We made our way slowly down the river. As the elevation dropped, the
temperature rose. It was very hot indeed during the day, and in the
evening the air was tepid and caressing, and musical with the hum of
insects. We sat about quite comfortably in our pajamas, and took our
fifteen grains of quinine per week against the fever.
The character of the jungle along the river changed imperceptibly, the
dhum palms crowding out the other trees; until, at our last camp, were
nothing but palms. The wind in them sounded variously like the patter
or the gathering onrush of rain. On either side the country remained
unchanged, however. The volcanic hills rolled away to the distant
ranges. Everywhere grew sparsely the low thornbrush, opening sometimes
into clear plains, closing sometimes into dense thickets. One morning
we awoke to find that many supposedly sober-minded trees had burst into
blossom fairly over night. They were red, and yellow and white that
before were green, a truly gorgeous sight.
Then we turned sharp to the right and began to ascend a little tributary
brook coming down the wide flats from a cleft in the hills. This was
prettily named the Isiola, and, after the first mile or so, was not
big enough to afford the luxury of a jungle of its own. Its banks were
generally grassy and steep, its thickets few, and its little trees
isolated in parklike spaces. To either side of it, and almost at its
level, stretched plains, but plains grown with scattered brush and
shrubs so that at a mile or two one's vista was closed. But for all its
scant ten feet of width the Isiola stood upon its dignity as a stream.
We discovered that when we tried to cross. The men floundered waist-deep
on uncertain bottom; the syces received much unsympathetic comment
for their handling of the animals, and we had to get Billy over by a
melodramatic “bridge of life” with B., F., myself, and Memba Sasa in the
title roles.
Then we pitched camp in the open on the other side, sent the horses back
from the stream until after dark, in fear of the deadly tsetse fly, and
prepared to enjoy a good exploration of the neighbourhood. Whereupon
M'ganga rose up to his gaunt and terrific height of authority, stretched
forth his bony arm at right angles, and uttered between eight and nine
thousand commands in a high dynamic monotone without a single pause for
breath. These, supplemented by about as many more, resulted in (a) a
bridge across the stream, and (b) a banda.
A banda is a delightful African institution. It springs from nothing in
about two hours, but it takes twenty boys with a vitriolic M'ganga back
of them to bring it about. Some of them carry huge backloads of grass,
or papyrus, or cat-tail rushes, as the case may be; others lug in poles
of various lengths from where their comrades are cutting them by means
of their panga. A panga, parenthetically, is the safari man's substitute
for axe, shovel, pick, knife, sickle, lawn-mower, hammer, gatling
gun, world's library of classics, higher mathematics, grand opera, and
toothpicks. It looks rather like a machete with a very broad end and
a slight curved back. A good man can do extraordinary things with
it. Indeed, at this moment, two boys are with this apparently clumsy
implement delicately peeling some of the small thorn trees, from the
bared trunks of which they are stripping long bands of tough inner bark.
With these three raw materials-poles, withes, and grass-M'ganga and
his men set to work. They planted their corner and end poles, they laid
their rafters, they completed their framework, binding all with the
tough withes; then deftly they thatched it with the grass. Almost before
we had settled our own affairs, M'ganga was standing before us smiling.
Gone now was his mien of high indignation and swirling energy.
“Banda naquisha,” he informed us.
And we moved in our table and our canvas chairs; hung up our water
bottles; Billy got out her fancy work. Nothing could be pleasanter
nor more appropriate to the climate than this wide low arbour, open at
either end to the breezes, thatched so thickly that the fierce sun could
nowhere strike through.
The men had now settled down to a knowledge of what we were like; and
things were going smoothly. At first the African porter will try it on
to see just how easy you are likely to prove. If he makes up his mind
that you really are easy, then you are in for infinite petty annoyance,
and possibly open mutiny. Therefore, for a little while, it is necessary
to be extremely vigilant, to insist on minute performance in all
circumstances where later you might condone an omission. For the same
reason punishment must be more frequent and more severe at the outset.
It is all a matter of watching the temper of the men. If they are
cheerful and willing, you are not nearly as particular as you would
be were their spirit becoming sullen. Then the infraction is not so
important in itself as an excuse for the punishment. For when your men
get sulky, you watch vigilantly for the first and faintest EXCUSE to
inflict punishment.
This game always seemed to me very fascinating, when played right. It is
often played wrong. People do not look far enough. Because they see
that punishment has a most salutary effect on morale, and is sometimes
efficacious in getting things done that otherwise would lag, they jump
to the conclusion that the only effective way to handle a safari is
by penalties. By this I do not at all mean that they act savagely, or
punish to brutal excess. Merely they hold rigidly to the letter of the
work and the day's discipline. Because it is sometimes necessary
to punish severely slight infractions when the men's tempers need
sweetening, they ALWAYS punish slight infractions severely.
And in ordinary circumstances this method undoubtedly results in a very
efficient safari. Things are done smartly, on time, with a snap. The
day's march begins without delay; there is a minimum of straggling; on
arrival the tents are immediately got up and the wood and water fetched.
But in a tight place, men so handled by invariable rule are very apt
to sit down apathetically, and put the whole thing up to the white man.
When it comes time to help out they are not there. The contrast with a
well-disposed safari cannot be appreciated by one who has not seen both.
The safari-man loves a master. He does not for a moment understand any
well-meant but misplaced efforts on your part to lighten his work below
the requirements of custom. Always he will beg you to ease up on him,
to accord him favour; and always he will despise you if you yield. The
relations of man to man, of man to work, are all long since established
by immemorial distauri-custom-and it is not for you or him to change
them lightly. If you know what he should or can do, and hold him rigidly
to it, he will respect and follow you.
But in order to keep him up to the mark, it is not always advisable to
light into him with a whip, necessary as the whip often is. If he
is sullen, or inclined to make mischief, then that is the crying
requirement. But if he is merely careless, or a little slow, or tired,
you can handle him in other ways. Ridicule before his comrades is very
effective: a sort of good-natured guying, I mean. “Ah! very tired!”
uttered in the right tone of voice has brought many a loiterer to his
feet as effectively as the kick some men feel must always be bestowed,
and quite without anger, mind you! For days at a time we have kept our
men travelling at good speed by commenting, as though by the way, after
we had arrived in camp, on which tribe happened to come in at the head.
“Ah! Kavirondos came in first to-night,” we would remark. “Last night
the Monumwezis were ahead.”
And once, actually, by this method we succeeded in working up such a
feeling of rivalry that the Kikuyus, the unambitious, weak and despised
Kikuyus, led the van!
But the first hint of insubordination, of intended insolence, of willful
shirking must be met by instant authority. Occasionally, when the
situation is of the quick and sharp variety, the white man may have to
mix in the row himself. He must never hesitate an instant; for the only
reason he alone can control so many is that he has always controlled
them. F. had a very effective blow, or shove, which I found well worth
adopting. It is delivered with the heel of the palm to the man's chin,
and is more of a lifting, heaving shove than an actual blow. Its effect
is immediately upsetting. Impertinence is best dealt with in this manner
on the spot. Evidently intended slowness in coming when called is also
best treated by a flick of the whip-and forgetfulness. And so with a
half dozen others. But any more serious matter should be decided from
the throne of the canvas chair, witness should be heard, judgment
formally pronounced, and execution intrusted to the askaris or
gunbearers.
It is, as I have said, a most interesting game. It demands three sorts
of knowledge: first what a safari man is capable of doing; second, what
he customarily should or should not do; third, an ability to read the
actual intention or motive back of his actions. When you are able to
punish or hold your hand on these principles, and not merely because
things have or have not gone smoothly or right, then you are a good
safari manager. There are mighty few of them.
As for punishment, that is quite simply the whip. The average writer
on the country speaks of this with hushed voice and averted face as a
necessity but as something to be deprecated and passed over as quickly
as possible. He does this because he thinks he ought to. As a matter of
fact, such an attitude is all poppycock. In the flogging of a white man,
or a black who suffers from such a punishment in his soul as well as his
body, this is all very well. But the safari man expects it, it
doesn't hurt his feelings in the least, it is ancient custom. As well
sentimentalize over necessary schoolboy punishment, or over father
paddy-whacking little Willie when little Willie has been a bad boy. The
chances are your porter will leap to his feet, crack his heels together
and depart with a whoop of joy, grinning from ear to ear. Or he may draw
himself up and salute you, military fashion, again with a grin. In any
case his “soul” is not “scared” a little bit, and there is no sense in
yourself feeling about it as though it were.
At another slant the justice you will dispense to your men differs from
our own. Again this is because of the teaching long tradition has made
part of their mental make-up. Our own belief is that it is better to let
two guilty men go than to punish one innocent. With natives it is the
other way about. If a crime is committed the guilty MUST be punished.
Preferably he alone is to be dealt with; but in case it is impossible to
identify him, then all the members of the first inclusive unit must be
brought to account. This is the native way of doing things; is the only
way the native understands; and is the only way that in his mind true
justice is answered. Thus if a sheep is stolen, the thief must be caught
and punished. Suppose, however it is known to what family the thief
belongs, but the family refuses to disclose which of its members
committed the theft: then each member must be punished for sheep
stealing; or, if not the family, then the tribe must make restitution.
But punishment MUST be inflicted.
There is an essential justice to recommend this, outside the fact that
it has with the native all the solidity of accepted ethics, and
it certainly helps to run the real criminal to earth. The innocent
sometimes suffers innocently, but not very often; and our own records
show that in that respect with us it is the same. This is not the place
to argue the right or wrong of the matter from our own standpoint but to
recognize the fact that it is right from theirs, and to act accordingly.
Thus in cast of theft of meat, or something that cannot be traced, it
is well to call up the witnesses, to prove the alibis, and then to place
the issue squarely up to those that remain. There may be but two, or
there may be a dozen.
“I know you did not all steal the meat,” you must say, “but I know that
one of you did. Unless I know which one that is by to-morrow morning, I
will kiboko all of you. Bass!”
Perhaps occasionally you may have to kiboko the lot, in the full
knowledge that most are innocent. That seems hard; and your heart will
misgive you. Harden it. The “innocent” probably know perfectly well who
the guilty man is. And the incident builds for the future.
I had intended nowhere to comment on the politics or policies of the
country. Nothing is more silly than the casual visitor's snap judgments
on how a country is run. Nevertheless, I may perhaps be pardoned for
suggesting that the Government would strengthen its hand, and aid its
few straggling settlers by adopting this native view of retributions.
For instance, at present it is absolutely impossible to identify
individual sheep and cattle stealers. They operate stealthily and at
night. If the Government cannot identify the actual thief, it gives the
matter up. As a consequence a great hardship is inflicted on the settler
and an evil increases. If, however, the Government would hold the
village, the district, or the tribe responsible, and exact just
compensation from such units in every case, the evil would very suddenly
come to an end. And the native's respect for the white man would climb
in the scale.
Once the safari man gets confidence in his master, that confidence is
complete. The white man's duties are in his mind clearly defined. His
job is to see that the black man is fed, is watered, is taken care of
in every way. The ordinary porter considers himself quite devoid of
responsibility. He is also an improvident creature, for he drinks all
his water when he gets thirsty, no matter how long and hot the journey
before him; he eats his rations all up when he happens to get hungry,
two days before next distribution time; he straggles outrageously at
times and has to be rounded up; he works three months and, on a whim,
deserts two days before the end of his journey, thus forfeiting all his
wages. Once two porters came to us for money.
“What for?” asked C.
“To buy a sheep,” said they.
For two months we had been shooting them all the game meat they could
eat, but on this occasion two days had intervened since the last kill.
If they had been on trading safari they would have had no meat at all.
A sheep cost six rupees in that country, and they were getting but ten
rupees a month as wages. In view of the circumstances, and for their
own good, we refused. Another man once insisted on purchasing a cake
of violet-scented soap for a rupee. Their chief idea of a wild time in
Nairobi, after return from a long safari, is to SIT IN A CHAIR and drink
tea. For this they pay exorbitantly at the Somali so-called “hotels.”
It is a strange sight. But then, I have seen cowboys off the range or
lumberjacks from the river do equally extravagant and foolish things.
On the other hand they carry their loads well, they march tremendously,
they know their camp duties and they do them. Under adverse
circumstances they are good-natured. I remember C. and I, being belated
and lost in a driving rain. We wandered until nearly midnight. The four
or five men with us were loaded heavily with the meat and trophy of a
roan. Certainly they must have been very tired; for only occasionally
could we permit them to lay down their loads. Most of the time we were
actually groping, over boulders, volcanic rocks, fallen trees and all
sorts of tribulation. The men took it as a huge joke, and at every pause
laughed consumedly.
In making up a safari one tries to mix in four or five tribes. This
prevents concerted action in case of trouble, for no one tribe will help
another. They vary both in tribal and individual characteristics, of
course. For example, the Kikuyus are docile but mediocre porters; the
Kavirondos strong carriers but turbulent and difficult to handle. You
are very lucky if you happen on a camp jester, one of the sort that
sings, shouts, or jokes while on the march. He is probably not much as a
porter, but he is worth his wages nevertheless. He may or may not aspire
to his giddy eminence. We had one droll-faced little Kavirondo whose
very expression made one laugh, and whose rueful remarks on the
harshness of his lot finally ended by being funny. His name got to be a
catchword in camp.
“Mualo! Mualo!” the men would cry, as they heaved their burdens to their
heads; and all day long their war cry would ring out, “Mualo!” followed
by shrieks of laughter.
Of the other type was Sulimani, a big, one-eyed Monumwezi, who had a
really keen wit coupled with an earnest, solemn manner. This man was no
buffoon, however; and he was a good porter, always at or near the head
of the procession. In the great jungle south of Kenia we came upon
Cuninghame. When the head of our safari reached the spot Sulimani
left the ranks and, his load still aloft danced solemnly in front of
Cuninghame, chanting something in a loud tone of voice. Then with a
final deep “Jambo!” to his old master he rejoined the safari. When
the day had stretched to weariness and the men had fallen to a sullen
plodding, Sulimani's vigorous song could always set the safari sticks
tapping the sides of the chop boxes.
He carried part of the tent, and the next best men were entrusted with
the cook outfit and our personal effects. It was a point of honour
with these men to be the first in camp. The rear, the very extreme
and straggling rear, was brought up by worthless porters with loads of
cornmeal-and the weary askaris whose duty it was to keep astern and herd
the lot in.