Exploration of Aïr

Zinder is a very strange town: strange because of its great size in so isolated a position; strange because of the nature of its site and old-world obsolete composition.

Kano, though it is the commercial metropolis of the Western Sudan, is first and foremost the capital of the province of the same name by reason of its large population and importance; and in like manner so we find Zinder, the capital of Damagarim, vastly larger than any fellow-village in the territory—a unique and imposing place, lost in a wilderness of great spaces and little peoples.

It is difficult to give those “back home” a fair conception of the solitude of Zinder. But let us suppose for the moment that England and Scotland are wilderness—without “made” roads, without mason-built houses or cottages—and all England covered with scrub-wood of a great sameness, wherein, concealed among the foliage, a few natives have settlements of primeval gipsy kind, while Scotland, we picture, in fancy, as a mountain-land of barren rock, with lowlands of desert sand, and almost no inhabitants at all.

Zinder is 140 miles from Kano, and Agades, at the southern foot of the Aïr mountains—and the only other old-world town on my route—is 257 miles north of Zinder. Suppose we take London to represent Kano, and set out to walk with a caravan of loaded camels toward the north of England. Days pass, and we see a few gipsy-constructed villages by the wayside—nothing more; but when we approach Sheffield, we are surprised to see a large fortified town appear before us, in the distance, standing in the great wilderness alone. This we can take to represent Zinder, for from London to Sheffield is about equidistant as from Kano to Zinder. If you would continue the journey as far as Edinburgh or Glasgow, you should imagine that you have passed from the scrub-wooded land into desert, and that either of those Scottish towns may represent Agades, for from Sheffield to Edinburgh is about equidistant as from Zinder to Agades. Therefore, to realise the solitude of Zinder, you require to imagine that Sheffield stands alone in her dignity in all the land between London and Edinburgh; and if you would picture even greater solitude, such as invests isolated Agades, you may imagine Edinburgh as a straggling town, not large, but steeped in ancient history, and that it is the only town in the length and breadth of Scotland, the earth’s surface of which we have imagined to be barren as sea-shore which the tide has left, and containing but a mere handful of inhabitants. By such comparisons, by likening with bold sweeps of the brush the home geography to that in the territories of Kano, Damagarim, Damergou, and Aïr, we arrive at the conclusion that there would only be three towns throughout the length of England and Scotland, which we have called London, Sheffield, and Edinburgh for convenience of comparative distance at which they are set apart, and nothing intervening excepting a number of diminutive hut-villages of natives among the scrub-wood of the land. By this time, if your imagination has run free, you have shovelled the countless towns on the map of England, Scotland, and Wales into the sea, so that you have just the three you require and the requisite solitude surrounding them. But that is not all you do: trains must vanish, and ships that visit your shores, and the ocean around you shall be deserted, and no strangers shall come to the land. . . . Then is the picture of Solitude such as it is in the Western Sudan drawn to completion, and you may realise something of the ever-present weight of seclusion that hangs over ill-fated places that lie remotely out of the world and seem to soliloquise of Eternity, since they are so much alone and so near to the earth.

“Ah, it is a sad land!” is an exclamation I have oftentimes heard escape from the lips of Frenchmen who hold appointments in the country, for their vivacious natures feel most keenly the solitude of the barren land which envelops them with a grimness akin to the bare walls of a prison, and holds out no hope of escape until the date of release decreed, the while many a homesick heart has passionate longing for freedom of expression in convivial and comprehensive surroundings. I have been informed by officers that the depression of solitude—no doubt combined with the unnerving influence of malaria—is so great, that some men cannot stand it, and have to be prematurely sent from the territory in a state of total mental collapse; especially is this the case, it is asserted, among the N.C.O.s, who have naturally a narrower field of interest outside their military duties than the officers.

Zinder, like Kano, is surrounded with great earthen walls of similar height and strength, and they are so prominent that they may be sighted at a long distance off, whether you approach the place from the south or the north, for the nature of the landscape is such that you descend to Zinder (altitude 1,640 ft.) from the south, and look on its imposing bulwarks whenever you top a distant ridge which lies about two miles away; while you ascend to it from the north, where, perched on the crown of a rocky ridge, it has the pleasing appearance of a fortified castle. Kano has no view equal to this northern aspect of Zinder, which is of charming outline, and which looks particularly picturesque in the shades of evening, and fantastic in the moonlight, for then are the barren, unsympathetic surroundings almost forgotten under the softening influence of night’s enchantment.

The site upon which Zinder stands is a curious one, insomuch that it is on a rising grade, which extends to the upper or most northern section of the town, which is on a low-rugged ridge extraordinary for the outcrop of giant boulders thereon, some of them many times the height of man, and lending an uncommon character to the surroundings of the habitations. The huts are built of clay-soil in the same manner as at Kano, for the community is, as there, largely Hausa, but the town in general, since it is smaller, is less bewildering in its narrow street-lanes, while there are markedly fewer inhabitants and less commotion. There is a circumstance in Zinder which is sad to relate: many of the dwellings are forsaken, and stand to-day in disrepair or in ruins, and a certain melancholy atmosphere of decline is there. Doubtless there are many causes for this decline, but those that are apparent and presently prominent are: firstly, that the lure of the rapidly ascending prosperity of industries and commerce of Kano has influenced many to desert the old town and go to settle in the great metropolis; and, secondly, that jurisdiction under military rule would appear to contain some element that is irksome to a certain number of natives, and so those who are not content, depart from under the immediate eyes of the administrative to seek, perhaps, a greater freedom in some distant bush-village, or in Hausaland in Nigeria. Natives of primitive environment are very easily influenced, and the act of changing abode an undertaking of small consequence, so that once a movement commences, others quickly follow the example of the leaders. My boys, Sakari and John, I fancy, expressed something of popular Hausa opinion when they quaintly proffered the conviction that “Kano is sweet past Zinder.”

On the high ground just outside the western walls of Zinder there has sprung up, since the date of French occupation in 1900, an extensive European cantonment which is altogether modern and in strange contrast to the old town, to which it is distinctly foreign. Herein are the headquarters of the military administration of the Territoire Militaire du Niger. Here, laid out on broad lines, there are spacious buildings of creditable French colonial design—long flat-roofed, one-story bungalows in type, with pleasant balustrades that shelter cool verandas. The thick walls of the buildings are constructed by natives, with bricks which are baked with clay mud, obtained, strangely enough, by breaking into the ancient wall fortifications of Zinder, and kneaded, with the addition of fibrous straw, and baked or dried in the blazing sun. The domestic quarters or the administrative offices within the bungalows are delightfully cool, and it is pleasant indeed to have occasion to go inside out of reach of the hot sun of day which strikes down perpetually and without mercy on the scorched, expressionless sand of bare streets and compounds. (In the month of February the thermometer registers about 80° Fahr. in the shade at 8 a.m., and about 100° Fahr. at noon, although the hottest season is not reached until June and July.) The cantonment, which might almost be called a town within itself, is unique in the territory, there being nothing but outlying forts to compare with it; indeed, if we go outside it, not even the segregation at Kano, which contains about an equal number of Europeans, can compare, in my opinion, with the general planning and architectural appearance of Zinder. Which may be due to the fact that Kano is principally a township of trading stores, with domestic quarters overhead, whereas at Zinder there is not a shop in the place, and all the buildings are laid out on a well-conceived plan to accommodate the military administration, with due consideration to comfort and their exalted rank.

For the white traveller to come unawares upon the imposing buildings of Zinder, in such isolated surroundings, is naturally a great surprise, and a totally unexpected pleasure; and to the natives who arrive from the distant bush, or stop in the passing of their caravans, they must be a constant source of wonder.

In Zinder or in Kano, or, in fact, anywhere south of Aïr, you never hear “Zinder” given its official name, for, without exception, it is spoken of among the Hausa people under the designation of “Damagarim.” Their explanation is that the name “Zinder” is not of Hausa origin, but is an old Arabic or Tamāshack name belonging to ancient rulers of northern race whose tribes have long ago been driven back, though the name still remains in use among the Semitic races in Aïr and other distant places on the old caravan routes to Tripoli and Algeria.

Zinder came under French rule in 1900.

It was in 1898 that large military missions were organised with the purpose of entering and occupying the country now known as the Territoire Militaire du Niger in the Western Sudan. The project was supported by a treaty between Britain and France which had been agreed on and signed in 1890—eight years before the undertaking was actually set afoot.

There was, in all, three separate missions, which started from Algeria, from the Niger river, and the Congo of French Equatorial Africa; and the scheme was that all would converge on Lake Chad, which was to be the rendezvous should each column meet with success. An object ultimately attained—and the Territoire Militaire was created in 1900, under the jurisdiction of a commandant, with headquarters established at Zinder. In 1901 a second mission was organised to stabilise the position, and this mission was a powerful one in strength of arms, so that an imposing and awesome impression should be made on the minds of any disaffected native inhabitants, should such be encountered. During that year complete occupation of the Damagarim Region was peacefully carried out.

Below are statistics kindly furnished by the commandant, in September, 1920, of the native population in the region known as Damagarim, of which Zinder is the capital:—

It will be seen that the Hausa race predominates, but the northern quarter of this region is near to the limit of their range, for they extend but little farther into the Damergou region, where they are only twenty-three thousand all told; and those principally in the neighbourhood of Tanout.

Toward the end of February I left Zinder.

Takoukout, 109 miles farther on, was to be my next camping-place.

Before leaving Zinder I heard plenty of discouraging news of the journey confronting me: exploits of armed robbers and great scarcity of food were freely spoken of, by both Europeans and natives, as existing drawbacks to visiting Aïr; and I began to note that my Hausa boys were growing restive and suspicious of what lay ahead. In fact, in the end those fearsome but idle rumours unsettled and unnerved Mona to such an extent that, when the time drew near to go forward, I decided to send him back to Kano, deeming it useless to take him further in such a state of mind. Sakari was little better, but he was so helpful in skinning, that I was loath to let him go, and by the aid of increased wages was able to induce him to continue.

It was the old familiar trouble, for I have always found it difficult to induce natives, most of whom appear to have a strong erratical and unreliable temperament in their composition, to leave their homes on a long journey, and, when possibilities of hunger and danger are added, trouble may be anticipated after the undertaking has commenced, no matter how auspicious the start, nor how binding the promises, which were perfectly sincere at the time they were made.

For my own part I had often puzzled over the question: “Why is it that Aïr has so long been avoided by naturalists and travellers?” for, so far as I could gather, no one had explored the country in British interests since Dr. Barth’s geological and anti-slave trade mission to Central Africa in 1850—seventy years ago; but now I believed I had a cue, for hunger and danger are indeed companions of ill-omen sufficiently gruesome to warn away the wise—provided they are altogether without some opposite neighbours to stand by in time of stress and modify the fearsome picture. But of this more anon.

It may be said that in leaving Zinder, northward bound, one passes out into true Sahara and true wilderness. Henceforward the break-up of the natural bushland sets in, and wide belts of sand desert and dwarf bush alternate, until the vast sea of sand-plain is reached about 180 miles north of Zinder. Henceforward, also, the nature of the country undergoes change; it is more barren than before, which is reflected at once in the tremendous drop in population which occurs in the region or province of Damergou; and it is reflected, also, in the dwarf stature of the ill-nourished acacia trees, which, by the way, remind me much of the dying-down of the timber forests of Canada to the dwarf Scrub Pine on the shores of the sub-Arctic barren grounds. How strikingly similar are those two instances of landlocked shores, that are boundary between bushland and desert or plain, though they take effect in continents widely separated, and of entirely different climatic conditions! In both cases the trees are ill-thriven and dwarfed, but there is a difference: in the Sudan the cause is to be found in the unfertile sand and lack of moisture, while in Canada it is the severity of the winter in that particular latitude which lays its blight upon the land.

Then, too, as you enter wilderness and land of diminished population, you pass into country that is poorer in bird life, but richer by far in big-game than any territory to the south—as shall be seen as we progress.

The village of Tanout, 85 miles distant, lay across our path to Takoukout, and I set out with the intention of covering the distance in five days, which meant fairly stiff going for the well-loaded camels. As customary, we had the usual trouble with certain animals and their burdens on the first day out from Zinder, and were on the road, without pause for rest, from 7 a.m. till 4 p.m., when we reached Bakimaran after a journey of 18 miles. There is a belt of barren land which starts about 5 miles south of Zinder and continues northward until beyond Bakimaran—a belt altogether 25 to 30 miles in width—and it was across this that we travelled in setting out. It was drearily bare country, undulating in places with low rounded rises, sandy or covered with withered grass, and often with rough outcrops of gravel and boulders and rock, while, in patches, there was some scraggy bush and an odd tree. Few natives were encountered until Bakimaran was reached, and cattle and goat-herds, which are common to inhabited territory, were remarkably scarce, though the latter circumstance could, perhaps, in a measure be explained, as there are occasions in the dry season when grazing or water give out, and it is necessary that the main herds of the people be driven, often long distances, to find new pasturage. Apropos of this, there sometimes arises an amusing incident: a thunderstorm and sudden cloud-burst of heavy rain occurs in a limited locality and starts the grass growing green; before long a wandering bushman chances upon this fine pasture, and hastens away to fetch his lean and hungry herds to it; but on his return he finds to his disgust that someone, who has also made the discovery, has forestalled him, and there ensues lively dispute over rights of possession, which sometimes ends in angry abuse and even fighting—like to the madness of two hungry dogs that pounce together upon a dish of appetising food, antagonistic and snarling, although the vessel, in all probability, contains ample repast for both.

On the following day we departed from Bakimaran before dawn, and camped at Kaléloua in the afternoon. On the way we passed from the barren belt into fairly thick bush country, wherein no native habitations were seen until we reached our destination. The country now contained some big game. Red-fronted Gazelles were numerous, and were observed, usually, singly or in pairs, and I had no difficulty in shooting sufficient meat for my natives and the headmen of Kaléloua. Also one small band of giraffe were observed, but not disturbed, much to the disappointment of my natives, who were most anxious that I should kill those Rakuma-n-daji (Camels of the bush), which is the quaint Hausa name for those odd-shaped animals.

On the third day, which was a Sunday, we travelled to Dambiri. During the early part of the day we continued to pass through the bush belt we had entered on the previous day, but midway on the journey, after about 20 miles of bush country lay behind, this gave place again to open plains of sand and dry grass, which continued to Dambiri, and beyond as far as eye could see. In contour the open landscape was gently rolling, without any sharp rise, and not unlike the plain we had passed in leaving Zinder, except in the ever-growing supremacy of sand and solitude.

The growing poverty of the land is reflected in the natives and their habitations: the village of Dambiri, like the few others we had passed since leaving Zinder, was small, and the grass dwellings and yard fences built with less neatness and thoroughness than further south, and there was much that was unkempt and uncared for in the general aspect of the place, while the natives themselves were poor and raggedly clad. It is curious to note how surely the gradual change from fertile land to desert land is insistent of a corresponding falling off in the quantity and quality of the Hausaland natives, until they reach the very lowest ebb on the shores of the desert, and cease to venture farther; while another and vastly different race, the nomad Tuaregs, take up the duel of existence against nature in the great barren sea-like wastes beyond.

Dambiri, the designation of the village, is not an unpleasant Hausa name in quality of sound, but one gets rather a set-back if inquisitive enough to inquire into the literal English translation, for the meaning of the word is, “a bush cat with a bad smell”—which, I take it, rather pointedly has reference to the Civet Cat.

Once a week, on a set day, it is the custom of each village to hold market; and market-day constitutes the most important occasion in the routine of native life, for all are born traders, even in this impoverished territory of small productiveness, and outlying natives and the inhabitants of other villages travel eagerly, often long distances, with their quota of humble produce, to swell the concourse. Sunday was the day of market at Dambiri, so that there was unwonted stir about the place when we arrived, and much sound of tom-toms. I will not go into details of market-day at Dambiri, for the wares and proceedings are similar to those described at Kano; but I will make mention of the tom-tom music.

Those drum-beats which emanate so persistently from the village, and which sound so monotonous and aimless to the European stranger, have in reality a definite purpose to the initiated, for they are in fact declaring urgent news that is intended to reach the ears of all, something after the manner of the old-fashioned town-crier in our own country, who goes forth with a hand-bell to make quaint public proclamations. Here are a few examples selected out of many: a certain rattan, or scale of beats, means that a beast (ox, sheep, or goat) is about to be killed, and that those who want fresh meat should hasten to purchase it before the excessive heat of the climate works destruction upon it; another sound denotes that meat is being sold at the market-place—not at the slaughter-place; others call the population to foregather before the King’s dwelling, or to a wedding, or to feast; and yet another warns the people of the approach of a Saraki (local king) or a Amiru (emir or prince). In the examples which I have given, it will be seen that there is some need of urgency in the proclamation; and that is usually the case. Furthermore, the drum-beats of the tom-tom travel much farther than the human voice, and as it is often desired to reach the ears of the people at toil in the fields as well as those within the village, the inhabitants show cuteness in thus using their favourite instrument of music (?) for the duties of the day as well as for pleasure.

On the fourth day we journeyed throughout across strange wide plains of grass and sand, where no trees grow and but few scattered dwarf bushes, and camped at Mazia, which has an altitude of 1,700 ft., so that a decided ascent has set in since leaving Dambiri (1,500 ft.). In fact, on reaching Tanout next day, the highest altitude thus far encountered was recorded, namely, 1,800 ft., while a little further north, above Guinea Valley, the continuation of the same height of land recorded 1,900 ft., which is the highest point noted anywhere on my route from Kano to Agades.

During the late afternoon, at Mazia, I shot two Dorcas Gazelles and one great Arab Bustard to add to our scant supply of food. The dainty little Dorcas Gazelles are creatures that frequent the open plains and thin scrub, so that they too furnished evidence that we were now on the shores of the desert.

Water is not plentiful nor pure at Mazia: in fact, at this season (I am writing at the end of February), after four or five months have passed without rainfall, many wells reach a very low ebb, and pure water was a luxury enjoyed only at Zinder. Elsewhere it was always much discoloured with vegetable matter, and decaying timber props and soil; but it is precious enough even so, for it means no less than life to man and beast in this country of ravenous sunlight and terrifying dryness.

True to schedule, my caravan completed the 85-mile journey from Zinder to Tanout in the calculated time, and weary, dust-covered men and beasts camped at the Fort on the fifth day. On the way the country continued open and practically bushless, and little changed from that of the previous day, until the caravan drew near to Tanout, when three small hills became visible in the direction we were heading, while many of the low ridges among the sand-dunes were now strewn with dark glazed and rounded stones and pebbles, which gave to them a curious and striking resemblance, when viewed from a distance, to the colour of heather-hills at home in winter-time; also, in the low ground in the widely sweeping hollows between the rounded rises, there were often large circular or oval, basin-like, sand-coloured mud-flats, which, no doubt, hold lakes of water in the flood-rains of a good year (during some years very little rain falls in the wet season, which, roughly, is July and August in this territory, while there are occasions when the country is cruelly handicapped by two or three successive years of very slight rainfall), but which now appear to the eye as dry and smooth as a concrete area, and devoid of a single blade of grass or shrub or boulder—a cleanliness quite remarkable where no human hand has given aid.

At this season of the year Tanout is surrounded by dreadfully bare country, and one can scarcely conceive that the dead wastes of sand of the present time are, at another season, cultivated and green with the tall luxuriant growth of millet, guinea-corn, and maize; nevertheless, such is the case. The neighbourhood of Tanout is a renowned granary in the western Sudan, and it is to this territory that the Tuaregs of Aïr, who for lack of rain grow very little in their own country, send their caravans to barter for or purchase the grains which I have named above, which are the staple foods they live upon. This in some cases entails a journey of 170 miles (from Agades), and in others as much as 300 miles (from Timia, the furthest north inhabited village in Aïr to-day), which figures should be doubled if one wishes to calculate the full distance, outward and homeward, that caravans travel before they can bring food to the doors of their people.

The caravan track from the south runs straight into Tanout fort, which therefore acts as a barrier across the route, where all who pass may be questioned as to their identity and business—which is, in fact, a duty performed at this place, where a check is desired for military reasons on all native comings and goings. The fort, which stands facing south on a slight rise, is small; a square enclosure within high thick mud walls, containing a few humble hutments set back against the main structure and facing into the small open barrack square, which serve as quarters for the Europeans and magazines for military stores. The coloured troops are camped outside in a group of grass-thatched huts just west of the fort walls, where a straight avenue, planted with young trees that hesitate to take root in the ungracious soil, leads down to the native village, which lies in a dip about a quarter of a mile to the west. The native village is poorly constructed and primitive, much like the others in the region, even though this is the capital of Damergou. At the time of my visit there was one European officer and three N.C.O.s at the fort in command of the coloured troops; and a more isolated life than theirs could not well be imagined.

The native population in 1920 within the region of Damergou, of which Tanout is the capital, is detailed as follows:

I also made some interesting notes with regard to the camels in this region and the alarming decline which has recently taken place—alarming because transport and existence in the country are so much dependent on those animals. It is stated that there were 15,000 camels in Damergou previous to the rising of 1916 in Aïr, whereas now there remain but 2,800—2,200 the property of Tuaregs, and 600 belonging to Beri-Beri. The chief reason of this great loss of animals appears to lie in the fact that at the time of the rising— which, I am told, had strong religious influence behind it, of the Senussi persuasion, as well as cunning instigation from Constantinople, where the Turks were already the sworn enemies of France in Europe—nearly all the Tuareg natives hastened north to join the rebel leader, Kaossen, taking with them their camels; and few of those camels ever returned. If one considers that a female camel has but one young at a birth, and that many years are required to rear camels to maturity, it will be seen that the loss is very serious, since it can hardly be replaced—unless animals were imported wholesale, which, I fancy, is an impossibility.

In the following two days I completed the journey to my destination at Takoukout, which is merely the native name of a shallow valley, wherein a few nomad Tuaregs, who live in gipsy-like families, herding their cattle and goats and roaming from place to place in the virgin bush, have excavated numerous pit-like wells to obtain sufficient water for themselves and their stock.

There are no native villages north of Tanout— none until Agades is reached, 169 miles away, at the southern end of the mountains of Aïr.

There is no water anywhere between Tanout and Takoukout at this season, so, before setting out, one camel was loaded with goat-skins of water sufficient to serve for the journey.

The country north of Tanout is very irregular, with much of the ground surface strewn with pebbles and bare of vegetation, while some strange and picturesque escarpments were passed before descending into Guinea Valley, which is about 300 ft. below the level of the high land on which Tanout is situated. In Guinea Valley, 13 miles north of Tanout, the barren belt, which had first been entered beyond Kaléloua at a point 50 miles back, is left behind, and in the low ground there is now more bush-growth, which continues to Takoukout, and beyond to the very edge of the desert-sea.

After a pleasant cool journey by moonlight, my caravan reached Takoukout on the second morning after my departure from Tanout; whereupon I prepared to make a permanent encampment whence to do some hunting, for in this last belt of bush before the desert is entered there is much game reported, and, what concerned me most, ostriches! Lord Rothschild was particularly anxious to secure specimens of those birds from this isolated region.

It is remarkable that in the wide range of territory over which I journeyed, ostriches were to be found only in one particular part. I have endeavoured to show, in the preceding chapter, that on the shores of the desert there are alternating strips of barren desert and bushland, and it is in the very last belt of bush, which reaches to the actual edge of the desert, that ostriches are to be found— roughly between the small forts of Tanout and Aderbissinat in a scattered bush belt about 80 miles in width. I have seen one ostrich track within 30 miles of Agades (near Tegguidi cliff) and some 50 miles north of the usual range, while I have heard reports of ostriches being near Agades, but in actual experience I have seen enough to feel satisfied that they do not often range far beyond the bush belt, which dies out a short distance north of Aderbissinat, and about 80 miles south of Agades, which is near to the foot of the Aïr mountains.

In deciding to make camp at Takoukout, I had selected the place put forward by my camel-men and by the local natives as the most favourable for the pursuit in view, while at the same time they warned me that ostriches were not numerous anywhere in the country; and their judgment eventually proved to be quite sound.

It was March 4th when I reached Takoukout and set about preparing a permanent camp. I had had an escort of Senegalese soldiers with me since leaving Zinder, for it is the military rule that no European shall proceed north of that point unaccompanied by an armed escort, and from Tanout six soldiers were detailed to go with me to guard my belongings and person at Takoukout, so that on this occasion pitching camp was rather an elaborate business, as it required some defensive arrangement. With the purpose of gaining a little shade, a clump of bush in a slight hollow was selected, and there camp was established within a thick brushwood barricade of thorn bushes, which was erected all around the encampment for protection and as an enclosing wall. It was difficult to find any local natives to help in cutting down trees for hut construction, since the few that existed within visiting distance of the Takoukout wells were hidden away in solitary bush-camps, and it was difficult, also, to secure grass in the neighbourhood sufficiently long for the purpose of covering in the walls and roof of the huts; but a few Tuaregs of the district came to our aid on the second day, and a comfortable camp was knocked into shape in due course. There were then within the zareba: my tent erected for my own use; a grass-hut workshop; a small cooking shelter for John; and, set some distance apart, four rough hut sun-shelters for the soldiers, as well as for Sakari, a local hunter, and a camel-man; while my horse, and those belonging to escort, and two camels for carrying water-skins or game on long journeys in the bush, were also within the enclosure on nights that I happened to be there.

A notable addition to my personnel at this time was a native hunter, of whom I shall make brief reference. This local warrior, whose proper name was Dirto, but whom my followers invariably called Tsofo (old man), was secured for me by the French officer at Tanout, so that I would have a man familiar with hunting, and, above all, familiar with the puzzling sameness of the level seas of low bush-forest which prevailed in the Takoukout region. Tsofo, as I too called him, since the name fitted so well, had the reputation of being a great chasseur who had lived his life hunting the wild animals of the bush with snare and bow and arrows, which primitive devices are the only ones available to the natives for pursuit of the chase in the country.

For the purpose of hunting, and, particularly as a means of defence, bows and arrows are universally in use in Damergou, and an adult male native is seldom seen abroad, no matter on what business he is intent, without bow in hand and a leather sheath, containing usually about fifteen arrows, slung from a cord over the left shoulder. The same weapon is much used in Damagarim and Kano provinces, but not to the same extent as in this still more remote and exposed zone, where the need for an arm for protection is imperative, since among the natives there is not only lingering dread of robbers descending across the desert from the north, but also the wild instinct of very primitive people, in dreadfully primitive surroundings, to wage war, one against the other, under the grim impulse of an existence that demands self-protection before all else, and upholds the faith that life is a struggle for “the survival of the fittest.” The European law of the country forbids any natives to possess fire-arms.

But, to return to Tsofo, I will endeavour to describe him, for he was an odd character in appearance and constitution, and at the same time somewhat typical of many of his kind. When I first laid eyes on him, I could not believe that the ill-clad, unkempt creature that stood before me was the chosen hunter that was to accompany me. Upon my word, I never saw a dirtier native; his bit of a gown, once white, now a smoked blackish colour, was cast carelessly over his shoulder and hung in rags about him, full of rents and badly frayed round the bottom edge; beneath this he wore an equally discoloured buck-skin loin-cloth and apron. He carried not a scrap of food when he joined me, and had nothing about his person except bow and arrows, and a hatchet and hunting-knife of his own crude making. Undoubtedly he was past his prime, in fact he was an old man, despite the stalwart framework that remained of deep chest, and mighty thighs and lower limbs which bespoke an athlete. His face was so wrinkled with exposure, and with frowning beneath the fierce rays of the sunlight, and so unkempt that it would be unkind to estimate his character by it. The coarse hair on his head and the scrub-beard on his chin were almost entirely grey, and his watery red-rimmed eyes betrayed declining years.

He wore a broad-brimmed, high-crowned hat, locally woven with dyed grasses, which was not unlike the garish headgear of a Spanish muleteer. On his feet he wore rough sandals cut to shape from a single piece of thick antelope-hide. He was a Beri-Beri native of a very primitive class, and most of his kind that I have seen have fine physique, but coarse features of heavy unattractive type, and I have often doubted the purity of their breeding.

As I have said, it would be unkind to judge Tsofo’s character by his unprepossessing appearance, so I will tell you how I found him in daily life. In his favour be it said: he knew perfectly the bush country where we hunted, and, during many long journeys in the most difficult bush I have ever encountered, he never failed to find his way back to the base camp, though he had one or two occasions for anxiety. On the other hand, Sakari, the Hausa boy, was quite bewildered in this country, and got separated from us and lost on three occasions, which goes to show that all natives have not that marvellous faculty of travelling in a given direction with animal-like instinct and memory, which is usually their most striking gift. On account of this shortcoming, it is interesting to note that Sakari had lived most of his life in Lagos and Kano, and belonged to a family of shop-keepers, so that no doubt environment, which has such a powerful influence on the character of mankind as well as on the lesser creatures of the earth, had much to do with his loss of natural instinct.

Tsofo’s knowledge of the bush was his greatest asset; as a hunter he was not a success, for undoubtedly he was too old, as I will explain below. But he was most eager to serve me and to bag game, and spared no pains to that end. Also he was on friendly terms with the few nomad Tuaregs who came about the shallow wells at Takoukout to water their herds and fill their water-skins. (With them this old hand at travelling light and camping anywhere bartered part of his share of the buck-meat killed, so that he could have millet-meal (Dawa) and goat cheese (Chuku) to vary his diet.) He was kindly disposed to all he met, and had always a word and a hand-pat for children, while he never attempted that domineering attitude which natives are so prone to assume, when backed by a white man’s presence, to bully some gift from the frightened bush-people.

Being an old man, long days were too much for Tsofo, but, even so, he never dropped behind while he hunted, though the efforts of the day often caused him to groan with pain and complain of sickness when we got into camp at night. He had wonderful strength and endurance for his age, and I often found myself admiring his dogged gait, though it was nothing less than pure animal toughness of the kind which one associates with tramps, or tinkers in the old country, who live outdoors the year round, and care little for bodily comfort and cleanliness so long as they can secure enough to eat.

Tsofo had his limitations: he would eat food in almost any condition and in large improvident quantities. When he joined my caravan he was well-nigh in a starving condition, and when a gazelle was killed for food, the old man fell upon it like a jackal, starting on the raw entrails, when disembowelling the animal, and thereafter cooking and eating meat until he was completely gorged. Next day he was sick and not so greedy, but he soon recovered, and before long I knew him to be a savage, untamed glutton when he had food in his possession. The old rascal, I’m sure, had been a very fine hunter and tracker, for he knew all the “tricks of the trade,” as it were, and the habits of the animals; but both eyesight and hearing were impaired to such an extent that he altogether lacked the acutely keyed keenness of those senses, which are essential to good hunting. I soon found that he was a blunderer after he had spoilt a chance or two to shoot in failing to detect the first slight movement of wary game, while he proved a dreadfully slow tracker, because, by reason of his bad eyesight, he often overshot the footprints he was following in the sand, and had to search about to pick up the right track again. His knowledge of the bush was invaluable, and, besides, he had an unassuming character that pleased me, so I always took him out, but when I understood his weakness, I did not allow him to join me up in front, but bade him follow some hundred yards behind.

Before I proceed to deal with the actual search for ostriches, I feel I should make reference to the climate, and its fierce antagonism to comfortable hunting in this part of the world.

I would not like to boldly assert that the climate in the Western Sudan is unhealthy for Europeans, for such an assertion might appear unjust in the estimation of some men of very adaptable and robust constitution, but on the whole I think it can justly be said that the climate is such as belongs to Central Africa in general, and that therefore it already has an accepted reputation for being very hot and trying. North of the neighbourhood of Kano there is no open water or marsh in the dry season (approximately from October to July), so that for the greater part of the year no hanging dampness, no mosquitoes, and no malaria are experienced in the country with which I am dealing—which is so much to the good. On the other hand you have a mighty opponent to comfort and health in the form of the merciless sun, which glares down upon the white glittering sand-surface of the earth with unmitigated fierceness, laying an awesome withering breathlessness upon the land which saps the energy of man and beast, so that they perforce forsake their occupations for the greater part of the day and seek rest in the shade; while even the plant life cannot survive the remorseless moisture-consuming oppressor in the sky, and leaves and grass that were green in the short rainy season, lie wilted and bleached on the sand. We Europeans of temperate zones love the sun, but I’m afraid Old Sol is a graceless and greedy robber of the earth’s vitality in some climes, and here, where Nature has raised no compact leafy screen upon the land, nor sends not clouds across the sky, he well-nigh reigns supreme over smitten wastes that lie wretchedly subdued because of his unopposed power. On account of the intense heat, and the exhaustion resultant therefrom, I found the climate very trying at times, for there are many occasions when the hunter must be afoot all day in the open, while, even if he chances to be in camp, the collector seldom enjoys relaxation from his busy labours by the specimen bench during the valuable hours of daylight. Records of temperature on 27th March read: 7 a.m., 58% Fahr.; noon, 105% Fahr.; 8 p.m., 71% Fahr. I have brought up the subject of climate at this juncture, because it was at Takoukout that I felt the heat more trying than at any other period—in fact, it temporarily sapped my strength to such an extent that I came near collapsing under the strain of day after day searching the stifling hot waterless country for restless, ever-travelling ostriches.

I will not enter into every incident of the unlucky hunting that I experienced at Takoukout, but will quote from my diary a few records of typical days. In all I hunted twenty days for ostriches and saw sixteen birds, but never fired a shot at any of them. Nevertheless, the general details of hunting them are, I feel sure, not without peculiar interest, and on that account I am induced to give some personal experiences.

7th March.—Away hunting all day. Left camp 6.30 a.m.; returned 5.30 p.m. Set out north-west till noon, then north till 3 p.m., then south-east to camp. Searched again for ostriches without seeing any; a few tracks encountered, all leading westward. In late afternoon, having seen no ostriches, I decided to break the silence, which I was particular to preserve so long as there was hope of coming on any of the great wary birds, and to shoot gazelle, if the opportunity offered when nearing camp. Now, the country within the last bush-belt is rich in game, and a day never passed without seeing some beautiful gazelle-creatures which surely must rank among the most noble on earth, so delicate in form are they, so superbly graceful, so joyously alive in activity and in the sheen of health that casts a glamour over their soft rich coats, so proud with their finely poised heads and large inquiring eyes and nostrils. There were three species of them: sometimes dainty little Dorcas Gazelles, pale fawn in colour, like the dry grass and sand, would be encountered in small lots of two, four, and five, and occasionally in herds of about ten to fifteen in the open sandy glades, which they seem to prefer to frequent; sometimes, again, the rich rufous Red-fronted Gazelles would be seen among the acacias, usually single, in pairs, or in threes and fours—never in herds; while yet again the big and striking Dama Gazelles would be encountered—striking because of the large amount of conspicuous white which they possess. They are the largest species of the genus. They were occasionally seen single, but are much given to associate in herds of ten, twenty, thirty, or more. (Later on, in August, after the advent of the Rains, which had caused a tall rank grass to spring up in the bush and gave leaf to the acacias, so that the country appeared much more enclosed and vastly changed from the open barrenness which it possessed in the dry season, those animals appeared to be migrating northward out into the desert margin; no doubt so that they might breathe the wind of the open places, and be to some extent free from flies, and feed on the fresh delicate grasses that were then sprouting forth. On one notable day, when between Tegguidi and Abellama—before the bush belt is entered when journeying from the north—I passed herd after herd of Dama Gazelles, and was able to get close enough on three occasions to count the numbers. The totals were 37, 44, and 84, and in each case I probably overlooked a few.