An ivory trader in North Kenia

On account of the animals, El Hakim had directed that the camp should be pitched on a tongue of grass-land adjoining a large swamp. This swamp extended over an area of quite two square miles, probably more. The water, being impregnated with mineral salts, was so brackish that it was absolutely undrinkable. A hundred yards from our camping-place the Waso Nyiro foamed and tumbled past at the bottom of a deep gorge, which, in the course of countless centuries, it had cut through the solid rock (gneiss). The sides of the gorge were perfectly perpendicular. Two or three little streams, emanating from the swamp, drained over the summit, falling in clouds of spray upon the rocks a hundred feet below. There were several wild date palms (Phœnix sp.)—the only specimens I saw in the whole of North Kenia—growing at the side of the cliff; they were bearing fruit, which, however, was quite green and very small. The Swahilis name this palm “m’tende,” and the fruit “tende.” We found the side of the gorge extremely precipitous, and had to go up-stream for quite a quarter of a mile for a suitable place to descend.

The weather was glorious. It was so dry that the intense heat of the day passed almost unnoticed. The evenings I shall never forget; they were simply idyllic. As the sun set, a cool breeze sprang up; cool, yet not cold. After our frugal supper, we usually donned our pyjamas, lit cigars, and sat out in the open air, now carrying on a desultory conversation, and anon sitting silent, wrapt in contemplation of the manifold beauties of the tropical night. The atmosphere was so dry that no dew fell, and it was perfectly safe in that beautiful climate to sit out in the open air when only partially clothed. The clearness and purity of the deep blue-black of the heavens, studded with its myriads of brilliant stars, was such as I have seen only in Egypt and the Southern Seas. At such times the only sound which broke the stillness was the far-off musical roar of the Waso Nyiro, as, hurrying to its unknown destination, it tumbled over its rocky bed; or the murmur of subdued conversation from where the men sat round their fires, resting after the toil and labour of the day. As the evening advanced the animals lay down one by one, an example soon followed by the men. Presently, our cigars finished, we also would reluctantly retire, not at once to sleep, however, but instead, opening both ends of the tents to the fullest extent, to lie down and gaze out into the calm and silent majesty of the night, drinking in the beauty of the scene with its atmosphere of restfulness and peace, and requiring, for the moment, nothing further from the Author of all things.

In the morning the order of things changed somewhat. As the first signs of dawn appeared in the eastern heavens, Jumbi aroused the sleeping porters with his cry of “Haya! haya! safari! safari!” Ramathani next arose, and, blowing into a blaze the embers of yesterday’s fire, proceeded to boil the kettle for our matutinal coffee—that is, when we possessed any. A rattle of buckets outside our tent, as the boys poured fresh water into our wash-basins, roused us, and we waited with half-closed eyes for the appearance of the boy Bilali with our freshly greased boots.

Juma waited on El Hakim, and sometimes he was a little slack in the performance of his duties. George and I, quietly dressing, would hear something like this from El Hakim’s tent—

El Hakim (in a muffled voice): “Juma!”

No answer.

El Hakim (in raised accents): “Juma-a!”

Still no answer.

El Hakim (in a very loud voice): “Juma-a-a!” (Sotto voce): “Where the devil is that boy? Oh! here you are. Wapi viatu?” (Where are my boots?)

An interval of silence.

El Hakim (evidently getting angry, and alternating English with the vernacular): “Ju-ma-a! Have you got those boots yet? Eh? Wapi viatu? Eh? Wewi sedui? (You don’t know?) What the dickens do you know? Tafuta sana, maramoja!” (Search well at once!)

(A moment’s silence, broken by sounds of searching among kit-boxes, etc., followed by an indistinct murmur from the unhappy Juma.)

El Hakim: “You can’t find them, eh? Now, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do with you! I’m going to give you a hiding! Wewi sikia? (Do you hear?) Wha—at! They’re under my bed, where I put them last night! Hum—m—m! Nenda Kuleta maaji! Oopace! (Go and get some water, quickly!) If you don’t do better than this in future you shall carry a load!”

After we had washed and dressed, the tent-bearers, who were already waiting, pulled up the pegs, and in a trice the tents were lying flat on the ground, leaving the blankets and kit exposed, waiting to be packed up ready for the march by Ramathani’s deft fingers. Donkeys trotted skittishly round, colliding with everything and everybody, waywardly declining to be saddled and loaded by the perspiring Jumbi and his assistant, and skilfully evading all attempts at capture. The command, “Funga mzigo yako!” (Tie up your loads) having been given, the men selected their loads from the pile in which they had been stacked overnight, and proceeded to bind their effects to them with lengths of rope of native manufacture, either of skin or fibre. El Hakim, George, and I having finished our tea or coffee, and seen that the tents and kits had been properly packed and ready for the march, prepared in our turn. Ammunition was slipped into side pockets, water-bottles filled, and weapons examined. When Jumbi reported that the donkeys were ready, I raised my voice, “Watu wote tayire?” (Are all the men ready?) “N’deo! tayire, Bwana” (Yes, all ready, master!) would be shouted in reply. A last look round to see if anything had been forgotten or overlooked, a critical examination of the donkeys’ pack-saddles, or a dispute between two porters summarily disposed of by the judicious application of a boot, and “Chikua mzigo yako!” (Take up your loads) would ring out. Immediately after Jumbi, shouting “Haya! haya! safari twende!” (Hurry up! hurry up! go on your journey!) would “chunga” his donkeys, and El Hakim, mounting his mule, would set out, followed by the porters, George and I staying behind to see the last man out of camp, and safely on the road; thus another day’s march commenced.

We made up our minds to stop a day or two at this “Swamp Camp,” as we called it, in order to give the animals a much-needed rest; there were also sundry small matters which required attention, and which could not be done very well on the march.

An hour or two after the camp was pitched we despatched Jumbi, accompanied by three other men, to Mount N’gombe to look for salt. Mount N’gombe was placed on my map as due north of Mount Sheba, which we had passed two days before. It is really some thirty or forty miles to the east of Sheba, as it (N’gombe) lies some thirty miles south-south-east of our “Swamp Camp,” which was itself some twenty miles due east of Sheba. It was also marked on the map as a salt crater, and in it lay our only hope of obtaining salt during the next four months, the small supply I obtained from Ismail Robli, in M’thara, being already finished.

In the afternoon George and I went down to the river and indulged in a most delightful swim, in spite of the supposed presence of crocodiles. Towards evening the mosquitos troubled us somewhat, and prevented us sleeping at all well.

We were up very early on the following morning, but it was not our own fault. At sunrise we were assailed by myriads of midges; they were very, very small, but they possessed a most venomous sting, the mosquitos being, in fact, quite harmless by comparison. They settled down in clouds on man and beast, and drove us all nearly frantic. Our faces, necks, and arms were soon covered with innumerable bites, which itched with a malevolence beyond anything I had hitherto experienced. George and I seized our rifles and fled from them as from a pestilence. We were out all the morning looking for game, and never once caught sight of a single animal. The men were badly in want of food, and we ourselves were in great need of raw hide wherewith to repair our boots. George and I had each attempted to buy an extra pair before leaving Nairobi, but there were no boots our size in the town at the time. We had been walking with our feet showing through those we were wearing, which were almost dropping to pieces. The country was so rough and stony underfoot that a long march was an event to be painfully remembered.

Jumbi and his companions returned in the evening from M’gomba, having discovered no traces of salt! They brought us samples of carbonate of soda, which, they said, was the only kind of salt there, but there was plenty of that. They had seen no natives, which was both surprising and disappointing, as there are generally a few Wandorobbo wandering up and down the Waso Nyiro. We were the more anxious to meet some of these people, as they generally have news of the Rendili.

The Wandorobbo are a nomad tribe of native hunters, who wander round the country at their own sweet will in search of wild honey and elephants. One or two Wandorobbo are to be found living in or near all the permanent settlements of both the Masai and the A’kikuyu. They live entirely by hunting; cultivating nothing. They are very skilful hunters of the elephant, which they kill with a poisoned spear. This spear consists of a heavy shaft about five feet long with a socket in the top, into which the poisoned barb is loosely fitted. Stealthily approaching his unconscious quarry, the naked hunter, with poised spear, watches his opportunity. At the right moment a quick movement of the arm launches the heavy spear, and the keen barb penetrates the elephant’s vitals. The hunter instantly dives into the bush; sometimes he is caught and killed. Accidents will happen, but I do not know that such an occurrence spoils the appetites of his companions. The elephant on receiving the thrust generally rushes away through the bush, and the spear-shaft, falling off, leaves the poisoned head in the wound to do its deadly work. They spear hippopotamus in the same way, but leave the rhinoceros severely alone unless they happen to catch him asleep. The origin of the Wandorobbo is still somewhat of a mystery. It is generally supposed that they are the offspring of degenerate Masai, with admixtures of other tribes. To a certain extent this is the case, but there are pure-blooded Wandorobbo who, in the opinion of Professor Gregory as recorded in his book,[8] are of very different descent. He says, “I suggest that they should be called the Wa’doko, for they agree in habits, appearance, and position with the tribe thus named by Harris[9] and Avanchers.[10] The Doko were said to occur on a high, cold, misty plateau in the neighbourhood of dense bamboo forests. Their home is about six weeks’ march from Mombasa, and between a snow-covered mountain called Obada and Lake El Boo or Bari. The mountain must be Kenia, and the lake Baringo. Hence it seems safe to conclude that the Doko or Wa’berikimo of Harris, Avanchers, Krapff,[11] and Rigby[12] are the elephant-hunting Negrillos on the plateau of Lykipia and the district to the north.”

When discussing the Wandorobbo with El Hakim, I learned that the Wandorobbo have a language of their own, though it is only spoken among a few of the tribe on Mogogodo (a hog-backed ridge north-west of the Doenyo lol Deika), where some of the pure-blooded Wandorobbo—or Wa’doko—have a permanent settlement. They were very unwilling to let strangers hear it, a fact also mentioned by Prof. Gregory. El Hakim had heard scraps of it, and it was unlike anything else he had ever known. He was ignorant of the language of the South African Bushmen, and therefore could not say if there was any resemblance.

As we had now been two days at the “Swamp Camp,” and had seen no natives, and consequently had no news of the Rendili, we thought it unlikely that they were encamped down-stream as we had supposed. We decided, therefore, to retrace our steps to the “Green Camp,” and from thence try up the river in the direction of Lololokwe and Wargasse, and thence onwards to Koma and Seran. Having once been over the ground between our present camp and the “Green Camp,” we were to some extent familiar with the topographical aspect of the intervening country. We calculated, therefore, to be able to make several short cuts, thereby making the return journey in a day or perhaps two days less than we had taken on our journey hither.

The next morning we started very early, being encouraged thereto by our implacable little foes, the midges. They made matters very unpleasant for a while, and we were quite half a mile on our road before finally getting rid of them. Taking a short cut across the mouth of a big curve made by the river hereabouts, we travelled to our camp of July 31st, missing the one of August 1st, passing on the way the remains of a vast Rendili encampment several years old.

Soon afterwards our men were gladdened by the sight of a rhinoceros accompanied by a m’toto (young one), and El Hakim and George immediately set off in chase of her. Suddenly, to our astonishment, we heard the sound of a shot from the other side of a ridge in front. The chase of the rhinoceros was at once abandoned, and we raced up the slope, expecting we knew not what. Nothing! absolutely nothing! met our eager gaze; the country stretched at our feet was the usual gravelly, stony abomination studded with the thorn trees we were so accustomed to; the course of the river showing in the distance as a darker green line in the brown landscape. Strain our gaze as we might, nothing in the way of a safari met our eyes. It was inexplicable. We could have sworn we heard a shot, and so also could the men; but nevertheless the landscape appeared absolutely deserted. I fired a shot from my own rifle, but, beyond the multitudinous echoes, there was no response. We treated the occurrence as we would any other riddle, and gave it up, and once more proceeded on our way.

Presently another rhinoceros hove in sight, and El Hakim started for him. He had almost got within comfortable range of the brute, which, unconscious of its danger, was busily feeding, when the men, discovering what he was after, raised yells of delight at the prospect of a feed at last, and to El Hakim’s intense annoyance startled his quarry, which made off at a gallop. He returned in a towering passion—“Wewe Kula mejani sassa” (You can eat grass now), said he. “I’m not going to be made a fool of when I am trying to shoot meat for you,” and mounting his mule he resumed his place at the head of the safari.

Towards evening we reached our old camp of July 31st, and on arrival we immediately sent men back to try to discover if there were any signs of another safari in the neighbourhood. One of the men also was missing, together with his rifle and a valuable load of cloth. We thought that he might have sat down to rest and fallen asleep, and let the safari pass on, so we sent Jumbi up the summit of a lofty hill near the camp, with a gamekeeper’s flare which burnt for five minutes with a brilliant blue light, and would be visible in that clear atmosphere and at that height for several miles. As he did not turn up that night or the next morning in spite of the most diligent search by the parties of men we sent out, we concluded that he had deserted and gone back to M’thara. The other men whom we had sent to look for and report on the possible presence of another safari in the neighbourhood returned, stating that they had seen no signs of a safari whatever. We questioned the men as to whether any of them had fired the shot, but they each and all denied it; besides, the shot had seemed to come from the front. It was a mystery which we never solved.

Next morning I left camp half an hour before the safari, in order to try to shoot some meat before the caravan, with its varied noises, frightened the game away. A mile or so out of camp I saw a solitary oryx (Oryx beisa) feeding in the open. There was no cover, and the need was urgent, so I sank my scruples about shooting at a long range, and crawling to just within two hundred yards I let drive at it with the ·303. My bullet struck it in the ribs, but failed to knock the beast over. A second shot clean through the shoulder did the business, however. I waited till the safari came up with me, and joined them. The flesh of the oryx is tough and tasteless, and when dried the hide is extraordinarily hard, and as stiff as a board.

At the end of a two and a half hours’ march we reached the camp at which we had such a narrow escape from destruction by fire on July 30th. It was now completely burnt out, having evidently caught fire again after our departure. The fire had spread very much, the palms for over two miles along the bank being reduced to a collection of mere blackened poles, in many places still smouldering. Camping was out of the question, so we went on again for another hour and a half. As we were crossing a small sand river which ran across our path, a herd of water-buck dashed out from among the palms forty yards ahead, racing across our front in fine style. It was a chance not to be missed, and raising my ·303 I took a snapshot and brought one down with a bullet through the shoulder. Two or three hundred yards further on I unexpectedly came upon a small herd of grantei, and another lucky shot laid low a fine buck; not at all a bad morning’s work in a district so devoid of game as that through which we were passing.

Soon after I shot the water-buck we deviated to the right, and, entering the belt of palms, selected a shady spot a few yards from the river and halted for a meal which we called breakfast, though it was past midday. At three o’clock in the afternoon we were again on the road, and remembering the “cinder-heap,” kept close to the river-bank. It was no use, however, as we discovered to our intense disgust that the lava came right down to the river, and there ended abruptly, as there were no traces of it on the opposite bank. Its difficulties, were, however, modified to a great extent by the fact that it was possible at intervals to descend to the water’s edge, and march for sometimes a quarter or even half a mile along the smooth sand.

After more than two hours’ wearisome tramp, we got into the open plains stretching away to the “Green Camp.” It was then growing dusk, and as we had still some miles to go, we hurried forward. Presently a solitary rhinoceros appeared, quietly feeding, about three hundred yards away to our right. El Hakim inquired if I would shoot it, but as I was hot, tired, and perhaps a little short-tempered, I declined, hinting that I was anxious to see him put his precepts on short-range shooting into practice. It was an ungracious speech, and El Hakim would have been quite right to have ignored my remark. As it was, he merely sniffed, but dismounted, and taking his ·577 from Juma pointedly asked George if he would like to accompany him, an offer George accepted with alacrity. El Hakim walked down, followed by George, and, then advanced cautiously to within twenty yards of the unsuspecting rhinoceros. He then raised his rifle, and, pausing a moment to aim, pulled the trigger. A puff of dense white smoke appeared, followed an instant later by a heavy report. The stricken rhinoceros jumped, then galloped madly away, with a bullet through the lungs, falling dead before it had gone fifty yards.

It was a pretty exhibition, and it looked so absurdly simple that when, on the report of El Hakim’s rifle, a second rhinoceros jumped up from the grass between us, where it had been lying unobserved, I snatched the Martini from Ramathani, and slipping a cartridge into the breech, ran up to within sixty yards of it, and kneeling down banged off at its shoulder. I admit that sixty yards was a long and unsportsmanlike range, but I was anxious to bag the beast before El Hakim, who was approaching it on his return from the dead rhinoceros, in a direction at right angles to my line of fire, could get within range. Of course my rhino, when hit, behaved quite differently to El Hakim’s. It galloped madly, it is true, but in my direction. It came straight for me, its head lowered and tail up, and I slipped another cartridge into my rifle, fully expecting to see fireworks within a very few seconds. Nearer and nearer it came, but just as I braced myself up for the shot that should decide my fate, my antagonist swerved aside and commenced what Neumann calls the rhino’s death-waltz, which consists of backing round and round with its head in the air, until it succumbs. In another moment he was down, and as I surveyed my prostrate quarry I mentally patted myself on the back for what I considered a good performance.

My self-congratulations, however, were rudely dispelled by El Hakim, who had come silently behind me, remarking in his quiet voice, “H’m-m, just the sort of thing you would do,” thereby covering me with confusion; I ventured to remonstrate, and he then asked me where I had hit the beast. I showed him: the bullet had missed the shoulder and struck the neck, severing the main artery and the wind-pipe—cutting the beast’s throat, in fact. “Does not that emphasize what I have told you?” he inquired. “If you had gone close enough to be certain of placing your bullet in the shoulder, you would not have run the risk you did. As it is, it is a very lucky thing for you that your bullet struck the artery; so you see you owe your freedom from accident more to good luck than good shooting.”

I admitted the justice of the rebuke, and determined to manage things better next time.

On the next occasion I tackled a rhinoceros I endeavoured to put into practice the lesson I had learnt, though it could hardly be considered a happy attempt. This time the fault lay in carelessness due to over-confidence. It was in this way. We were going across a piece of open country in the near neighbourhood of the Waso Nyiro, when we saw a rhinoceros just within a fringe of stunted thorn bush, some four hundred yards to the right. El Hakim looked at me inquiringly. I nodded, and, taking the Martini, placed a couple of cartridges in the pocket of my shirt and set out, never doubting but that one cartridge would be sufficient. By careful stalking I got to within fifteen yards of the rhino, and aiming at the shoulder pulled the trigger. To my horror I saw the blood appear on his withers, the bullet striking too high up, just wounding sufficiently to annoy, but not disable him. The rhino at first stood still, and then slowly walked away. I was unwilling to risk my last cartridge on a doubtful shot, so I remained passive. Presently he stopped again a few yards further on, and loading up again I made a move to try to get nearer. In so doing I unavoidably made a slight noise on the loose stones underfoot, which was apparently what the rhino was waiting for, as he came round like a flash and charged me. I went hot and cold by turns as I remembered how much depended on my solitary cartridge, and as further disguise was useless, I dashed to leeward of a small heap of stones two or three feet high, which lay a yard or two away on my right. Round came the rhinoceros after me, and I dodged to the other side, and, a favourable opportunity presenting itself, I put my bullet fairly into his spine, dropping him dead not three yards from me. I breathed a great sigh of relief, and walking back to El Hakim and George, who had been watching the performance, assumed an air of great nonchalance, and casually asked El Hakim for a cigar. That gentleman gazed steadily at me for a moment, but said never a word, and we resumed our interrupted march in silence.

Having now bagged two rhinoceros, we determined to push on to the “Green Camp,” though darkness had already fallen and the bulk of the safari were still some distance behind. Leaving the mules in charge of Ramathani, El Hakim, George, and I pushed forward on foot. We marched on and on, but no sign of the camp we were looking for appeared, and we were inclined to think that we had mistaken our way in the darkness. At seven o’clock in the evening, however, we reached it. It seemed almost like coming home. I had been on my feet since half-past five in the morning, and was thoroughly done up. El Hakim and George were not much better, as riding a mule at a walk becomes very tiring after some hours in the saddle. We three gathered some dry wood and lit a large fire to guide our men, who presently straggled in two or three at a time, till all had arrived, with the exception of Jumbi, his assistants, and the animals. As they had not turned up at ten o’clock in the evening, we got out a large signal rocket, and after some searching found a suitable stick and set it off.

Something, however, went wrong, as instead of ascending the rocket described a low curve in the air and then pitched into the dry grass in front of the camp, instantly setting it into a blaze. We had to bestir ourselves then. It took us an hour of hard work coupled with some small amount of profanity to get the flames subdued.

The humour of the situation then struck us, and we laughed till our sides ached, to the great astonishment of our poor perspiring men, who could not see anything funny in it at all. Another rocket was then sent up with better results, as it ascended to a great height and burst most satisfactorily with a loud report and a shower of multi-coloured stars. It answered its purpose, as half an hour afterwards Jumbi and his assistants came in with the animals, all dead beat, having been over fourteen hours on the road.