WHO'S WHO IN JUNGLELAND. THE HARTEBEEST AND THE WILDEBEEST, THE AMUSING
GIRAFFE AND THE UBIQUITOUS ZEBRA, THE LOVELY GAZELLE AND THE GENTLE
IMPALLA
In the course of the average shooting experience in British East Africa
the sportsman is likely to see between twenty and thirty different
species of animals. From the windows of the car as he journeys from
Mombasa to Nairobi, three hundred and twenty-seven miles, he may
definitely count upon seeing at least seven of these species:
Wildebeest, hartebeest, Grant's gazelle, Thompson's gazelle, zebra,
impalla, and giraffe, with the likelihood of seeing in addition some
wart-hogs and a distant rhinoceros, and the remote possibility of seeing
cheetah, lion, and hyena. Of the bird varieties the traveler will be
sure of seeing many ostriches, some giant bustards, and perhaps a sedate
secretary-bird or two.
[Photograph: Hassan and a Hartebeest]
[Photograph: The Author's Home in Africa]
[Photograph: Beautiful Upland Country]
These animals are the common varieties, and after a short time in the
country the stranger learns to tell them apart. He knows the zebra from
his previous observation in circuses; he also does not have to be told
what the giraffe is, but the other ones of the seven common varieties he
must learn, for most of them are utterly strange to an American eye.
[Drawing: _Gazelle, with Wildebeest in Background_]
He soon learns to pick out the wildebeest, or gnu, by its American
buffalo appearance; he comes to know the little Thompson's gazelle by
its big black stripe on its white sides and by its frisky tail that is
always flirting back and forth. The Grant's gazelle is a little harder
to pick out at first, and one is likely to get the Grant's and Tommy's
confused. But after a short time the difference is apparent, the Grant's
being much larger in stature and has much larger horns and is minus the
Thompsonian perpetual motion tail. It certainly is a stirring tail! The
impalla is about the same size as the Grant's gazelle, but has horns of
a lyrate shape.
The hartebeest is speedily identified, because he is unlike any other
antelope in appearance and exists in such large numbers in nearly every
part of East Africa. Indeed, if a returned traveler were asked what
animal is most typical of the country he would at once name the
hartebeest. He sees it so much and so often that after a time it seems
to be only a necessary fixture in the landscape. A horizon without a few
hartebeests on it would seem to be lacking in completeness.
Furthermore, the stranger soon learns that the hartebeest is commonly
called by its native name, kongoni, and by the time his shooting trip is
over the sight of the ubiquitous kongoni has become as much of his daily
experience as the sight of his tent or his breakfast table. To me the
kongoni appealed most strongly because of his droll appearance and
because of a many-sided character that stirs one's imagination.
He is big and awkward in appearance and action; his face is long and
thin and always seems to wear a quizzical look of good humor, as if he
were amused at something. Others besides myself have remarked upon this,
so I am hoping that the kongoni wore this amused look even at times when
he was not looking at me. His long, rakish horns are mounted on a
pedicle that extends above his head, thus accentuating the droll length
of his features. His withers are unusually high and add to the awkward
appearance of the animal. Standing, the kongoni is a picture of alert,
interested good humor; running, he is extremely funny, as he bounces
along on legs that seem to be stiffened so that he appears to rise and
fall in his stride like a huge rubber ball. We made quite a study of the
kongoni, for he is a most interesting animal. He is unselfish and
vigilant in protecting the other creatures of the plain. His eyes are as
keen as those of a hawk, and when a herd is feeding there are always
several kongoni sentinels posted on ant-hills in such a strategic way
that not a thing moves anywhere on the plains that escapes their
attention. Oftentimes I have cautiously crept to the top of a ridge to
scan the plains, and there, a mile away, a kongoni would be looking at
me with great interest.
If you try to approach he will remain where he is until his warning
sneezes have alarmed all the other animals, and finally, when all have
fled, he goes gallumphing along in the rear. He is the self-appointed
protector of his fellow creatures, the sentinel of the plains. I have
seen him run back into danger in order to alarm a herd of unsuspecting
zebras.
He leads the wildebeests to water and he lends his eyes to the elephants
as they feed. With nearly every herd of game, or near by, will be found
the faithful kongoni, always alert, watchful, and vigilant, and it is
nearly always his cry of warning that sends the beasts of the plains
flying from dangers that they can not see.
The sportsman swears at the kongoni because it so often alarms the
quarry he is stalking. How very often it happens! The hunter sees afar
some trophy that he is eager to secure and straightway begins a careful
stalk of many hundred yards. At last, after much patient work, he
reaches a point where he feels that he can chance a shot. He takes a
careful sight and at that moment a kongoni that has been silently
watching him from some place or other gives the alarm, and away goes the
trophy beyond reach of a bullet. And then how the hunter curses at the
kongoni, who has stopped some little distance away and is regarding him
with that quaint, lugubriously funny look. It almost seems to be
laughing at him.
One day I tried to shoot a topi. It was a broiling hot day and the sun
hung dead above and drove its burning javelins into me as I crept along.
For seven hundred yards, on hands and knees, I slowly and painfully made
my way. The grass wore through the knees of my trousers and the sharp
stubbles cut my palms; once a snake darted out of a clump of grass just
as my hand was descending upon it, and lizards frequently shot away
within a yard of my nose. My neck was nearly broken from looking forward
while on my hands and knees, and it was nearly an hour of creeping
progress that I spent while stalking that topi.
When I got within two hundred and fifty yards, and was just ready to
take a careful aim, with an ant-hill as a rest, a kongoni somewhere gave
the alarm, and away went the topi, safe and sound but badly scared. The
kongoni went a little way off and then turned and grinned broadly. I was
momentarily tempted to shoot him, but on second thought I realized that
he had acted nobly from the animal point of view, so I forgave him.
[Drawing: _Outward Bound--Reading Your Thoughts--Concluding your
Intentions Are Hostile_]
The kongoni seems to be gifted with a clairvoyant instinct. He knows
when you don't want to shoot him and when you do. If you start out in
the morning with no hostile intentions toward him he will allow you to
approach to within a short distance. He will be alert and watchful, but
he will show no anxiety. But just suppose for an instant that you change
your mind. Suppose you say to yourself that the porters have had no meat
for several days and that it might be well to shoot a kongoni. The
latter knows what is passing in your mind long before you have made a
single movement to betray your intentions. He begins to edge away, ready
in an instant to go bounding rapidly beyond rifle shot.
I've seen a herd of kongoni standing quite near, watching me with
curious interest, but without fear. Perhaps I was intent upon something
else and hardly noticed them. Suddenly a villainous thought might enter
my head, such as "That big kongoni has enormous horns," and instantly
the herd would prick up their ears, run a few steps, and then turn to
verify their suspicions. Then, if the villainous thought still lurked in
my brain, they would sneeze shrilly and go galloping away in the
distance. There is no way to explain this except to attribute it to
thought transference, and this in spite of the fact that the kongoni
doesn't understand English.
The kongoni is found nearly every place in East Africa. Along the
railway between Makindu and Nairobi the species is called Coke's
hartebeest. Farther up the railway the species is Neumann's hartebeest,
while still beyond, on the Guas Ngishu Plateau and the Mau escarpment,
the species is called Jackson's hartebeest. In the main the three
varieties are almost the same; it is in the horns that the chief
distinction lies, with lesser differences in color and stature. The
hunter has been allowed to kill ten of each on his license, but under
the new game ordinance in force since December, 1909, only four
Jackson's are allowed and twenty Coke's instead of ten.
[Drawing: _The Young Kongoni Is Very Funny_]
When we went across the Guas Ngishu Plateau in early November we saw
thousands of Jackson's hartebeest, and never a calf. When we came back
in late December and early January we saw hundreds and hundreds of
calves, many of them less than a day old. The stork must have been busy,
for they all arrived at once. These little calves come into the world
fully equipped for running, and almost immediately after birth go
bounding along after their mothers, so awkward and so funny that I'm not
surprised that their own mothers look perpetually amused.
The hartebeest, or kongoni, is hard to kill. The Dutch gave him the name
for that reason. It often seems as if bullets have no effect on him. He
will absorb lead without losing a trace of his good-humored look, and
after he has been shot several times he will go bounding earnestly away,
as if nothing was the matter. If he succeeds in joining a herd there is
little way of distinguishing which one has been shot, unless he suddenly
exhibits signs or falls over. Otherwise he is quite likely to gallop
away, far beyond pursuit, and then slowly succumb to his wounds.
Again I've seen them knocked over and lie as if dead, but before one
could approach they would be up and off as good as ever. This is the
great tragedy of the conscientious hunter's life--the escape of a
wounded animal beyond pursuit--and the thought of it is one that keeps
him awake at night with a remorseful heart and saddened thoughts.
Whenever I shall think of Africa in the future, I shall think of my old
friend, the kongoni, dotting the landscape and sticking his inquiring
ears over various spots on the horizon. In four and a half months I
think I must have seen at least a hundred thousand kongoni.
The giraffe is also a creature of most amusing actions. You are pretty
certain to see a bunch of them as you come up the railway from the
coast. They were the first wild animals I saw in British East Africa--a
group of four or five quietly feeding within only a hundred yards of the
thundering railway engine. They were in the protected area, however, and
seemed to know that no harm would reach them there. Later on in the
morning we saw other herds, but invariably at long range, sometimes
teetering along the sky line or appearing and disappearing behind the
flat-topped umbrella acacias.
[Drawing: _They Run Loosely but Earnestly_]
The giraffe is most laughable when in action. He first looks at you,
then curls his tail over his back, and then lopes off with head and neck
stuck out, and with body and legs slowly folding and unfolding in a most
ungainly stride. It is hard to describe the gait of a giraffe to one who
has never seen it, but any one would at once know without being told
that a giraffe couldn't help being funny when running.
As a general thing it is difficult to approach a giraffe. With their
keen eyes and great height they almost invariably see you before you see
them, and that will be at seven or eight hundred yards' distance. From
the moment they see you they never lose sight of you unless it is when
they disappear behind a hill a mile or two away.
When seen on the sky-line a herd of giraffe will suggest a line of
telegraph poles; when seen scattered along a hillside, partly sheltered
under the trees, they blend into the mottled lights and shadows in such
a way as to be almost invisible. I have been within two hundred yards of
a motionless giraffe and, although looking directly at it, was not aware
that it was a giraffe until it moved. It might easily have been mistaken
for a bare fork of the tree, with the mottled shadows of the leaves cast
upon it.
Along the Tana River I saw several herds of giraffe, perhaps fifty head
in all, but it was on the great stretches of the scrub country that
slopes down from Mount Elgon that I saw the great herds of them. One
afternoon I saw twenty-nine together, big black males, beautifully
marked tawny females, and lots of little ones that loomed up like lamp
posts amidst a group of telegraph poles. Within two hours I saw two
other herds of seven and nine each, and every day thereafter it was
quite a common thing to run across groups of these strange-looking
animals browsing among the trees.
One is not allowed to kill a giraffe except under a special license,
which costs one hundred and fifty rupees, or fifty dollars. One of our
party had a commission to secure a specimen for a collector and had been
unsuccessful in getting it. That circumstance led to an amusing
adventure that I had with a giant giraffe. One day, with my gunbearers,
I had ridden out from camp in search of wild pigs. Ten minutes after
leaving camp I drew rein hastily, for off to my left and in front a lone
giraffe of great size and of splendid black color was slowly careening
along toward me. If he continued in his course and did not see us he
would pass within a hundred yards of me. So I hastily but quietly
dismounted to try for a photograph as he passed.
A moment or two later he saw me for the first time and at once swung
into a funny trot. I took the picture, and then the thought struck me,
"Why not drive him into camp, where he could be secured by the one
having a special license?" I jumped on my horse and galloped around him,
but in a few moments struck a ravine so rocky that I had to walk my
horse through the worst of it. By the time I had crossed the giraffe was
some hundred yards ahead. Still farther ahead the prairie was burning
and the long line of fire extended a mile or more across our front.
I thought this fire would swing the giraffe off, and so it became a race
to reach the fire line first, in order to swing him in the right
direction. The ground was deep with prairie grass, as dry as tinder, and
scattered throughout were innumerable holes in the ground made by the
ant-bears and wart-hogs. Any one of these holes was enough to throw a
horse head over heels if he went into it. I had no gun, having left it
with my gunbearer when I took the picture. So there was nothing to
hinder me as we swept across the great plain.
We passed the camp half a mile away at a furious pace, the giraffe
holding his own with the horse and keeping too far in front to be
turned. By degrees we approached the prairie fire and the flames were
leaping up three or four feet in a line many hundred yards long. The
giraffe hesitated and then breasted the walls of fire; I didn't know
whether my horse would take the salamander leap or not, and as we rushed
down toward it I half-expected that he would stop suddenly and send me
flying over his shoulders. But he never wavered. The excitement of the
chase was upon him and he took the leap like an antelope. There was a
moment of blinding smoke, a burning blast of air, and then we were
galloping madly on across the blackened dust where the fire had already
swept.
For two miles I galloped the giraffe, vainly endeavoring to swing him
around, but once a swamp retarded me and another time a low hill shut
the giraffe from view. When I passed the hill he had disappeared and
could not be found again. There was no deep regret at having lost him,
for I felt particularly grateful to him for having given me the most
exhilarating and the most joyous ride I had in Africa.
The large male giraffes often appear solid black at a distance, for the
yellow bands separating the splotches of black are so slender as to be
invisible at even a short distance. The females are much lighter and
usually look like the giraffes we see in the circuses at home.
Then there's the ubiquitous zebra, almost as numerous as the kongoni.
You see vast herds of zebra at many places along the railway, and
thereafter, as you roam about the level spots of East Africa, you are
always running into herds of them. At first, the sight of a herd of
zebras is a surprise, for you have been accustomed to seeing them in the
small numbers found in captivity. It is a source of passing wonder that
these rare animals should be roaming about the suburbs of towns in
hundred lots. You decide that it would be a shame to shoot a zebra and
determine not to join in this heartless slaughter.
Later on your sentiments will undergo a change. Everybody will tell you
that the zebra is a fearful pest and must be exterminated if
civilization and progress are to continue. The zebra is absolutely
useless and efforts to domesticate him have been without good results.
He tramps over the plains, breaks down fences, tears up the cultivated
fields, and really fulfills no mission in life save that of supplying
the lions with food. As long as the zebras stay the lions will be there,
but the settlers say that the lions are even preferable to the zebras.
Under the old game ordinance expiring December fifteenth, 1909, a
sportsman was allowed two zebras under his license; under the new one he
is allowed twenty! That reveals the attitude of East Africa toward the
jaunty little striped pony.
[Drawing: _Zebra, Wildebeest and Gazelle (Wildebeest in Middle)_]
In action the zebra is dependent upon his friend, the kongoni. When the
latter signals him to run, he trots off and then turns to look. If the
kongoni sends out a 4-11 alarm, the zebra will hike off in a
Shetland-pony-like gallop and run some distance before stopping. They
have no endurance and may be easily rounded up with a horse.
On the Athi Plains may be found the bones of scores of zebras, each spot
marking where a lion has fed; and in the barb-wire fences of the
settlers other scores of withered hides and whitened skulls mark where
they have fallen before the grim march of civilization.
With each sportsman granted an allowance of twenty zebras, it may not be
so long before the zebra will be forced to seek the sanctuary of the
game reserves, which, happily, are large enough to insure his escape
from extinction.
The zebra's chief peculiarity, aside from his beautiful markings, is a
dog-like bark which is much more canine than equine in its sound. The
zebra's chief charm is its colt, for there is nothing alive that is
prettier or more graceful than a young zebra a few weeks old.
The only Grant's gazelles that I saw were those along the railway at
Kapiti Plains and Athi Plains. This animal is graceful and beautiful,
with a splendid sweep of horns. With them, and in much greater numbers,
is the little "Tommy," or Thompson's gazelle, a graceful, buoyant,
happy, bounding little antelope with an ever active tail flirting gaily
in the sunshine. The Tommy is small, about twice as big as a fox
terrier, and is of a fawn color. Along the lower parts of his sides is a
broad white belt, along the middle of which runs a bold black stripe.
The effect is strikingly handsome.
The impalla is much bigger than the Tommy, and he usually travels in
large herds of fifty or more. It is no uncommon sight to see one buck
with twenty or thirty females, and it is probably due to the fact that
hunters try to get the male specimens as trophies that accounts for the
vast preponderance of females in the various antelope herds. The impalla
is seen along the railroad and in enormous numbers out along the Thika
Thika and Tana Rivers. There are also many up in the Rift Valley and
doubtless in other sections. From my own experience and observation they
were most abundant on the Tana River.
[Drawing: _Impalla Buck and Lady Friends_]
The wildebeest, or gnu, is found on the Athi Plains and northward along
the Athi River and the Thika Thika. One need never travel more than two
hours' drive or walk from Nairobi to see wildebeest, but it's a
different thing to get them. You would have to travel many hours, most
likely, before you succeeded in bringing down a wildebeest.
My first shot in Africa was at a wildebeest at three hundred yards. The
bullet struck, but so did the wildebeest. He struck out for northern
Africa, and when last seen was still headed earnestly for the north
pole. I am consoled in thinking that my shot must have inflicted more
surprise than injury and so I hope he has now fully recovered, wilder
and beastier than of yore.
My last shot in Africa, the day before leaving for the coast, was at a
wildebeest an hour or so out of Nairobi. This time I missed entirely and
repeatedly and the wildebeest remains unscathed to roam the broad plains
of the Athi until some better or luckier shot passes his way. If I have
anything on my conscience, it is certainly not the remorse of having
reduced the supply of wildebeests.
[Drawing: _Wildebeest With the White Man Only Eight Miles Away_]
In our last few days' shooting out on the Athi Plains we saw perhaps
fifty or seventy-five of these great bison-like animals. Their bodies
and legs and tails are slender and graceful, like those of a horse, but
the heads are heavy-featured, heavy-horned and heavy-bearded. They are
wild and when they see you a mile or so away will start and run for the
nearest vanishing point, usually arriving there long before you do.
The foregoing seven species of animals are the ones most commonly seen
in East Africa. Perhaps something about some of the less common ones
will have some instructive value.