THE STEPPES OF INNER AFRICA.
The north of Africa is desert, must be desert, and will be desert for ever. For between the Red Sea and the Atlantic, the land-area exposed to the scorching sun is so extensive that the surrounding seas have not their usual climatic importance. The Red Sea is out of account altogether; even the Mediterranean is too small to have great influence, and the Atlantic Ocean affects only a narrow belt along the west coast. Over regions so vast and so hot, every cloud is dispersed without moistening or fertilizing the parched ground. Only when we go much further south, near the equator, do the conditions change. On the one side, the Atlantic Ocean sweeps in with a great curve; on the other side, the Indian Ocean washes the African shores, the two oceans, as it were, stretching their hands across the continent. Here, moreover, at certain times, thunder-storms bring downpours of rain so heavy that the desert has to give way to the more living steppe, and the year is divided into two essentially different seasons—of life and of death, of rain and of drought, whereas in the barren desert only the periodic winds bear tidings of the seasonal changes in progress elsewhere.
In order to understand the steppe-lands it is necessary to give a rapid sketch of their seasons. For every country reflects its dominant climate, and the general aspect of a region is in great part an expression of the conflicting forces of its seasons, apart from which it cannot be understood.
Almost as soon as the rains are over, the season of destruction and death begins—the long and terrible winter of the African interior—a winter which brings about by heat the same dire effects as are wrought in the North by cold. Before the sky, hitherto often clouded, has become quite clear, some of the trees, which had become green in spring, throw off their foliage, and with the wind-swept leaves go the wandering birds. These had brooded here in the spring, but now they seek other fields. The stems of the cereals turn yellow before the rains have ceased; the low grasses wither and dry. The intermittent water-courses cease to have any flow; the rain-filled pools are dried up; and not only the reptiles and amphibians, but even the fishes peculiar to them, are forced to burrow and seek winter-quarters in the damp clay. The seeds of plants, and the eggs or larvæ of insects are also hidden away in the earth.
As the sun travels to the north, the winter sets in rapidly. Autumn lasts but for a few days. It causes no withering nor gradual death of leaves, no glow of red and gold such as we see at home, but exercises, through its hot winds, such a destructive power that the leaves are dried up like mown grass under the sun’s rays, and either fall to the ground green, or crumble away on the stalk, so that the trees, with few exceptions, assume their winter aspect with extreme suddenness. Over the plains, on which, a few days before, the tall grass still waved in the wind, dust clouds now whirl; in the partially or wholly dried up water-courses and water-basins the ground gapes in deep cracks. Everything that is pleasing vanishes; everything that is unpleasing becomes painfully obtrusive: leaves and flowers, birds and butterflies fade away, or migrate, or die; thorns, spines, and burs are left; snakes, scorpions, and “tarantulas” have their heyday. Indescribable heat by day and enervating sultriness by night make this season almost unbearable, and against neither heat nor sultriness is there any remedy. The torments are inconceivable to those who know nothing of such weather, when the thermometer registers up to 122° Fahr. in the shade;[38] when one is in a constant sweat, yet without being conscious of it, so drying is the heat; when one cloud of dust after another whirls up to heaven, or parching thirst weighs on one like lead. Nor can anyone who has not groaned through these nights, when one tosses on the couch, prevented by the sultriness from resting or sleeping, adequately sympathize with the torments to which men and animals are subjected at this season. Even the sky exchanges its hitherto but rarely clouded blue for a dun colour, for the vapour often hides the sun for half a day at a time, yet without diminishing the oppressive heat; indeed the sultriness seems to increase when the horizon is obscured by such mists. One day follows another without any refreshing of body or soul. No cooling breeze from the north fans the forehead; and the soul is not refreshed by any fragrance of flowers, or song of birds, or enchanting pictures with bright colour and deep shade, such as the flooding light of heaven elsewhere paints in the equatorial regions. Everything living, everything coloured, everything poetical, is gone, sunk into death-like sleep—too dismal to awaken any fancy. Men and beasts seem to wither as the grass and leaves withered; and like them many a man and many a beast sinks down for ever. In vain does manly courage endeavour to bear up under the burden of these days: the most resolute will give way to sighs and moans. Every piece of work fatigues, even the lightest covering is too heavy, every movement is an effort, every wound becomes a virulent sore.
But even this winter must at length yield to spring, yet the incoming of this season also is terrible. For the same wind, which, in the desert, becomes the simoom, raises its wings as herald of the spring. It rages through the fissures in the ground, sweeps out more dust, whirls it aloft in thick masses, and builds it into wall-like clouds, which it drives roaring and howling through the land, and forces through the latticed windows of the comfortable town-houses as well as through the low doorways of the native huts, adding a new plague to the existing torments. At last the wind gains complete mastery and exerts its force without restraint, as though it would annihilate everything that still resisted; but it is this same wind that, farther south, piles up the clouds heavy with rain, and sweeps them towards the scorched land. Soon it seems as if the sultriness began to grow less oppressive as the wind gathered strength; it seems even as if it sometimes blew no longer hotly but refreshingly. And this is no deception; the spring is preparing for its coming, and on the wings of the storm the rain-clouds are borne. In a short time, in the south, they darken the dome of heaven; in a few days quivering flashes lighten the dull cloud-banks; in a few weeks the distant thunder heralds the life-giving rain.
Then all the streams from the south rise and surge and overflow. They are scarcely yet turbid, but they have life now; they continue to rise, and through all the deeper rents and fissures of their muddy banks the life-giving moisture is diffused into the adjacent country. The birds of passage begin to appear, and day by day their numbers increase. To the lands of the Upper Nile the storks return to take possession of their old nests on the conical straw huts of the natives, and with them comes the sacred ibis to perform to-day the duty which has been his for thousands of years,—to be the messenger and herald assuring all that the old Nile-god will again open the fountain of his mercy, and pour forth his horn of blessing on the lands which own his sway.
At length the first thunder-storm draws near. Sultriness more painful than ever oppresses the dead, scorched land. An eerie stillness fills man and beast with uneasiness. Every song, nay, almost every voice of birds is hushed, and they hide themselves amid the thickest foliage of the evergreens. In the camp of the nomad herdsmen, in the village, in the town, all life seems as if under a spell. The dogs, usually so lively, slink quietly away to some safe hiding-place; the other domestic animals become uneasy or else wild, the horses have to be hobbled, and the cattle are driven into the pen. In town, the merchant closes his stall, the artisan his workshop, the officials their divan; everyone takes refuge at home. And yet not a breeze stirs the air; there is not a rustle among the leaves of the few trees which still have foliage. But everyone knows that the storm is gathering and is drawing near.
In the south is built up a great wall of cloud, dark and at the same time lurid, like the fire-cloud over a burning town or over a forest in flames. Fiery red, purple, dark red, and brown, dull yellow, deep blue, and black seem to move in a dance of colour; they mingle and separate; they fade into the darkness and appear again in vivid prominence. The great cloud-bank rests upon the earth and reaches up to the heavens; now it seems to stand still, and now it rushes on like a tempest; from minute to minute it narrows the range of vision; more and more completely it throws an impenetrable shroud over all. A whistling, hissing sound issues from it, but around the observer all is still, quiet, and noiseless.
Then suddenly a brief and violent blast of wind bursts forth. Strong trees bend before it like weak reeds; the slender palms bow down their crowns. With ever-increasing rapidity one blast follows another; the wind becomes a tempest, and the tempest a hurricane, raging with unexampled fury. Its noise is so terrible that the spoken word does not reach the speaker’s ear; every other sound is drowned and lost. It rages and roars, blusters and hisses, pipes and howls, rumbles and rattles, in the air, along the ground, among the tops of the trees, as if all the elements were in battle, as if the heavens were falling, as if the very foundations of the earth itself were being shattered. The irresistible storm dashes against the trees, and tears off half of the leaves, if there are any left; while stems as thick as a man’s waist are snapped like brittle glass. Breaking off the crowns, the hurricane whirls them like light balls over the plain, and buries them head downwards in the loose earth or sand, with the miserable fragment of trunk sticking up, a prey to the destructive termites.[39] Hungrily the wind rushes through the clefts and fissures of the earth, sweeps out dust, sand, and gravel, hurls this even into the clouds, and bears it onwards with such force that it recoils stinging and rattling from hard surfaces. With this dust the tempest hides the heavens and covers the earth, and turns the day into dread night, while the anxious inhabitants in their dust-filled houses light lanterns to gain what encouragement and consolation they may from the sight of living flame.
But even the roaring hurricane may be out-roared. The crashing, rumbling thunder is yet more mighty; it drowns the howling and bellowing of the wind. The clouds of dust are still too thick to allow the lightning flashes to be seen; but soon to the confusion of sounds and noises a hitherto unheard rattling is added, and the unnatural night begins to be relieved by gleams of light. It seems as if heavy hailstones were rattling down, but they are only rain-drops which bear with them in falling the up-whirled dust and sand. Now the flashes are seen. One follows so quickly upon another that we are forced to close our dazzled, well-nigh blinded, eyes, and to follow the storm only by listening to the uninterrupted roll of the thunder. The downpour becomes a cloud-burst; from the hills the water rushes down everywhere in streams; in the hollows it forms lakes; in the valleys there are rivers in flood. For hours the downpour continues, but with the coming of the rain the tempest abates, and a fresh cooling breeze refreshes man and beast and plant. Gradually the flashes become fewer and the peals of thunder less violent, the rain-spout becomes a shower, and this ends in a gentle drizzle; the sky clears, the clouds scatter, and the sun breaks forth in splendour. Mirthfully the brown children, naked as they were born, run out from the houses and huts to bathe in the pools which the spring rain has filled; and not less gladly do the reptiles, amphibians, and fishes rise from their muddy beds. Even the first night after the rain one hears everywhere the clear, loud voice of a little frog, of whom one saw nothing before, for he, like some of the crocodiles, many turtles, and all the fishes, had sought winter-quarters deep in the mud bottom of the periodically dried-up lakes, and had just been awakened by the first spring rain.[40]
Everywhere the newly-awakened life arises in strength. The thirsty earth eagerly sucks in the moisture which has been bestowed upon her; but after a few days the heavens again open their flood-gates and a fresh supply of rain awakens any germs which are still slumbering. A second thunder-storm causes the buds to burst on all the trees which shed their leaves, and liberates the sprouting grasses from the ground. A third downpour of rain calls forth blossoms and flowers, and clothes the whole land in luxuriant green. Magical as spring’s coming is the subsequent rush of life. What with us requires a month here completes its life-cycle in a week; what develops but slowly in temperate zones here unfolds itself in days and hours.
But within a few weeks the spring is once more past; the hardly distinguishable summer follows in the annual pageant; and is as rapidly succeeded by the short autumn; so that, strictly speaking, all three—spring, summer, and autumn—make but one season. Again the destructive winter is at the doors, and prevents that continuous germinating, growing, and flourishing which is possible in other equatorial countries where the water-supply is more abundant. Here, however, the rainfall is at least sufficient to keep the barren desert from gaining the mastery, and to spread a more or less rich carpet of vegetation over the ground—in other words, to produce steppe-land instead of desert.
I use the word steppe to designate those lands peculiar to the interior of Africa which the Arabs call “Chala”, which means “lands bearing fresh green plants”. It is true that the chala is as little like the steppes of South Russia and Central Asia as the prairies of North America, or the pampas or llanos of South America, yet in certain important respects it does resemble the first-named, so that I need scarcely make any excuse for preferring a known to an unknown term. The steppe extends over the whole interior of Africa, from the Sahara to the Karroo,[41] from east coast to west, surrounding all the high mountains and enclosing all the extensive virgin forests which stretch on their slopes, or occupy in greater luxuriance the low grounds where water is plentiful. In fact it includes all the lands in the heart of Africa, beginning a few hundred paces beyond the last house of the towns, and directly behind the last houses of the villages; it includes the fields of the settlers, and supports the flocks of the nomads. Where the desert ends to the south, where the forest ceases, where the mountain flattens, there is steppe-land; where the forest is destroyed by fire, the steppe first gains possession of the clearing; where men abandon a village the steppe encroaches, and in a few years destroys every trace of habitation; where the farmer relinquishes his fields the steppe impresses its character upon them in the space of a year or two.
Fig. 25.—The Bed of an Intermittent River, Central Africa.
Inhospitable and monotonous the steppe seems to one who sees it for the first time. A wide, often immeasurable plain stretches before his eye; only exceptionally is this interrupted by isolated conical hills, yet more rarely do these unite to form mountain ranges. More frequently, low, undulating hills alternate with flat valleys; or sometimes they combine in a strange mazy network of ranges which enclose deep-sunk basins, where pools, ponds, and lakes are formed during the rainy season, while during winter the clayey soil is rent with thousands of fissures. In the deepest and longest depressions there is, instead of standing water, a “Chôr” or rain-torrent, that is to say, a water-course which even in the spring is only occasionally in flow, but which, under specially favourable circumstances, may be flooded to the brim in a few hours, and does not merely flow, but rushes—a moving wall of water—hissing and thundering down the valley, often, however, disappearing before it reaches a true river. Except where there are these water-basins and water-courses, a relatively rich vegetation covers the whole surface of the steppe. Grasses of various kinds, from lowly plants which creep along the ground to great cereal-like stems as tall as a man, form the basis of the vegetation. Trees and shrubs, especially mimosas, baobabs, doum-palms, and christ-thorns, combine here and there, especially near the water, to form thickets or groves, but elsewhere they are but sparsely scattered amid the grasses which so uniformly cover the flats, and it is only at a few spots that they form even a thin wood. Never do the trees show vigour of growth like that seen in the valleys with true river courses, where the blessings of spring are always retained; on the contrary, they are often stunted, usually low and with scraggy crowns with rarely even a twiner struggling upwards. They all suffer from the severity of the long torrid winter, which hardly allows them to gain subsistence, and keeps off almost all parasitic plants. It is different with the grasses which, in the short but abundantly moist spring, shoot up luxuriantly, bloom, and ripen their seeds, and in fact attain to a thoroughly vigorous life. To them the monotonous aspect of the steppe is in great part due, for, humble as they are, they obliterate many of the contrasts which would otherwise be apparent, and the uniformity of their colouring becomes oppressively wearisome. Not even man succeeds in introducing variety into this eternal sameness, for the fields which he tills in the midst of the grass-land seem from a distance so like their surroundings that one can scarce distinguish grain from grass. Even the round huts made of slender stakes, with conical roofs thatched with steppe-grass, are, in the dry season at least, so closely congruent with the surrounding flats that one must come very near before one sees that they are there. Only the seasons can change the sameness of the picture, and even they do not remove much of its monotony.
Inhospitable, too, is the reception which awaits the traveller in the steppe. Perched on a camel he rides through the fields. Some game or other invites him to the chase, and induces him to penetrate into the grass-forest. Then he finds out that between the apparently smooth grasses there grow plants much more formidable than the thorny mimosas. On the ground flourishes the “tarba”, whose seed-capsules are so sharp that they cut through the soles of light riding-boots; above it grows the “essek”, whose burrs insinuate themselves almost inextricably into all clothing; and somewhat higher the “askanit” rises, most formidable of the three, for its fine prickles are loosened by the slightest touch, and, penetrating one’s clothes, bore into the skin and cause ulcerations small enough individually, but in their incomputable numbers most oppressive. These three plants make any prolonged sojourn or extensive exploration impossible, and are such a torture to man and beast that one can readily understand why the natives always carry, as an indispensable instrument, a fine pair of pincers. As among the monkeys, the greatest kindness which one man can do his neighbour is to pull out the fine, hardly-visible, needle-like spines from his skin. Apart from the three formidable antagonists which we have mentioned, most of the other steppe-plants, especially the trees and shrubs, are covered with more or less repellent thorns and spines, as one soon discovers if one tries to penetrate a thicket or even comes to close quarters with a tree.
Other even more unpleasant characteristics of the steppes make themselves felt at night. It is often necessary to ride for days without reaching a village, and one must therefore camp out on the plain. A suitable sandy place free from obnoxious plants is sought out, the beasts are unloaded and hobbled, a bed is made by spreading a mat on the ground, and a huge fire is lighted to scare off beasts of prey. The sun goes down, and a few minutes later the night falls on the steppes; only the fire lightens the camp. But by the fire and about the couch things soon become lively. Attracted by the light, noxious creatures come running and creeping, first one and then another, but soon in tens and in hundreds. First appear gigantic spiders, which, with their eight legs spread out, cover a surface as large as an outstretched hand. After the spiders, or sometimes along with them, the scorpions come hurrying. Both spiders and scorpions rush with sinister rapidity to the fire, clambering over carpet and coverlet, among the dishes of our simple supper, retreating when the radiating heat becomes too strong for them, turning back again under its mesmeric influence—in truth a fearsome invasion. For these spiders, with their dangerous, or at least painful bites, are not less dreaded than the scorpions, and they are as ready to bite as the scorpions are to sting. Angrily we seize another instrument which an experienced traveller had forewarned us was indispensable—a long-legged pair of tongs, and with these we grip as many of the intruders as possible, and throw them without mercy into the crackling fire. By the united efforts of the party most of the hellish brood are soon in the flames; their successors are similarly treated, until the invasion slackens, and we begin to breathe—but it is too soon! For new and more uncanny visitors draw near the fire—venomous snakes, apparently fascinated like the spiders. Among them the naturalist recognizes as the most abundant species an exceedingly interesting creature well deserving his attention: it is the sandy-yellow horned viper, the famous or infamous Cerastes of the ancients, the Fi engraved on so many Egyptian monuments, the asp from whose fangs Cleopatra sought death.[42] It may be interesting to the zoologist, but the wearied traveller consigns it to the depths of hell. The whole company becomes lively when this visitor is announced; everyone seizes his tongs with much greater haste and anxiety than before. Whoever sees the snake approaches it cautiously, grips it behind the neck, presses the tongs firmly lest it escape, and throws it into the glowing fire. There its destruction is watched with no small satisfaction. In many parts of the steppe these vipers drive one almost to despair. Thanks to their scaly coat, whose markings correspond to a jot with the sandy soil, thanks also to their habit of burying themselves during the day, or during their resting hours, with only their short tactile horns protruding from the sand, one usually searches for them in vain during daylight. But as soon as night comes, and the camp-fire burns brightly, they are unmistakably on the spot, coiling and hissing all around. Sometimes they appear in terrifying numbers and keep the tired traveller awake till towards midnight, for all those which have been resting within the range of the fire, or have been attracted to it on their nocturnal rambles, come gliding towards the flames. At last, wearied out and heavy with sleep, we throw down the tongs and betake ourselves to bed, but we never know how many of the reptiles will come creeping over us in the night, and we often discover evidence of their visits when the carpet is lifted in the morning. For under its folds one or more may be found lurking, or may be seen quickly disappearing into the sand. Little wonder that it was on this steppe-land that I first became impressed with the fact, which no one had at that time stated, that, with few exceptions, the venomous snakes, and certainly all the vipers and crotaline snakes, are nocturnal in habit.
Fig. 26.—Hills of African Termites, or White Ants.
But the above-mentioned animals do not by any means complete the list of those which are troublesome in the steppe. There is one, among the smallest of all, which, though giving no direct cause for anxiety as far as life is concerned, is of immense importance in relation to the property of these who live or travel in this region. I mean the termite, a little insect not unlike an ant, which, in spite of its minuteness, does more damage than the voracious locust (still able to constitute a plague), and may work more destruction than a troop of elephants devastating the fields. It is one of the most omnipresent and persistent of injurious insects. Whatever the vigour of plant life creates will fall before the sharp jaws of the termites, and they are not less unsparing of the products of human art and industry. High above the grass-forest of the steppe they rear their conical earthen towers; on the ground and on the trees they make their tunnels and passages. They begin and end their destructive work at night or in darkness. First they cover the object of their attack with a crust of earth which shuts out the light, and under this cover they go about their work, whose end and object is always destruction. Things lying on the ground or hung on mud walls are most likely to be attacked. The careless traveller, oppressed by the overpowering sultriness, throws one of his garments on the ground which forms his bed, and finds it in the morning perforated like a sieve and rendered quite useless! The naturalist who is unaware of the ways of the land shuts up his hard-won spoils in a wooden box, and neglects to place this on stones or the like so as to raise it off the ground; in a few days his treasures are gone! The sportsman hangs his rifle on a clay wall, and discovers to his disgust that the destructive insects have covered butt and barrel with their tunnels, and have already gnawed deep channels in the stock. The tree which they select is lost; the woodwork of houses in which they effect a settlement is doomed. From the ground to the highest branches they make their covered ways; they eat through stem, branches, and twigs, and leave but a dead honey-combed skeleton, which becomes the prey of the first storm, and is scattered abroad in dust. On the earth-walls or on the supporting beams of the houses the termites likewise ascend, riddling the woodwork, and in a short time making a wreck of everything. Even under the firmly stamped floors of the better-class houses they form a maze of branched burrows whence they occasionally break forth in millions bent on destruction. In these and many other ways they work ruin, and are among the most troublesome plagues of the interior of Africa, and especially of the steppe-land.[43]
Did this region offer nought else, were it not one of the most thickly populated and most frequented of animal haunts, the naturalist would perhaps avoid it as carefully as does the mercantile traveller, who knows only its repellent aspects and none of its attractions.
But he who sojourns here for a time and really explores the region is soon reconciled. For the steppe abounds in life; it is not poor like the desert, but rather rich like the primitive forest. For it too shelters a fauna abounding alike in species and in individuals, and including many forms which are regarded as distinctive of this geographical region. Of some of these we shall give rapid sketches.
Among the most remarkable steppe animals are those fishes found in the water-courses and water-basins which are only periodically filled. Even Aristotle speaks of fishes which burrow in the mud when the pools are dried up, and though Seneca sought to throw ridicule on the statement by suggesting scoffingly that one should henceforth go a-fishing not with hook and line but with pick and shovel, Aristotle recorded a fact which is beyond either doubt or ridicule.
The mud-fish,[44] which lives in the steppe basins and streams in the interior of Africa, is an eel-like creature, about 3 feet in length, with a long dorsal fin continuous with that of the tail, with two narrow pectoral fins far forward, and two long pelvic fins far back, and with this most important characteristic, that, besides the gills, there are also functional lung-sacs. This remarkable connecting link between fish and amphibian lives, even in the wet season, more in the mud than in the water, and likes to hide in holes which it seems to dig out for itself. When the supply of water threatens to disappear, the fish burrows deeply in the mud, rolls itself into the smallest possible bulk, and forms, apparently by frequent turning, an air-tight capsule, shut in on all sides, and lined internally with mucus. Within this the animal remains motionless throughout the winter. If we carefully dig out these capsules and pack them well, we can send the fish without risk where we please, and it may be readily recalled to life by placing the capsule in lukewarm water. As the reviving water soaks in, the creature still remains quiet, just as if it were heavy with sleep; but in the course of an hour or so it becomes quite lively, and in a few days its voracious hunger also awakes. For some months its behaviour remains unaltered, but at the season when it prepares in its native haunts for winter-sleep, it seeks to do the same in captivity, or at least becomes restless, and secretes an extraordinary quantity of mucus. If opportunity be afforded, it burrows; if not, it soon masters its inclination, and continues to thrive as before in the open water.
Fig. 27.—Secretary-bird and Aspis.
Sheat-fish or siluroids also pass the winter in the steppe as the mud-fish does. The amphibians too, along with some reptiles, especially water-turtles and crocodiles, burrow in the mud, and wile away the deadly winter in sleep. On the other hand, all the terrestrial reptiles are at their liveliest throughout the torrid season, and contribute not a little to enliven the dreary steppe which they inhabit in extraordinary numbers. Besides the vipers which we have already mentioned, there is another venomous snake of the steppe—the royal Aspis or Uräus—one of the deadliest of all.[45] It was with this creature, more famous or infamous than the horned viper, that Moses juggled before Pharaoh, as the snake-charmers still do; the same, too, whose image in gold the ancient kings of Egypt wore as a diadem to express their irresistible power, and which they used in the punishment of criminals, or in executing revenge on enemies,—a creature in regard to which the old authors tell many gruesome, and not always untrue, tales. In contrast to other venomous snakes it is active during the day; when unexcited it looks very harmless, but it is extremely agile, irritable, and bold, and combines all the qualities which render venomous serpents dangerous. Usually unseen, for its colour closely resembles that of the sand and the withered grass, it glides, often with uncanny rapidity, through the grass-forest, conscious of its terrible weapons, and ready for attack whenever it fancies danger. In attitude of defence it raises the anterior fifth or sixth of its body, and expands the neck ribs so as to form a sort of shield, above which lies the small head, with lively sparkling eyes. It fastens its sharp gaze on its opponent, and prepares for the bite which is quick as lightning and almost without exception fatal. Then its appearance is dreadful but yet beautiful, bewildering and terrifying to man and beast. It is generally asserted that this snake may kill without biting, by spitting or shooting its venom at its enemy;[46] and it is at any rate true that the poison-glands secrete the dread juice so copiously that great drops trickle from the openings of the perforated fangs. Little wonder that both natives and Europeans are much more afraid of this asp than of the sluggish horned viper which visits their bed by night. Nor is it difficult to understand why the stranger fires at every snake, even the most harmless, which comes within his sight, or why every rustling in the grass or foliage gives one a slight shock, or at least induces careful circumspection. But the rustling is continually to be heard in the steppe, for there are many other snakes no less common than the asp—many, from the huge python or hieroglyphic snake, sometimes nearly twenty feet in length, down to harmless grass-snakes of minute size. Besides these there is a countless host of lizards of all kinds.
Whoever has a horror of snakes may perhaps be reconciled to the class of reptiles by the agile, beautifully-coloured lizards, for creatures more attractive than these are not to be found in the steppe. They dart to and fro on the ground; they clamber on the branches of the shrubs and trees; they look down from the hills of the termites and from the roofs of the houses; they make their way even under the sand. Some species vie with the humming-birds in the brightness and glitter of their colours; others fascinate by the swiftness and grace of their movements; others attract by the quaintness of their forms. Even after the sun, in whose light they live and move, has set, and most of these active creatures have gone to rest, the geckos are still left to the naturalist. During the day these lizards remain quietly fixed to the tree-boles and the rafters, but as night sets in they begin their activity. With loud and musical calls (to which they owe their name “Gecko”) they hunt about without any fear of man. The ancients libelled them and placed them among the most venomous of animals, and even to-day this superstition lurks in the minds of the ignorant. They are nocturnal animals, and as such somewhat different from the diurnal members of the lizard race. Thus one of their peculiar characteristics is the cushion-like expansion of the fingers and toes, whose soles are furnished with numerous closely appressed plaits of skin, which act like suckers and give the geckos extraordinary climbing powers. These plaited cushions were long ago erroneously interpreted as poison-secreting glands,—an idea which now seems absurd enough.[47] In truth the geckos are as harmless as they are attractive, and in a very short time they win the affection of every unprejudiced observer. Most valuable domestic pets they are, for they pursue with eagerness and success all kinds of troublesome insects. In every room of the mud and straw houses their nightly activity may be observed; they climb about with all but unfailing security, adhering by their plaited feet to almost anything; head up or head down they run on vertical or on horizontal surfaces, teasing and chasing one another in pleasant fashion, making one merry too with their musical notes; they give one nothing but pleasure and do nothing but good; what reasonable man can fail to become their friend?
But they are reptiles still, and must remain under the curse; they cannot vie with the children of the air—the birds. And one may perhaps say that the birds are the first creatures to make a thoroughly favourable impression on the visitor to the steppe, and to reconcile him to the forbidding aspects of other animals.
The bird-fauna of the steppes is rich alike in species and in individuals. Wherever we wander we are sure to hear and see birds. From the densest forest of grasses resounds the loud call of a bustard; from the thickets by the water-courses is heard the trumpeting of the guinea-fowl or the loud cry of the francolin; from the trees comes a medley of sound—the cooing and moaning of the doves, the shouts and hammering of the woodpecker, the melodious call of the barbets, the simple music of various weaver-finches and thrush-like songsters. The high branches of trees or other prominent positions serve as watch-towers for serpent-eagles, chanting goshawks, rollers, drongos, and bee-eaters, which sit there on the outlook for prey. The secretary-bird, which the natives call the Bird of Fate, runs about among the tall grass stems or hovers above them; in higher strata of the air one sees the whirling swallows and other birds which catch their prey on the wing; higher still the eagles and vultures are circling. No spot is untenanted, in fact almost every place is thickly peopled; and when our winter begins to reign it sends hither many of our birds, especially kestrels and harriers, shrikes and rollers, quails and storks, who find in the steppe a hospitable refuge during the evil days in the north.
Few of the birds which live in the steppes can be regarded as distinctive, nor is the general character of the bird-fauna so clearly and sharply defined that one could at once recognize a steppe bird, as is possible with those of the desert. To some extent, however, the careful observer will notice that the birds of the steppe are congruent with their environment. The secretary-bird—a great bird of prey in the guise of a crane; the “snake-harrier”—a sluggish, slow-flying hawk clothed in rich, soft, large-feathered plumage; a straw-yellow night-jar, and another with decorative wing-feathers, a guinea-fowl or a francolin, a bustard or an ostrich: of these we might perhaps venture to say that they belong to the steppe, and are only there at home. It is not the case that the steppe is richer in colour than the desert, but it affords much more cover, and its tenants are therefore more freely coloured and marked. There are two colours to which it seems as if a preference were given; the one is a more or less shaded straw-yellow, the other is a hardly definable gray-blue. Both appear on the plumage of birds of prey and game-birds alike, but without, of course, excluding other darker, lighter, or more vivid colours. It seems to me worthy of note that the greater freedom of colouring and marking is also observable on those birds whose near relations are characteristic of the desert.
We should like to give a more detailed description of some of the steppe birds which are most distinctive of the region, but selection is difficult, for almost every one of those which we have mentioned claims and merits close attention. But my limits force me to a choice, and it must suffice if I select a bird of the upper air, a bird of the ground, and a bird of the night, in order through them to add a few touches to our general picture of the steppe.
No one who stays for any length of time in the steppe-land can fail to observe a large bird of prey, whose appearance as he flies, owing to the beautiful contour of the long pointed wings and exceedingly short tail, mark him off from every other feathered robber, whose flight moreover surpasses that of all creatures which fly. High above the ground he flies, hovers, glides, tumbles, flutters, dances, and throws himself headlong. As large as an eagle, he expands his great wings, and remains for a moment in the same position without any movement; he beats them violently, raises them high above his body, twists them and whirls them; he closes them and is precipitated almost to the ground; he gives a few powerful strokes, and in a few minutes has ascended to immeasurable heights. As he approaches the ground we see his vividly contrasted colours—the velvet black of the head, neck, breast, and belly, the silver white on the under surface of his wings, the light chestnut-brown of his tail; he throws himself headlong, and we notice the bright colour of the back resembling that of the tail and a broad light band on the wings; he comes still nearer, and we may perhaps detect the coral-red beak and cheeks and talons. If we question one of the nomad herdsmen observant of the animal life of the steppe in regard to this striking and altogether remarkable bird of prey, we may hear from his lips this significant and suggestive story. “To him,” he says, “the goodness of the All-merciful has given rich gifts, and, above all, high wisdom. For he is a physician among the birds of heaven, familiar with the diseases which visit the children of the Creator, and knowing all the herbs and roots with which to heal them. From far-off lands thou mayest see him bear the roots, but in vain dost thou seek to discover whither he is summoned to heal the sick. The working of his remedies is unfailing; to partake of them brings life, to reject them is to invite death; they are as the Hedijah written by the hand of God’s messenger, a precept of Mohammed, whom we reverence in humility. To the poor in the eyes of the Lord, to the sons of Adam, it is not forbidden to make use of them. Take note of where the physician-eagle has his dwelling, refrain from injuring his eggs, wait till the feathers of his young no longer draw any blood, and then go to his home and wound the body of one of his children. Thereupon shalt thou perceive the father fly towards morning in the direction in which thou turnest to pray. Be not discouraged in waiting for his return, have patience! He will appear bearing with him a root; frighten him so that he may leave it to thee, take it without fear; for it comes from the Lord, in whose hand are the issues of life, and it is free from all witchcraft. Then hasten to heal thy sick; they shall all recover, for so it is appointed to them by the Father of Mercies.”
The bird which forms the subject of this poetic legend is the bateleur or short-tailed African eagle—the “Heaven’s ape” of the Abyssinians. The roots which, according to the legend, it carries, are snakes, which it picks up. Seldom does one see the bird rest; usually it flies, as has been described, until the sight of a snake induces it to hurl itself downwards and to engage in battle. Like all the snake-eating birds of prey, it is well protected against the venomous fangs by the thick horny plates on its talons and by its dense plumage; it is therefore unafraid of the most deadly snake, and is a true benefactor of the steppe-land. It is not this beneficence, however, but its marvellous flight that has won renown for the African eagle in the eyes of all the peoples among whom it has its home.
Fig. 28.—On an Ostrich Farm in South Africa.
The ostrich, which is bound to the earth, stands in striking contrast to the short-tailed eagle. He also is the hero of an Arabian legend, which, however, instead of glorifying him, brings him down to the dust; for the story is that the ostrich wished, in the exuberance of his vanity, to fly to the sun, but was in his attempt miserably burned, and hurled in his present form to the ground. To us his life is all the more worthy of consideration, that many false ideas still prevail both in regard to it and in regard to the bird himself.
Although occurring in those low grounds of the African and West Asiatic deserts which are richest in vegetation, the ostrich becomes abundant only in the steppe. Here one is almost continually crossing his unmistakable “spoor”, though it is but rarely that one sees the bird. He is tall enough to see over the lofty grasses which conceal him, he is far-sighted and shy, and can therefore usually conceal himself from the approaching traveller. If one succeeds in observing him from a distance, one sees that, except at the breeding season, he is fond of a comfortable and easy-going life. In the early morning, and in the evening, the troop feed busily; at noon they all lie resting and digesting on the ground; sometimes they go together to water or to bathe (even in the sea); later on, they amuse themselves with marvellous dances,[48] jumping round in a circle as if out of their senses, fanning with their wing-plumes as if they would attempt to fly; at sunset they betake themselves to rest, but without neglecting to secure their safety. If a formidable enemy threaten them they rush off in wild flight, and soon leave him far behind; if a weaker carnivore sneak upon them, they strike him to the ground with their extremely powerful legs. Thus the course of their life runs smoothly, provided that there be no lack of food. Of this they require an enormous quantity. Their voracity is astounding, and not less is the capacity of their stomach to receive vast quantities of all sorts of things, which are either digested, or are retained without injury. Almost everything vegetable, from root-tubers to fruits, is accepted by their stomachs, which have now become proverbial; and so is it with small animals, both vertebrate and invertebrate. But such things by no means exhaust their menu. The ostrich swallows whatever can be swallowed, gulping down stones a pound in weight, and in captivity not disdaining pieces of tiles, oakum, rags, knives, single keys and bunches of keys, nails, pieces of glass and crockery, leaden balls, bells, and many other such things. Indeed, it may fall a victim to its indiscriminating appetite by devouring such stuff as unslaked lime. In the stomach of one which died in captivity there was found a heterogeneous mass weighing in all about nine pounds. In the poultry-yard the greedy bird swallows ducklings and chickens as if they were oysters; it dismantles walls to fill its gizzard with the loose mortar; in short, it will eat anything which is not a fixture. In proportion to the amount of food which it requires—and that is not out of proportion to its size and activity—so is its thirst. Thus it frequents those places where it finds not only abundance of nutritious plants, but also water-basins or springs. If both fail, the ostriches are forced to migrate, and in such cases they often cover great distances.
With the coming of spring the mating instinct awakens in the heart of the ostrich, and then it changes its habit of life in a remarkable manner. The troops or herds break up into small groups, and the adult males begin their long-continued combats for mates. Excited to the highest pitch, as is outwardly indicated by the vivid reddening of neck and legs, two rivals stand opposed; they fan their wings so that the full splendour of their fluffy white plumes is displayed; they move their long necks in a scarce describable fashion, twisting and bending now forwards, now sideways; they utter deep and hoarse sounds, sometimes suggestive of a muffled drum, sometimes even of the roaring of lions; they stare at one another; they bend down on the soles of their feet, and move their necks and wings more rapidly and persistently than before; then they spring up again and rush at one another, seeking, in the swift encounter, to strike their opponent a powerful blow with the foot, and with the sharp-cutting toe-nail to make long, deep gashes on body and legs. The victor in the combat is not more gentle to the mate or mates which he has won, in fact he abuses them shamefully with bullying and blows. It is not at present perfectly certain whether a male keeps company with one female or with several;[49] it may be accepted as a fact, however, that several females often lay in the same nest, and it has been observed that the female does not undertake the whole responsibility of sitting on the eggs, but leaves much of this to the male, who, after about eight weeks’ brooding, also leads about the young and tends them. In both brooding and tending, the female does assist, but the male always has the larger share, and in leading about the young brood he shows more carefulness and solicitude than does the mother-bird. The young ostriches, when hatched, are about the size of an average hen, and come into the world with a remarkable suit of feathers, more like the bristly coat of a mammal than the customary down of young birds. As they exhibit the characteristic voracity of their race from the day of their birth, they grow quickly, and after two or three months they change their plumage and put on a garb resembling that of the female. At least three years must pass, however, before they are fully grown or ready for pairing.
Such, in briefest statement, are the essential facts in regard to the life-history of the giant bird of the steppe; all the stories which are inconsistent with my summary are more or less fabulous.
The bird of the night in regard to which I wish to say a few words is the night-jar or goat-sucker, whose race is represented at home by one species, but in the steppe by several somewhat remarkable forms. When the first star is seen in the evening sky these gayest and most charming of nocturnal birds begin to be active. During the day it is only by chance that we ever see one, and we scarce believe in its powers of enlivening the steppe-land. But, when night falls, at least one is sure to make its appearance. Attracted to the camp-fire like the scorpion and the viper, the softly-flying bird flits in ever-changing course around the watchers, alights near them for a moment, delivers a few strophes of its whirring night-song, which reminds one of a cat’s purring, is off again into the dusk, only to reappear in a few minutes, and so on until morning. One species is especially fascinating, the flag-winged night-jar, or “four-winged bird” of the natives. Its decorative peculiarity consists of a long feather which grows out between the primaries and secondaries[50] of each wing, without any vane except at the broad tip, and far exceeding all the other feathers in length, being in fact almost exactly half a yard in length. Eerily, like some ghost, this night-jar flies and flutters. It looks as if it were being constantly pursued by two others of smaller size, or as if it could divide itself into two or three birds, or as if it had indeed four wings. But it has all the charms of its race, and soon becomes a welcome visitor, contributing, like its fellows, not a little to alleviate most pleasantly the discomforts of the night.
Like the birds, the mammals of the steppe are rich alike in numbers and in species. The abundant vegetation supports not only countless herds of antelopes, which are justly regarded as most characteristic of this region, but also buffaloes and wild boars, zebras and wild asses, elephants and rhinoceroses, the “serafe”, or giraffes, as we call them, besides a host of rodents with which we have only a general acquaintance. Against this dense population of herbivores, the numerous carnivores of the steppe wage unceasing war, and this is probably even to the advantage of the former, since, without some such check, the ruminants and rodents would tend to multiply beyond the limits of subsistence afforded even by the rich vegetation of this region. The uniformity of the North African steppes and the relatively (though not really) frequent occurrence of standing and flowing water hinder the formation of those immense mobs of antelopes which are observed in the Karroo of South Africa; everywhere, however, we come across these elegant, fine-eyed ruminants, singly, in small herds, or in considerable companies, and they seem to keep to approximately the same spots in summer and winter. Zebras and wild asses, on the other hand, are only found on the dry heights; the giraffe lives exclusively in the thin woods, while the rhinoceros almost always seeks the densest growths; the elephant entirely avoids broad open tracts, and the ill-tempered buffaloes cling to the moist low ground. On these last, as on the tame herds of cattle, the lion preys, while the cunning leopard and the nimble, untiring cheetah, are more given to stalking the antelopes; the jackals and steppe-wolves prefer the hares; the foxes, civets, and polecats seek the small rodents and those birds which live on the ground.
From this abundant fauna I must select some for special notice, but I shall withstand the temptation of choosing lion or cheetah, hyæna or ratel, zebra or other wild horse, giraffe or buffalo, elephant or rhinoceros, for there are some others which seem to me more truly distinctive of the steppe. Among these I place in the first rank the ant-eater, or aard-vark, and the pangolin—the old-world representatives of the Edentates—which have their head-quarters in the western hemisphere, and belong to an order whose golden age lies many ages behind us. Both aard-vark and pangolin are, in North Africa at least, distinctively steppe animals, for it is only there that the ant-hills and termitaries are sufficiently numerous to afford them comfortable maintenance. Like all ant-eaters they lie during the day rolled up almost in a ball, sleeping in deep burrows which they have dug out, and which one sees opening alike on the broad, treeless, grass plain and among the sparse trees and shrubs. Only when night has set in do they become lively; with clumsy gait they hobble and jump about in search of food, progressing chiefly by means of their powerful hind-limbs, resting on the great burrowing claws of their fore-limbs and on their heavy tail. Their food consists exclusively of small creatures of all kinds, but especially of the larvæ of ants and termites, and of worms. Continually jerking its depressed nose and snuffing about, the ant-eater trots along, and, having discovered a pathway of the ants or termites, follows this home. Without much difficulty it makes an opening for its long snout, pushes this into the hole, and feels about with its tongue for the passages along which the insects hurry and scurry. Having stretched the tongue, which is viscid and thread-like, along one of the chief passages, it waits until it is covered with ants or termites, and then retracts it into the narrow mouth. So minute are the individual morsels that this may seem a somewhat miserable mode of making a meal, but the tongue is, in its way, just as effective as the powerful claws, and the ant-eater makes its way through life very comfortably. Nor are the animals by any means so helpless as they seem. The weak pangolin is protected more effectively by his armour, which is strong enough to turn a sword, than by the weapons on its feet; the aard-vark is able to use its claws most effectively, and can also give such smart side-blows with its heavy tail that it readily gets rid of an antagonist who is not of superior strength. But if a really formidable enemy draws near and is detected in time, the aard-vark burrows with the utmost rapidity, throwing out sand and dust with such force and in such quantities that an almost impenetrable, because blinding, veil saves it from attack until it is at a safe depth underground. Only to man with his far-reaching weapons does it fall an easy prey, for he stabs it asleep in its burrow, and kills it almost infallibly if the entrance to the hole be fairly straight and not too long. Thus, fate is too strong for even this old-world creature, and will sooner or later wipe out its name from the book of the living.
Fig. 29.—Hyæna-dogs pursuing Antelope.
Among the steppe beasts of prey one of the best known and most distinctive is a dog. A connecting link between the dogs and the hyænas, not only in form but to a certain extent in its markings, this animal—the hyæna-dog or Cape hunting-dog—is one of the most noteworthy figures in the steppe-picture, and also in its nature and habits one of the most interesting of all the carnivores of this region. Excepting certain monkeys, I know of no mammal so self-assertive, so wantonly aggressive, so emulous of exploits as this dog is, or, at any rate, seems to be. There is no limit to his ambition; no other mammal is quite secure from his attack. In large packs they traverse the broad steppe-land on eager outlook for booty. They ravage the sheep-flocks of the settlers and nomads; they follow persistently at the heels of the swiftest and most agile antelopes; audaciously they press in even upon men; fearlessly they dislodge, thanks perhaps to their noisy bravado, the other carnivores of the region which they frequent. Behind the strongest and most formidable antelope a pack rushes in full cry, barking, howling, whining, and now and then uttering a clear note of triumph. The antelope exerts all its strength, but the murderous dogs lose no ground, they cut off corners and prevent it doubling back, they come nearer and nearer and force it to stand at bay. Conscious of its strength and of its powers of defence, the antelope uses its pointed horns with skill and good effect; one dog after another may be hurled to the ground fatally transfixed; but the others fix on its throat and body, and the noble creature’s death-rattle soon puts an end to their howling. Without fear of man these dogs fall upon domestic animals of all kinds, tearing up the smaller sorts with the bloodthirstiness of martens, and mutilating those which are too large to be readily mastered. Nor are they afraid of domestic dogs, but fight with them to the death and leave them lifeless on the field. Thoroughly broken in and tamed, trained for several generations, they should become the most excellent of sporting-hounds; but the task of subjugation is certainly not an easy one. They do indeed become used to their master, and display some liking, even a certain fondness for him, but all in their own way. When called from their kennel, they jump up and down in the highest of spirits, fight with one another out of sheer joy, rush at their approaching master, leap up on him, try to show their gladness in the most extravagant ways, and are finally unable to express it except by biting him. A boisterous mischievousness and an uncontrollable impulse to bite are characteristic of almost all their doings. More excitable than almost any other creature, they move every member, they quiver in every fibre, when any novel occurrence attracts or occupies them; their mercurial vivacity is expressed in exaggerated gaiety and next moment in savage wildness. For they bite whatever comes in their way, without any provocation, probably without any ill-will, simply for fun. They are the most marvellous creatures in all the steppes.
In those parts of the steppe which I have been more particularly considering—the Kordofan, Sennaar, and Taka regions—the animal life is not subject to destructive or disturbing influences to the same extent as in the south of Africa or in Central Asia. To those animals which do not migrate, or do not lie in death-like sleep for months, the winter may bring privations or even sharp want, but it does not involve the pangs of starvation or the torments of thirst; it does not force desperate creatures to leave an impoverished home, or seek for happier lands in mad flight. It is true that the animals of the North African steppes have their migrations and journeyings; but they do not flee in a panic as do those which inhabit other steppe-lands, and forsake them in hundreds of thousands before a threatened destruction. Of the immense herds of antelopes, such as crowd together in the south of Africa, one never hears in the north. All the gregarious mammals and birds gather together when the winter sets in, and disband when the spring draws near; all the migratory birds go and come about the same time; but all this takes place in an orderly, old-established fashion, not spasmodically nor without definite ends. There is, however, one power from whose influence the animal life of these steppe-lands is not exempt,—and that is fire.
Every year, at the time when the dark clouds in the south and the lightning which flashes from them announce the approach of spring, during days when the south wind rages over the steppe, the nomad herdsman takes a firebrand and hurls it into the waving grass. Rapidly and beyond all stopping the fire catches. It spreads over broad stretches; smoke and steam by day, a lurid cloud by night, proclaim its destructive and yet eventually beneficial progress. Not unfrequently it reaches the primeval forest, and the flames send their forked tongues up the dry climbing-plants to the crowns of the trees, devouring the remaining leaves or charring the outer bark. Sometimes, though more rarely, the fire surrounds a village and showers its burning arrows on the straw huts, which flare up almost in a moment.
Fig. 30.—Zebras, Quaggas, and Ostriches flying before a Steppe-fire.
Although a steppe-fire, in spite of the abundance of combustible material, is rarely fatal to horsemen or to those who meet fire by fire, and just as rarely to the swift mammals, it exerts, nevertheless, a most exciting influence on the animal world, and puts to flight everything that lives hidden in the grass-forest. And sometimes the flight becomes a stampede, to hasten which the panic of the fugitives contributes more than the steady advance of the flames. Antelopes, zebras, and ostriches speed across the plain more quickly than the wind; cheetahs and leopards follow them and mingle with them without thinking of booty; the hunting-dog forgets his lust for blood; and the lion succumbs to the terror which has conquered the others. Only those which live in burrows are undismayed, for they betake themselves to their safe retreats and let the sea of fire roll over them. Otherwise it fares hardly with everything that creeps or is fettered to the ground. Few snakes and hardly the most agile of the lizards are able to outrun the fire. Scorpions, tarantulas, and centipedes either fall victims to the flames, or become, like the affrighted swarms of insects, the prey of enemies which are able to defy the conflagration. For as soon as a cloud of smoke ascends to the sky and gradually grows in volume, the birds of prey hasten thither from all quarters, especially serpent-eagles, chanting goshawks, harriers, kestrels, storks, bee-eaters, and swifts. They come to capture the lizards, snakes, scorpions, spiders, beetles, and locusts, which are startled into flight before the flames. In front of the line the storks and the secretary-birds stalk about undaunted; above them amid the clouds of smoke sweep the light-winged falcons, bee-eaters, and swifts; and for all there is booty enough. These birds continue the chase as long as the steppe burns, and the flames find food as long as they are fanned by the storms. Only when the winds die down do the flames cease.
It is thus that the nomad clears his pasture of weeds and vermin, and prepares it for fresh growth. The ashes remain as manure, the life-giving rains carry this into the soil, and after the first thunder-storm all is covered with fresh green. All the former tenants, driven away in fear, return to their old haunts, to enjoy, after the hardships of winter and the recent panic, the pleasures of ease and comfort.