It is almost impossible to exaggerate the part which the African “porter” or carrier, plays in the history of the Dark Continent. The hinterland of the vast tropical regions—a death-trap to every beast of burden—has been opened up by the carrier together with his brother transport worker—the paddler. The heavier burden has, beyond question, been borne by the former, by the countless thousands of hard woolly heads which have sweated under the weight of innumerable bales and cases too often receiving as a reward of their labour an endless stream of abuse. It seemed justifiable to murmur when crossing those swamps and fighting one’s way through impenetrable forest, but at a distance, and with time for calm reflection, there can surely be no other thought in the mind of any African traveller than that of admiration, as he pictures those sons of Africa with heavy and cumbersome loads upon their heads, floundering through swamps, or toiling up steep hills and along stony paths, cutting and blistering the feet, while the fierce rays of the tropical sun scorch every living thing. Yet on that carrier goes, footsore, often foodless, yet ever ready to renew the march of to-morrow.

Railways and bridges, steamboats and bungalows, engines of war, machinery for drilling into the bowels of the earth, lofty windmills, telegraph wires and poles—these and other European conquerors of African air, land and water have by the thousands of tons found themselves hundreds of miles in the interior of Africa owing to the infinite endurance of the African carrier. Abuse him who will, but be sure of one thing, history will yet give him his due.

The railways, bridges and steamboats, would, so we were told, lessen the need for carriers. That they have shortened distances we grant, but so far from the need of the carrier being lessened, economic expansion has increased the demand. The opening up of the country has brought an insatiable civilization into close touch with vast uncultivated tracts of land, with the result that a great impetus has everywhere been given to agricultural development, which in turns calls for an unceasing stream of carriers to feed the railways and steam craft.

Thirty years ago the British colony of the Gold Coast possessed no railways, nor was there any export of cocoa. To-day she exports annually over a million pounds’ worth of cocoa-beans, requiring in the season over 100,000 carriers to convey the cocoa harvests to the railways. True statesmanship must always aim at releasing labour from the unproductive task of transport, in order that it may till the soil, but it is doubtful whether the African carrier will ever completely disappear.

Their long procession is never without interest; every man has some distinguishing mark upon which the white traveller may meditate as he trudges along, now in front, now in the centre, now again in the rear of a caravan. What a medley yonder man carries upon his head! There is the traveller’s “chop” box or his bundle of bedding, to which perhaps is lashed by means of a piece of forest vine, the sundry goods and chattels of that simple-hearted carrier—an old salmon tin filled with odd little packages of salt, chili peppers, bits of string, possibly a piece of soap, an old knife and the end of a native candle. There is also the “Sunday best,” whose owner, while looking happy enough in that strip of loin cloth held in place by a cheap European strap, yet strides the firmer and prouder because of that old cotton shirt and the patched white trousers so carefully protected by a bundle of forest leaves. Provisions, too, are there, carefully pounded, cooked and flavoured by the good wife at home. Those unsavoury manioca puddings for “her man” are generously accompanied by her catches of fish, smoked and set aside that he might each day have an appetizing morsel for his meal.

Other carriers are distinguished by the wounds and bruises of their calling—one limps along with a sore foot, but on he goes until the journey’s end; others there are with sore skin or nasty wounds, caused by forest thorns or rough stones, others whose chafed shoulders of yesterday now gape and become a resting-place for the torment of flies; yet, with it all, the impatient traveller too frequently falls to scolding and even cursing them for their “laziness”!

No white man should be allowed to travel beyond a day’s journey with a caravan unless he has a few medical aids for such bruised and wounded helpers, and it will repay him if human gratitude can be called a reward. Cuts and wounds are both the inevitable price of African travel, and it is a necessity and a duty to carry a few spare bandages and healing ointments. There is satisfaction too in gathering the sick men round in the evening and giving them a soothing plaster, ointment or a bandage. A little human kindness of this nature helps to make the journey a happier one for all, but alas too often what the Germans call tropenkoller has no conception of a remedy for complaints beyond the whip or the boot.

The carrier is no more an angel than other human beings, no matter whether pink or black; he has all the imperfections and the love of self-preservation of the brother who calls himself white. I remember once having all the loads laid out ready for the start and then giving the order for each man to choose his load. It was evident the carriers had mentally marked the load each would like to seize, for a dash was made for a small box only about 18 inches square and having the appearance of a 20 lb. load—but it was a case of cartridges weighing 80 lbs.! How promptly they all discarded that box and dashed away for the larger but lighter loads!

Strangely enough the carrier seldom “pilfers” on a journey. The white man’s goods may suffer depredations on the steamer or on the train, but on the march there seems to be a sacred community of interest which safeguards the goods of most white men as effectively as if protected by the spirit-haunted herbs and parrot feathers of the witch doctor, but when civilization, in the shape of steamers and railway trains, enters barbarous regions away goes the eighth commandment. There is one respect in which every African traveller invariably suffers—hungry at the mid-day hour, he calls for “chop”; thirsty, he asks for filtered water; or at night, dead tired, he looks for his folding bed; he may call in vain, for either from set purpose with some definite object in view, or from stupidity, these essentials to the white man are generally “miles behind.”

Probably the carrier is at his best when travelling through the vast forests, where, shielded from the sun by the interlacing trees overhead, it is delightfully cool and the layers of dried leaves render the path as soft and springy as the richest carpet. Carriers and traveller are in high mood and as conversation flows freely the traveller realizes what great students of nature these sons of Africa are. As they walk along, they will name every tree and almost every plant; they will tell how many moons elapse before the trees begin to bear; they will give descriptions of edible fruits, the birds and animals which each kind of fruit attracts, varying these running comments by periodic dashes through the undergrowth in search of fruits to illustrate the conversation.

How closely, too, they watch the path for the footprints of animal life, never at a fault to identify the prints with their owners, or accurately gauge the time when the creature passed by, begging, if the traces are recent, to be allowed to track the “meat.” As time does not concern the hunter, it is generally wise, if there is any reasonable chance of obtaining food for the caravan, to camp for the night. This knowledge of forest life stands the natives in good stead, for not infrequently provisions run out on the long marches and in the absence of human habitations, the question of feeding the caravan becomes a serious matter.

At one time we had marched for days without any opportunity of obtaining a supply of food and the carriers were all suffering from hunger; in a whole day we seldom found more than a small handful of edible fruit. At last it became almost impossible to push on with the caravan so tired and hungry: I called together a few of the men and asked what we should do, whereupon one made the novel suggestion of “calling the meat.” The proposal was readily taken up and three of us pushed on ahead with guns. Arriving at a quiet spot, one of the men—a very son of the forest—fell on his knees, and, placing the tips of two fingers in his nostrils, emitted a series of calls which made that forest glen echo with, as it were, the joyous cries of a troop of monkeys! How anxiously the tops of trees were watched! After repeating these tactics in several places in the immediate vicinity for about half-an-hour, a man close to me whispered excitedly “here they come”! In the distance we could see the tree tops moving, and in a short time a score of monkeys could be seen skipping from tree to tree towards the inimitable monkey cries of our carrier. New life was infused into the whole caravan when they saw the gun bring down four monkeys for the evening meal; lowering countenances were wreathed with smiles, grumblings and cursings gave place to joyous songs in which even the sick and lame gladly joined. At dinner that night the men were so famished that they could not stop to cook the meat, but contented themselves with merely singeing off the skin and eating the uncooked flesh.

To emerge from the forest is generally to enter once more into habitable country, and there the carriers, no matter how far from home, generally discover a relative—a brother or a sister, a father or a mother. Their relationships are strangely elastic, many an African laying claim to as many mothers as wives, in point of fact the father’s brothers and the mother’s sisters all rank as the fathers and mothers of the children. The roving British tar may have a wife in every port, but he is surpassed by the African carrier who may have not only a wife but a mother and sometimes a father too in every village!