IN WILDEST AFRICA

IN WILDEST AFRICA

BY
C. G. SCHILLINGS
AUTHOR OF “WITH FLASHLIGHT AND RIFLE IN EQUATORIAL EAST AFRICA”

TRANSLATED BY
FREDERIC WHYTE

WITH OVER 300 PHOTOGRAPHIC STUDIES DIRECT FROM THE AUTHOR’S
NEGATIVES, TAKEN BY DAY AND NIGHT; AND OTHER ILLUSTRATIONS

Vol. II

London
HUTCHINSON & CO.
PATERNOSTER ROW
1907

YOUNG DWARF ANTELOPE Contents of Vol. II

CORMORANTS. List of Illustrations in Vol. II

SPURRED GEESE (PLECTROPTERUS GAMBENSIS). VIII
In a Primeval Forest

Scenes of marvellous beauty open out before the wanderer who follows the windings of some great river through the unknown regions of Equatorial East Africa.

The dark, turbid stream is to find its way, after a thousand twists and turns, into the Indian Ocean. Filterings from the distant glaciers of Kilimanjaro come down into the arid velt, there to form pools and rivulets that traverse in part the basin of the Djipe Lake and at last are merged in the Rufu River. As is so often the case with African rivers, the banks of the Rufu are densely wooded throughout its long course, the monotony of which is broken by a number of rapids and one big waterfall. Save in those rare spots where the formation of the soil is favourable to their growth, the woods do not extend into the velt. Trees and shrubs alike become parched a few steps away from the sustaining river. The abundance of fish in the river is tremendous in its wilder reaches—inexhaustible, it would seem, despite the thousands of animal enemies. The river continually overflows its banks, and the resulting swamps give such endless opportunities for spawning that at times every channel is alive with fry and inconceivable multitudes of small fishes.

It is only here and there and for short stretches that the river is lost in impenetrable thickets. Marvellous are those serried ranks of trees! marvellous, too, the sylvan galleries through which more usually it shapes its way! They take the eye captive and seem to withhold some unsuspected secret, some strange riddle, behind their solid mass of succulent foliage. It is strange that these primeval trees should still survive in all their strength with all the parasitic plants and creepers that cling to them, strangling them in their embrace. You would almost say that they lived on but as a prop to support the plants and creepers in their fight for life. Convolvuli, white and violet, stoop forward over the water, and the golden yellow acacia blossoms brighten the picture.

In the more open reaches dragonflies and butterflies glisten all around us in the moist atmosphere. A grass-green tree-snake glides swiftly through the branches of a shrub close by. A Waran (Waranus niloticus) runs to the water with a strange sudden rustle through the parched foliage. Everywhere are myriads of insects. Wherever you look, the woods teem with life. These woods screen the river from the neighbouring velt, the uniformity of which is but seldom broken in upon by patches of vegetation. The character of the flora has something northern about it to the unlearned eye, as is the case so often in East Africa. It is only when you come suddenly upon the Dutch palms (Borassus æthiopicus, Mart., or the beautiful Hyphæne thebaica, Mart.) that you feel once again that you are in the tropics.

The river now makes a great curve round to the right. A different kind of scene opens out to the gaze—a great stretch of open country. In the foreground the mud-banks of the stream are astir with huge crocodiles gliding into the water and moving about this way and that, like tree-trunks come suddenly to life. Now they vanish from sight, but only to take up their position in ambush, ready to snap at any breathing thing that comes unexpectedly within their reach. Doubtless they find it the more easy to sink beneath the surface of the river by reason of the great number of sometimes quite heavy stones they have swallowed, and have inside them. I have sometimes found as much as seven pounds of stones and pebbles in the stomach of a crocodile.

The deep reaches of the river are their special domain. Multitudes of birds frequent the shallows, knowing from experience that they are safe from their enemy. One of the most interesting things that have come under my observation is the way these birds keep aloof from the deep waters which the crocodiles infest. I have mentioned it elsewhere, but am tempted to allude to it once again.

Our attention is caught by the wonderful wealth of bird-life now spread out before us in every direction. Here comes a flock of the curious clatter-bills (Anastomus lamelligerus, Tem.) in their simple but attractive plumage. They have come in quest of food. Hundreds of other marsh-birds of all kinds have settled on the outspread branches of the trees, and enable us to distinguish between their widely differing notes.

Among these old trees that overhang the river, covered with creepers and laden with fruit of quaint shape, are Kigelia, tamarinds, and acacias. In amongst the dense branches a family of Angolan guereza apes (Colobus palliatus, Ptrs.) and a number of long-tailed monkeys are moving to and fro. Now a flock of snowy-feathered herons (Herodias garzetta, L., and Bubulcus ibis, L.) flash past, dazzlingly white—two hundred of them, at least—alighting for a moment on the brittle branches and pausing in their search for food. Gravely moving their heads about from side to side, they impart a peculiar charm to the trees. Now another flock of herons (Herodias alba, L.), also dazzlingly white, but birds of a larger growth, speed past, flying for their lives. Why is it that even here, in this remote sanctuary of animal life, within which I am the first European trespasser, these beautiful birds are so timorous? Who can answer that question with any certainty? All we know is, that it has come to be their nature to scour about from place to place in perpetual flight. Perhaps in other lands they have made acquaintance with man’s destructiveness. Perhaps they are endowed with keener senses than their smaller snow-white kinsfolk, which suffer us to approach so near, and which, like the curious clatter-bill (which have never yet been seen in captivity), evince no sign of shyness—nothing but a certain mild surprise—at the sight of man.

Now, with a noisy clattering of wings, those less comely creatures, the Hagedasch ibises, rise in front of us, filling the air with their extraordinary cry: “Heiha! Ha heiha!”

Now we have a strange spectacle before our eyes—a number of wild geese, perched upon the trees. The great, heavy birds make several false starts before they make up their minds to escape to safety. They present a beautiful sight as they make off on their powerful wings. They are rightly styled “spurred geese,” by reason of the sharp spurs they have on their wings. Hammerheads (Scopus umbretta, Gm.) move about in all directions. A colony of darters now comes into sight, and monopolises my attention. A few of their flat-shaped nests are visible among the pendent branches of some huge acacias, rising from an island in mid-stream. While several of the long-necked fishing-birds seek safety in flight, others—clearly the females—remain seated awhile on the eggs in their nests, but at last, with a sudden dart, take also to their wings and disappear. Beneath the nesting-places of these birds I found great hidden shaded cavities, the resorts for ages past of hippopotami, which find a safe and comfortable haven in these small islands.

The dark forms of these fishing-birds present a strange appearance in full flight. They speed past you swiftly, looking more like survivals from some earlier age than like birds of our own day. There is a suggestion of flying lizards about them. Here they come, describing a great curve along the river’s course, at a fair height. They are returning to their nests, and as they draw near I get a better chance of observing the varying phases of their flight.

But look where I may, I see all around me a wealth of tropical bird-life. Snow-white herons balance themselves on the topmost branches of the acacias. Barely visible against the deep-blue sky, a brood-colony of wood ibis pelicans (Tantalus ibis, L.) fly hither and thither, seeking food for their young. Other species of herons, notably the black-headed heron, so like our own common heron (Ardea melanocephala, Vig., Childr.), and further away a great flock of cow-herons (Bubulcus ibis, L.), brooding on the acacias upon the island, attract my attention. Egyptian Kingfishers (Ceryle rudis, L.) dart down to the water’s edge, and return holding tiny fishes in their beaks to their perch above.

The numbers and varieties of birds are in truth almost bewildering to the spectator. Here is a marabou which has had its midday drink and is keeping company for the moment with a pair of fine-looking saddled storks (Ephippiorhynchus senegalensis, Shaw); there great regiments of crested cranes; single specimens of giant heron (Ardea goliath, Cretzschm.) keep on the look-out for fish in a quiet creek; on the sandbanks, and in among the thickets alongside, a tern (Œdicnemus vermiculatus, Cab.) is enjoying a sense of security. Near it are gobbling Egyptian geese and small plovers. A great number of cormorants now fly past, some of them settling on the branches of a tree which has fallen into the water. They are followed by Tree-geese (Dendrocygna viduata, L.), some plovers and night-herons, numerous sea-swallows as well as seagulls; snipe (Gallinago media, Frisch.), and the strange painted snipe (Rostratula bengalensis, L.), the Actophylus africanus, and marsh-fowl (Ortygometra pusilla obscura, Neum.), spurred lapwing (Hoplopterus speciosus, Lcht.), and many other species. Now there rings out, distinguishable from all the others, the clear cry—to me already so familiar and so dear—of the screeching sea-eagle, that most typical frequenter of these riverside regions of Africa and so well meriting its name. A chorus of voices, a very Babel of sound, breaks continually upon the ear, for the varieties of small birds are also well represented in this region. The most beautiful of all are the cries of the organ-shrike and of the sea-eagle. The veritable concerts of song, however, that you hear from time to time are beyond the powers of description, and can only be cherished in the memory.