The people are mostly Bambaras, another large offshoot of the Mandingo tribe. Bambaras are an intelligent race, and possibly the most industrious of all the races of the French Soudan. Large numbers are recruited for the French West African troops, as they have a great reputation for pluck and endurance. The same tribe furnishes the best river boatmen, and Bambaras are found plying such varied trades as the shoemaker’s and the blacksmith’s. They are scattered in more or less big groups all along the Niger from Bamako to Mopti, and large numbers inhabit the countries about Nioro and Sokolo on the left bank of the river, stretching towards the desert. The men and women have fine physique, they are usually tall and thick-set, but rather clumsy in build. The women are very vain about their appearance generally, and their hair in particular. The coiffure is decidedly elaborate. There are two fashions in vogue. The hair is drawn up tight from the forehead and built upon the top of the head in a sort of ridge shape; this curious form is obtained by placing a framework underneath. The second method is to twist the hair into numerous plaits, which are arranged fantastically around the ears and allowed to hang down over the face. Gold ear-rings and silver rings are much worn by the well-to-do classes, while sham pearl necklaces are in great demand as ornaments for these dusky beauties.
The Railway Station and Hotel at Bamako
Bamako is certainly the most important place in the French Soudan. Being connected with the Niger and Senegal rivers by rail, it has direct communication with the Atlantic Ocean on the one side, and with the fertile rice-growing areas of the Middle Niger on the other, thus making it a great entrepôt of the trade in these regions.
The Niger at Bamako
A special interest attaches to the Niger here as far as the traveller from the south is concerned. At Bamako for the first time he can discard that clumsy, however useful, form of transport—the native porter. Thirty-five short miles of railway join Bamako to Koulikoro, and then the Niger is uninterruptedly navigable by stern-wheeler, launch, or canoe for about 900 miles to Ansongo.
The men and women are of a cheerful, light-hearted disposition, and it is seldom that these charming people have not a ready joke and smile on their lips by way of welcome to the stranger. Having passed through the native quarter, I saw in front of me several acres of banana groves, the long graceful leaves blending in the distance with the darker green foliage of orange and lime trees. Besides many kinds of fruit the Government grow quantities of vegetables with which the whole station is supplied; I was told that there is a never-failing supply from one year’s end to the other.
The scene on the banks of the Niger was an interesting one. A ferry was plying from the opposite bank towards me, in which were a number of passengers hurrying across before nightfall. Here and there, on the broad bosom of the river, were scattered native canoes with their quaint awnings of palm and banana leaves, looking like some big, brown bird floating on the water. The banks of the Niger are low and sandy here, and on the shore were gathered a little knot of spectators from the town, talking and watching the arrival of the ferry, while, as the sun was sinking in a flood of red and gold behind the Kati Hills, those who were devout worshippers of the Prophet sank to their knees and could be heard muttering in low, musical tones the cry “Allahu Akbar.” To my mind it is an impressive sight to watch the pious Mohammedan at this hour forsake the occupation upon which he is engaged, prostrating himself with his face turned eastward towards the holy city of Mecca, forgetful for the time of worldly matters, but devoting his thoughts and prayers to his God.
I stood a silent spectator of the peaceful scene until the fiery sun had disappeared behind the distant hills and darkness began to descend with its customary swiftness on the face of the land, blotting out the water and craft from my vision. I must be hurrying back, as I had promised to dine with one of my new friends that night, so I regretfully turned away from the Niger and set my face homewards. That night I had a bad attack of fever, being obliged to leave my host early and retire to a bed, piled with blankets, for the next twenty-four hours. The reaction after my hard marching was probably now telling on me, and I had also a touch of the sun, I fancy. Hot lime drinks and some judicious doses of quinine and phenacetin soon did their work, and, although feeling rather limp, I was myself once more.