions. With this trivial, perhaps, but certainly apt,
comparison they possess another point of resemblance, they are edible,
and are greatly esteemed by the native in times of dearth.
It would be ungrateful if among all these pictures, pale images as they
are of hours of enchantment, I forgot to include the twilights and
nights upon the Niger.
[Illustration: THE FERRY-BOAT]
The moments of sunset upon the river are those the greatest intensity
of life. The canoes multiply near the villages bringing the fruit
of the field to buildings to which the people will flock for
to-morrow’s market. The ferry-boat causes the river to resound with
gay chatter and laughter, the bleating of sheep, and the clucking
of frightened poultry. In the solitudes beyond human habitation the
timid hippopotamus, again become the autocrat of the river, gambols
grotesquely in the water, prudently waiting until nightfall to come
ashore and dine; and the great trees on the bank are so whitened at
this hour by the sleeping ospreys that they seem to have been covered
by a fall of snow.
* * * * *
I now join a village and spread my table-cloth on some grassy hillock
close to the river-bank. Very animated and well attended are my
dinners. First the children come, consumed with curiosity to see
the white man, but a little apprehensive too. They advance timidly,
evidently feeling for me some of the fear which the negro inspires in
white children. A few lumps of sugar soon tame them, however, and then,
duly apprised, the chief and notabilities of the village arrive. They
salute me and offer (read ‘sell’) presents of milk, eggs, and poultry,
and, business being done, I detain them with a little of those two
precious commodities, tobacco and salt.
We light great fires as night falls, and they bring out their little
clay pipes, their snuff-boxes, or some kola nuts, and a long gossip
ensues. Absorbing landscape all day, night reveals to me the soul and
thoughts of the country, its history, and the why of a thousand things
the sight of which had puzzled me during the day. Above everything, I
enjoyed evoking oral traditions concerning the first appearance of the
white man in these parts. Mungo Park, the first European to explore
the Niger, is the most vividly remembered. I frequently heard, between
Nyamina and Khabara, of Bonci-Ba (the great beard), a name given him by
the Nigerian tribes, but I could find no trace of our own René Caillié
even at Timbuctoo itself. Barth’s voyage, though not accomplished in
these regions, is well known by report of people who saw him or heard
him spoken of in Timbuctoo. The old men, with wrinkled skins and white
hair and eyebrows, were my favourite historians. They could recall to
me the past prosperity and great commerce of the Valley of the Niger.
They told me of the desolating conquerors and disastrous wars of the
present century; of Cheikou Ahmadou, the fanatic Foulbe king, who
changed the prosperity of former days to misery. Timbuctoo was the most
frequent subject of my questions. It was the home of their youthful
memories, and they would speak of it enthusiastically, and with
laughter--much laughter--at the recollections of their gay life there,
the lively frolics which sweetened their labours, and the especially
vivid remembrance of the bewitching beauty of the ladies of Timbuctoo.
[Illustration: GOING ASHORE IN THE EVENING]
In the villages of the Bosos the Niger formed the basis of our
conversation. They would narrate to me the legends and the life
and being of the giant. On the margin of Lake Debo, they told me,
a treasure of gold was hidden in the hillock, which René Caillié
pompously christened ‘Mont St. Charles,’ and which they call Mount
Sorba. The treasure remains undiscovered to this day. They often
alluded to a very large town situated on a lake called Guido. It was
the centre of a powerful empire, which, with its capital, has now
entirely disappeared.
Finally, with so many other affinities to the great oceans, the Niger
could not decently lack its romances of pirates. They had their nest
at Sibi, a large village crowning a high mound on the Black Niger. It
was passed daily by numberless boats laden with the produce of Massina
and Farinanka. Kaid-Ali, the chief of the pirates, was taken with the
ingenious idea of stretching an iron chain across the river, in order
to prevent the escape of these boats, which he pillaged at leisure.
These Bosos, living at a distance of eight hundred and seventy miles
from the coast, possess, as one might imagine, no idea of the sea or
of the part of outlet that it plays to the rivers. The question of
what becomes of the Niger beyond the regions they know troubles them
very little. I sometimes attempted, in the course of conversation,
to enlighten their minds on this point. Having one day captured an
unusually intelligent Bosos, I made him enumerate all the towns he
knew, or had heard of, down the Niger. ‘Sarafara, Khabara, Gao,’ he
came to a standstill. ‘Well! and beyond them, what becomes of the
river?’ ‘Beyond them,’ he reflected. ‘Oh! beyond them the fishes
swallow it.’
When I found some village particularly rich in information and the
power of imparting it, I would stay over the following day in order to
renew the nocturnal chat, generally retiring to the river at night on
account of its beneficial freshness. In the distance, beacon-like fires
blazing on the brim of the great river would indicate some native
ball, and on approaching one could hear the droning of tom-toms and
the cadenced clapping of hands that always accompany these functions.
Elsewhere, grazing in the now deserted fields, the noctambulating
hippopotamus would neigh us his serenades.
Great fires cover the banks in March. It is the black man’s method of
clearing and manuring his fields on the eve of seed-time. He destroys
the tall grasses and other parasites by these means, and enriches his
soil with their ashes. Thus magnificently illuminated, we glide over
the water to the sound of a great crackling which is occasionally
mingled with the cry of some wild animal that the flames have surprised
in its lair.
In this manner I wandered so much at my own sweet will that even
my Bosos, expert as they are, were obliged to confess themselves
bewildered at times. With all these pleasures spiced with the
apprehension of a sudden illness or unexpected attack, and sustained by
the thought of having some lines of the world’s history at the end of
my pen when Jenne and Timbuctoo should be attained, am I not right in
saying that the cruise of my thatched yacht was a unique one?