After leaving the First Game Camp, we travelled many hours and miles
over rolling hills piling ever higher and higher until they broke
through a pass to illimitable plains. These plains were mantled with the
dense scrub, looking from a distance and from above like the nap of soft
green velvet. Here and there this scrub broke in round or oval patches
of grass plain. Great mountain ranges peered over the edge of a horizon.
Lesser mountain peaks of fantastic shapes-sheer Yosemite cliffs, single
buttes, castles-had ventured singly from behind that same horizon
barricade. The course of a river was marked by a meandering line of
green jungle.
It took us two days to get to that river. Our intermediate camp was
halfway down the pass. We ousted a hundred indignant straw-coloured
monkeys and twice as many baboons from the tiny flat above the water
hole. They bobbed away cursing over their shoulders at us. Next day we
debouched on the plains. They were rolling, densely grown, covered with
volcanic stones, swarming with game of various sorts. The men marched
well. They were happy, for they had had a week of meat; and each carried
a light lunch of sun-dried biltong or jerky. Some mistaken individuals
had attempted to bring along some “fresh” meat. We found it advisable to
pass to windward of these; but they themselves did not seem to mind.
It became very hot; for we were now descending to the lower elevations.
The marching through long grass and over volcanic stones was not easy.
Shortly we came out on stumbly hills, mostly rock, very dry, grown with
cactus and discouraged desiccated thorn scrub. Here the sun reflected
powerfully and the bearers began to flag.
Then suddenly, without warning, we pitched over a little rise to the
river.
No more marvellous contrast could have been devised. From the blasted
barren scrub country we plunged into the lush jungle. It was not a very
wide jungle, but it was sufficient. The trees were large and variegated,
reaching to a high and spacious upper story above the ground tangle.
From the massive limbs hung vines, festooned and looped like great
serpents. Through this upper corridor flitted birds of bright hue or
striking variegation. We did not know many of them by name, nor did
we desire to; but were content with the impression of vivid flashing
movement and colour. Various monkeys swung, leaped and galloped slowly
away before our advance; pausing to look back at us curiously, the ruffs
of fur standing out all around their little black faces. The lower half
of the forest jungle, however, had no spaciousness at all, but a certain
breathless intimacy. Great leaved plants as tall as little trees, and
trees as small as big plants, bound together by vines, made up the “deep
impenetrable jungle” of our childhood imagining. Here were rustlings,
sudden scurryings, half-caught glimpses, once or twice a crash as some
greater animal made off. Here and there through the thicket wandered
well beaten trails, wide, but low, so that to follow them one would have
to bend double. These were the paths of rhinoceroses. The air smelt warm
and moist and earthy, like the odour of a greenhouse.
We skirted this jungle until it gave way to let the plain down to the
river. Then, in an open grove of acacias, and fairly on the river's
bank, we pitched our tents.
These acacia trees were very noble big chaps, with many branches and a
thick shade. In their season they are wonderfully blossomed with white,
with yellow, sometimes even with vivid red flowers. Beneath them was
only a small matter of ferns to clear away.
Before us the sodded bank rounded off ten feet the river itself. At this
point far up in its youth it was a friendly river. Its noble width ran
over shallows of yellow sand or of small pebbles. Save for unexpected
deep holes one could wade across it anywhere. Yet it was very wide, with
still reaches of water, with islands of gigantic papyrus, with sand bars
dividing the current, and with always the vista for a greater or lesser
distance down through the jungle along its banks. From our canvas chairs
we could look through on one side to the arid country, and on the other
to this tropical wonderland.
Yes, at this point in its youth it was indeed a friendly river in every
sense of the word. There are three reasons, ordinarily, why one cannot
bathe in the African rivers. In the first place, they are nearly all
disagreeably muddy; in the second place, cold water in a tropical
climate causes horrible congestions; in the third place they swarm
with crocodiles and hippos. But this river was as yet unpolluted by the
alluvial soil of the lower countries; the sun on its shallows had warmed
its waters almost to blood heat; and the beasts found no congenial
haunts in these clear shoals. Almost before our tents were up the men
were splashing. And always my mental image of that river's beautiful
expanse must include round black heads floating like gourds where the
water ran smoothest.
Our tents stood all in a row facing the stream, the great trees at
their backs. Down in the grove the men had pitched their little white
shelters. Happily they settled down to ease. Settling down to ease, in
the case of the African porter, consists in discarding as many clothes
as possible. While on the march he wears everything he owns; whether
from pride or a desire to simplify transportation I am unable to say. He
is supplied by his employer with a blanket and jersey. As supplementals
he can generally produce a half dozen white man's ill-assorted garments:
an old shooting coat, a ragged pair of khaki breeches, a kitchen
tablecloth for a skirt, or something of the sort. If he can raise an
overcoat he is happy, especially if it happen to be a long, thick WINTER
overcoat. The possessor of such a garment will wear it conscientiously
throughout the longest journey and during the hottest noons. But when he
relaxes in camp, he puts away all these prideful possessions and turns
out in the savage simplicity of his red blanket. Draped negligently,
sometimes very negligently, in what may be termed semi-toga fashion,
he stalks about or squats before his little fire in all the glory of a
regained savagery. The contrast of the red with his red bronze or black
skin, the freedom and grace of his movements, the upright carriage of
his fine figure, and the flickering savagery playing in his eyes are
very effective.
Our men occupied their leisure variously and happily. A great deal of
time they spent before their tiny fires roasting meat and talking. This
talk was almost invariably of specific personal experiences. They bathed
frequently and with pleasure. They slept. Between times they fashioned
ingenious affairs of ornament or use: bows and arrows, throwing clubs,
snuff-boxes of the tips of antelope horns, bound prettily with bright
wire, wooden swords beautifully carved in exact imitation of the
white man's service weapon, and a hundred other such affairs. At this
particular time also they were much occupied in making sandals against
the thorns. These were flat soles of rawhide, the edges pounded to make
them curl up a trifle over the foot, fastened by thongs; very ingenious,
and very useful. To their task they brought song. The labour of Africa
is done to song; weird minor chanting starting high in the falsetto to
trickle unevenly down to the lower registers, or where the matter is one
of serious effort, an antiphony of solo and chorus. From all parts
of the camp come these softly modulated chantings, low and sweet,
occasionally breaking into full voice as the inner occasion swells,
then almost immediately falling again to the murmuring undertone of more
concentrated attention.
The red blanket was generally worn knotted from one shoulder or bound
around the waist Malay fashion. When it turned into a cowl, with a
miserable and humpbacked expression, it became the Official Badge of
Illness. No matter what was the matter that was the proper thing to
do-to throw the blanket over the head and to assume as miserable a
demeanour as possible. A sore toe demanded just as much concentrated
woe as a case of pneumonia. Sick call was cried after the day's work was
finished. Then M'ganga or one of the askaris lifted up his voice.
“N'gonjwa! n'gonjwa!” he shouted; and at the shout the red cowls
gathered in front of the tent. Three things were likely to be the
matter: too much meat, fever, or pus infection from slight wounds. To
these in the rainy season would be added the various sorts of colds.
That meant either Epsom salts, quinine, or a little excursion with
the lancet and permanganate. The African traveller gets to be heap big
medicine man within these narrow limits.
All the red cowls squatted miserably, oh, very miserably, in a row.
The headman stood over them rather fiercely. We surveyed the lot
contemplatively, hoping to heaven that nothing complicated was going to
turn up. One of the tent boys hovered in the background as dispensing
chemist.
“Well,” said F. at last, “what's the matter with you?”
The man indicated pointed to his head and the back of his neck and
groaned. If he had a slight headache he groaned just as much as
though his head were splitting. F. asked a few questions, and took
his temperature. The clinical thermometer is in itself considered big
medicine, and often does much good.
“Too much meat, my friend,” remarked F. in English, and to his boy in
Swahili, “bring the cup.”
He put in this cup a triple dose of Epsom salts. The African requires
three times a white man's dose. This, pathologically, was all that was
required: but psychologically the job was just begun. Your African can
do wonderful things with his imagination. If he thinks he is going to
die, die he will, and very promptly, even though he is ailing of the
most trivial complaint. If he thinks he is going to get well, he is
very apt to do so in face of extraordinary odds. Therefore the white
man desires not only to start his patient's internal economy with Epsom
salts, but also to stir his faith. To this end F. added to that triple
dose of medicine a spoonful of Chutney, one of Worcestershire sauce,
a few grains of quinine, Sparklets water and a crystal or so of
permanganate to turn the mixture a beautiful pink. This assortment the
patient drank with gratitude-and the tears running down his cheeks.
“He will carry a load to-morrow,” F. told the attentive M'ganga.
The next patient had fever. This one got twenty grains of quinine in
water.
“This man carries no load to-morrow,” was the direction, “but he must
not drop behind.”
Two or three surgical cases followed. Then a big Kavirondo rose to his
feet.
“Nini?” demanded F.
“Homa-fever,” whined the man.
F. clapped his hand on the back of the other's neck.
“I think,” he remarked contemplatively in English, “that you're a liar,
and want to get out of carrying your load.”
The clinical thermometer showed no evidence of temperature.
“I'm pretty near sure you're a liar,” observed F. in the pleasantest
conversational tone and still in English, “but you may be merely a poor
diagnostician. Perhaps your poor insides couldn't get away with that
rotten meat I saw you lugging around. We'll see.”
So he mixed a pint of medicine.
“There's Epsom salts for the real part of trouble,” observed F., still
talking to himself, “and here's a few things for the fake.”
He then proceeded to concoct a mixture whose recoil was the exact
measure of his imagination. The imagination was only limited by the
necessity of keeping the mixture harmless. Every hot, biting, nauseous
horror in camp went into that pint measure.
“There,” concluded F., “if you drink that and come back again to-morrow
for treatment, I'll believe you ARE sick.”
Without undue pride I would like to record that I was the first to think
of putting in a peculiarly nauseous gun oil, and thereby acquired a
reputation of making tremendous medicine.
So implicit is this faith in white man's medicine that at one of the
Government posts we were approached by one of the secondary chiefs of
the district. He was a very nifty savage, dressed for calling, with his
hair done in ropes like a French poodle's, his skin carefully oiled and
reddened, his armlets and necklets polished, and with the ceremonial
ball of black feathers on the end of his long spear. His gait was the
peculiar mincing teeter of savage conventional society. According to
custom, he approached unsmiling, spat carefully in his palm, and shook
hands. Then he squatted and waited.
“What is it?” we asked after it became evident he really wanted
something besides the pleasure of our company.
“N'dowa-medicine,” said he.
“Why do you not go the Government dispensary?” we demanded.
“The doctor there is an Indian; I want REAL medicine, white man's
medicine,” he explained.
Immensely flattered, of course, we wanted further to know what ailed
him.
“Nothing,” said he blandly, “nothing at all; but it seemed an excellent
chance to get good medicine.”
After the clinic was all attended to, we retired to our tents and the
screeching-hot bath so grateful in the tropics. When we emerged, in
our mosquito boots and pajamas, the daylight was gone. Scores of little
blazes licked and leaped in the velvet blackness round about, casting
the undergrowth and the lower branches of the trees into flat planes
like the cardboard of a stage setting. Cheerful, squatted figures sat in
silhouette or in the relief of chance high light. Long switches of
meat roasted before the fires. A hum of talk, bursts of laughter, the
crooning of minor chants mingled with the crackling of thorns. Before
our tents stood the table set for supper. Beyond it lay the pile of
firewood, later to be burned on the altar of our safety against beasts.
The moonlight was casting milky shadows over the river and under the
trees opposite. In those shadows gleamed many fireflies. Overhead were
millions of stars, and a little breeze that wandered through upper
branches.
But in Equatorial Africa the simple bands of velvet black, against the
spangled brightnesses that make up the visual night world, must give way
in interest to the other world of sound. The air hums with an undertone
of insects; the plain and hill and jungle are populous with voices
furtive or bold. In daytime one sees animals enough, in all conscience,
but only at night does he sense the almost oppressive feeling of the
teeming life about him. The darkness is peopled. Zebra bark, bucks blow
or snort or make the weird noises of their respective species; hyenas
howl; out of an immense simian silence a group of monkeys suddenly break
into chatterings; ostriches utter their deep hollow boom; small things
scurry and squeak; a certain weird bird of the curlew or plover sort
wails like a lonesome soul. Especially by the river, as here, are the
boomings of the weirdest of weird bullfrogs, and the splashings and
swishings of crocodile and hippopotamus. One is impressed with the
busyness of the world surrounding him; every bird or beast, the hunter
and the hunted, is the centre of many important affairs. The world
swarms.
And then, some miles away a lion roars, the earth and air vibrating to
the sheer power of the sound. The world falls to a blank dead silence.
For a full minute every living creature of the jungle or of the veldt
holds its breath. Their lord has spoken.
After dinner we sat in our canvas chairs, smoking. The guard fire in
front of our tent had been lit. On the other side of it stood one of our
askaris leaning on his musket. He and his three companions, turn about,
keep the flames bright against the fiercer creatures.
After a time we grew sleepy. I called Saa-sita and entrusted to him my
watch. On the crystal of this I had pasted a small piece of surgeon's
plaster. When the hour hand reached the surgeon's plaster, he must wake
us up. Saa-sita was a very conscientious and careful man. One day I took
some time hitching my pedometer properly to his belt: I could not wear
it effectively myself because I was on horseback. At the end of the
ten-hour march it registered a mile and a fraction. Saa-sita explained
that he wished to take especial care of it, so he had wrapped it in a
cloth and carried it all day in his hand!
We turned in. As I reached over to extinguish the lantern I issued my
last command for the day.
“Watcha kalele, Saa-sita,” I told the askari; at once he lifted up
his voice to repeat my words. “Watcha kalele!” Immediately from the
Responsible all over camp the word came back-from gunbearers, from
M'ganga, from tent boys-“kalele! kalele! kalele!”
Thus commanded, the boisterous fun, the croon of intimate talk, the
gently rising and falling tide of melody fell to complete silence. Only
remained the crackling of the fire and the innumerable voices of the
tropical night.