Some Korankos are members of the mystical Kofung society. The Kofung society has a large organization among the Limba people, who inhabit the north centre of the protectorate; but it has also some influence over the western tribes. Its rites are of a mournful, morbid character. A candidate has to simulate death, and is supposed to be made to return to life by the officiating members at the initiation ceremony. As he lies on a litter, apparently dead, the members dance round him, raise him up, and wash his eyes with a lotion prepared from the bark of a cork tree. When the dance is ended the candidate stands over a fire, the chief of the sect then holding a burnt stick before his eyes, and making him swear the sacred oath of the society. There are several masonic signs by which a Kofung man may be recognized. He frequently has a brass ring on his toe, thumb, or wrist. One man may be recognized by a brother in the order if he crosses his arms, or crosses two twigs. Every member is supposed to have an attendant spirit who can be summoned, if required, by uttering certain magical words and calling the spirit by name seven times. Kofung men believe they can transform themselves into animals. If, however, they are tied up to a piece of corkwood, they believe they no longer possess this power.
As far as can be ascertained, the Kofung society is not dangerous to the community. Murder does not appear to come within its scope. It seems merely to teach a highly superstitious doctrine, such as the mystery-loving pagan’s soul delights in. Even when these people adopt Islam, they never seem wholly to give up the mystic rites of their former pagan teachings. They certainly never lose the superstitions of their particular tribe. In cases where pagans have been converted to Christianity exactly the same failings are almost invariably to be noticed.
Amongst many of these pagan tribes a curious superstition exists with regard to the birth of twins in a family. The twins are killed and the mother driven out into the bush, for twins are said to be a curse from the god the people worship; it being supposed that if the foregoing brutal procedure be not carried out the whole family will become mad.
On the 17th of January I set out to cross the border into French Guinea. Our road lay along small mountain-paths, more like goat tracks than roads, which wound laboriously up the precipitous, rocky slopes. The scenery here is very wild and beautiful. As far as the eye can reach there rise up a series of rugged peaks, clothed in light bush and tall elephant-grass. Numerous mountain torrents rush down in their headlong course to the plains of Sankaran, which can but faintly be discerned many miles below in French Guinea.
Some of these tiny streams are destined to grow into important if not mighty rivers; such a one is the Niger. To see this insignificant rivulet, here only a few feet wide, as it dashes down the eastern slopes of the Tembikunda Range, who would dream that it is to develop into a wide, splendid waterway, destined to fertilize large tracts of country in Western Soudan, and to carry innumerable craft on its broad bosom before it finally throws its waters into the sea 2400 miles away?
My hammock “boys” had a rough time carrying me over these mountains. We climbed up to a height of 3000 feet, according to my aneroid barometer, before commencing the descent to the plains below. Once or twice, I must own, I felt as if my last hour had come, when, having arrived at an unusually difficult place, my satellites had to raise the hammock to the full extent of their long black arms in order to clear some huge boulder blocking the path. At these moments I used to gaze down at the yawning precipice at my side, knowing that if one of those arms should waver, be it ever so slightly, I should in all probability be hurled down some 2000 feet into the chasm below. Fortunately for me my bearers were brawny fellows, and we arrived at the frontier village of Farakoro without any mishap.
The good people of this little place were evidently not used to visits from white men, and were much astonished at my sudden appearance. The trade road between French Guinea and the east of Sierra Leone is a considerable distance north of this place, and goes to the important station of Kaballa, which is the head-quarters of one of the Sierra Leone District Commissioners. On my arrival at Farakoro the inhabitants fled precipitately, and I found myself left in undisputed possession of the village. I at once sent my servant with reassuring messages to the chief, who had taken refuge in the neighbouring bush with his followers. My escort was no longer with me, for I had sent the soldiers back to Daru that morning. After some palaver the old chief was induced to show himself, and finally led his people back to the market-place, although it was palpable that his suspicions of us were not quite set at rest.
I halted an hour here to give the carriers a little well-earned repose, and, while they were resting, I thought I would try the effect of a present of tobacco on my old friend the chief. It was magical. No sooner had he got possession of this highly prized article than his face became wreathed in smiles, all suspicions either vanished or were forgotten, and we were on the best of terms. The old man produced some bananas for myself and some rice for my carriers, so that everyone was in the highest of spirits. Food has a most remarkable effect on the negro. If his stomach is well cared for he is a cheerful rascal, and will follow you almost anywhere. Whether he wants it or not he is always ready to eat; indeed, the amount consumed by a black man at one meal is something prodigious. I recollect seeing one of these men devour his ration, one and a half pounds of rice, which, when boiled, swells to a considerable volume, and is itself more than a meal for two very hungry Europeans. After this he bolted two large yams, which are also a very satisfying form of diet, and finally he ended the meal with a leg of goat! Strange to relate, after a few hours’ peaceful slumber he appeared to be none the worse for his huge repast.
The road now improved considerably, and two miles farther we finally left the mountains, emerging into the broad Sankaran plains. The change in scenery was really remarkable. Broad rice- and maize-fields stretched on every side; in place of the wild, rugged hills we were in a smiling land of peace and plenty. Habitations were numerous, peasants were everywhere at work in the well-cared-for farms, and one was at once struck by the general air of prosperity. We soon came to a comparatively wide road, which we followed to Sarafinian. The country was now decidedly open. Bush there was, as there always is in West Africa, but it was all of the nature of very low scrub and grass-land.
On my arrival at Sarafinian I was greeted by a French official, who proved to be the Customs officer. At certain places along the frontier of French Guinea there are Customs Stations established in order to prevent smuggling of dutiable articles across the border. In charge of these posts there are one or more Europeans. They are provided with a small staff of native policemen who assist them to carry out their duties. My friend had to supervise a section of over sixty miles of frontier. The work is arduous and not unattended by danger. Would-be smugglers naturally choose the night for their dashes across the border, so a considerable portion of the work has to be done after sunset. Even the best-behaved smugglers are not men to hold human life of much account, so that the task of capturing them is attended with a good deal of risk. The existence must be a very lonely one. Situated as he was in a desolate spot, thirty or forty miles from the nearest white man for twelve months or more, and leading a life of some danger, it requires a man endowed with particularly high spirits not to get depressed at times. This French official was blessed with a large share of his country’s native vivacity. He had been fourteen months by himself at this little station, and during this long period had only seen one white man; yet his good spirits never seemed to have failed him. He welcomed me most warmly, and was kindness itself during my short stay at Sarafinian.