Central Africa, the unexplored land of our childhood, is vested with a charm that never ceases to allure, and reveals her deepest secrets only to those who dig deep and risk much to discover them. The rivers with their shifting sandbanks, their treacherous rapids and whirlpools, entice again and again those whom the miasma has threatened to slay, as the rushing current threatens the unwary navigator. The native alone is in any degree immune to the former, and it is he who, with his simple knowledge of the shoals and currents, may venture with his inimitable dug-out where scientific navigation is baffled. Inseparable from the African river is the dug-out, unthinkable are the thousands of miles of navigable waterway without this primitive, though astonishingly effective, craft.

Canoeing in Central Africa may be not unpleasant, providing both canoe and paddlers are amiably inclined. The number of canoes available is so restricted that there is little choice, and comfort aside it is wise always to sacrifice size to reputation, for a canoe with a bad name will dispirit the paddlers. The trimmest and most seasoned craft, capable of holding twenty to twenty-five paddlers, is the traveller’s ideal, but the equipment is incomplete without a small pilot boat for surplus baggage, manned with four or five paddlers, who will keep ahead, but always in sight, forewarning of rocks, snags, or sandbanks, and generally discharging the functions of a scout. No less important is the selection of the crew, and these to complete a harmonious group should be volunteers—the best plan being that of getting three or four cheery spirits to select the remainder from amongst their friends.

The African paddler readily responds to an appeal for a co-operative canoe journey, but he dislikes any such undertaking as a mere hired paddler. Make him part and parcel of the journey and a host of potential difficulties vanish. Erect in the bows of the canoe a tiny rush shelter with a bamboo bed for the white man, and only the two final though most important elements remain—music and provisions—the absence of either being equally fatal. For the latter, an ample supply of dried fish and cassava can be stored in the canoe, while a currency in the shape of beads, salt, cloth, pins and needles will do the rest. Without music the African can neither live nor die, nor yet be buried; walking, riding, eating, digging, paddling or dancing, he must have the rhythm of his music, devoid of charm it may be to the European, but vital to the good spirits of the African. To the accompaniment of an old biscuit tin or a couple of sticks, the gunwale of the canoe, or the leaves of the forest, any or all of which can be made to give forth a sufficiency of barbaric sounds to set in rhythmic motion the voices and bodies of all within range.

With canoe packed, paddlers in position with their long spear-shaped paddles and musicians with their instruments, provisions piled high and carefully covered, the start is made. Farewells are shouted, and blessings pronounced which if measured by their volume should preserve the traveller for all time from hippos and snags, storms and mosquitos, sickness, accident and even death.

One sees in the African canoe characteristics as distinct as those of the paddlers, for with a limited companionship comes a close acquaintance with nature and things inanimate. There is the leviathan among native craft shaped by the chief and his followers from a forest giant and bearing herself with the proud consciousness of regal ownership. In such a craft the passengers need have no fear for she rides majestically with her bows reared high, breasting the waves of the tornado-lashed river or lake, unmoved by the raging of the elements. She is seen at her best as she glides down stream under the combined influence of the current and the swinging impetus of her thirty stout paddlers. There is the rickety old canoe with broken stern and crippled sides, and her leaking bottom stuffed with clay, but there is life in her yet. She ships water fore and aft, and amidships too, soaking the traveller’s blankets and provisions, but her long experience gives her an ease in travel which her younger though stouter relatives cannot rival. Then there is the lumbering ungainly dug-out, with crooked nose and knotty sides, unreliable and ill-balanced, possessing an affinity for every submerged snag. “Hard on” she frequently goes and every effort to free her threatens to drown the occupants. Sandbanks she seeks out too and obstinately refuses to “jump” them. The paddlers will haul her off and curse her roundly for her crooked ways,—but as she was hewn so she will remain. At the other end of the scale is the tiny fishing dug-out of the Niger and the Congo, and their still smaller sister of Batanga in Spanish Guinea, the latter so small that the owner may with ease carry on his shoulder both canoe and fishing tackle, and whilst baiting hooks and catching fish he skilfully sits astride her and paddles with his feet.

Inseparable again from the dug-out is the paddler. Who that travelled with him can forget him? Humorous as the London Jehu of the twentieth century, dexterous as his civilized confrères of the ocean, as adaptable to his surroundings as the clay to the potter’s art; at home everywhere and in all conditions in his native land, swimming or standing, sitting or lying, squatting or reclining, sleeping as soundly on the nose of the canoe or the river bank as we in our downiest of feather beds. He is ready and alert with the earliest peep of dawn, as the mists rise from the surface of the river, presenting the appearance of a huge boiling cauldron. Peeping from beneath your mosquito net you see his figure outlined against the dawning light as he keeps a sharp look-out for the hidden snag, and shivers with the clinging chilly mist. His powers of endurance are unequalled, as the rising sun dispels the mists and mounting higher in the heavens becomes increasingly fierce. He still swings his paddle with steady persistence till his body steams with the effort; then after a little halt and refreshment in the friendly shade of the riverside forest, he will go on until the sun is sinking, and if need be, still on in the moonlight, singing his monotonous boat song, occasionally varied by a running commentary from the leader on the incidents of the journey, the peculiarities of a certain paddler, or the ways of the white occupants of the canoe.

During the whole day long the paddler will pursue his task, I see him now almost unconsciously bending his body with each dip of the paddle, till a sudden slowing down followed by a profound stillness arrests the attention. I can again hear those whispered voices as the gentle lapping of the water against the canoe side ceases, and the boat is still. A monkey has perhaps been seen overhead springing from bough to bough, or sitting nibbling the fruit of some forest tree, or it may be an edible bird with flesh as tough as its plumage is gorgeous, that watches us till the gun booms out and the creature is brought down. For a moment it struggles in the river, then with a sudden splash, a man is swimming with powerful strokes towards the prey which he a moment later lands in the canoe, while the rest look approvingly on at their prospective meal. With spirits heartened, on they go, singing of their capture and the feast which is to follow, till turning a bend in the river the destination is at last in sight.

And how they love a race! Let them but see a competitor ahead bound for the same goal, and despite their long day’s paddle they will redouble their strokes. Caution is thrown to the winds and the canoe springs in a mad gallop, rocking to and fro, pitching and tossing against the current until the rival ahead, scenting a race, enters the competition with keen zest. At such times I have found all warnings are in vain. With a rapid girding up of the loin cloths as the boats proceed, a rearranging of the cargo, children, dogs, fowls, baggage and all—the race begins in real earnest. With much shouting and good-natured banter the one or the other will take advantage of every prospect of an up-current; now out again in midstream to avoid a snag; a paddle breaks in the effort, but is quickly discarded and another seized without lessening the speed—and on they go, each determined to win or sink their rival. The boats ship water, but are made to right themselves with marvellous ingenuity and then both stop to bale out, while the paddlers exchange good-humoured threats, gibes, curses and defiance.

On again they go with little advantage to either side, and the word is passed for the “master stroke.” Madder than ever is the race; the white man may shout but they pay no heed, for young manhood has lost all sense of danger. At last the opportunity occurs for the final advantage for the river must be crossed at yonder point. Often have I tried to avoid this danger, proceeding first to command, then to plead, but in vain. I might as effectively have tried to control a hurricane with a feather! To clear the point with its snags, one canoe must fall behind or cross the rival’s bows—to give up and fall back is impossible. The attempt is generally made by the smaller boat to cross the bows of her more powerful rival and though occasionally successful she is more often struck amidships and disappears completely—canoe, paddlers and all!

A great shout goes up and the victors splash in to the rescue, seizing the mats, baskets, provisions and sundries, which float off in every direction. The crew, as much at home in the water as on land, come up one by one and others dive to seize the stern of the sunken canoe. With vigorous pulling and pushing, the water is swished out till she floats again, and in the vanquished spring, again baling out the remaining water with their feet, till it is once more fit for occupation, and every one is prepared for the last lap of the journey. The men take their beating well, enjoying the laugh against themselves. That night all sleep together in a friendly fishing encampment, while the white man curls up in his canoe, and listens to the merry paddlers as they recount with evident enjoyment the story of their five-mile race.

Who that has found a home and nightly shelter in an African canoe will not, as he quits it after many days, feel that he is leaving an old acquaintance behind him. Through the twenty-four hours of sleeping and waking, the canoe and the traveller have adapted themselves to each other’s limitations, and the recently vacated canoe speaks as eloquently of emptiness as the vacant chair.