On resuming our way we approached a part of the river where sandbanks appeared to be more numerous than ever. After two or three ominous bumps we suddenly felt a severe shock and the little vessel came to a dead stop. We had stuck fast on a sandbank. Our skipper shouted the order to go full-speed astern, but all his efforts seemed unavailing. The crew were then made to jump into the water, and after shoving and straining for about half an hour with the engines going astern the whole time we at last got clear.
Soon after this misadventure I noticed ahead of us a big lighter, flying the French flag in the stern. We rapidly overtook her, and as we came abreast of each other the two crews exchanged greetings, shouting to one another the usual string of salutations which are customary in this country. When one begins to understand the language it is amusing to listen to the varied nature of the questions the native asks a fellow-traveller when they meet. The usual type of question and answer is much like this: “Welcome, my friend, I hope you are well.” “Quite well, praise be to Allah, and how are you, my friend?” “I am very well, but is your house in good repair?” “Yes, thank you, but tell me news of your horse.” These salutations continue for ten minutes or more, and each traveller wastes a considerable amount of time on every journey in this fashion. Even when the two men have resumed their way they can be heard shouting back salutations to each other as long as their voices are audible. Besides the ordinary greetings, corresponding to our “Good morning,” “Good night,” etc., these simple natives have such greetings as “I salute you in the rain,” or “Greetings for the sunshine,” and a host of other expressions according as it is rainy or fine weather, etc.
On the deck of the barge were two Europeans, a man and a woman. They turned out to be the Resident of Koulikoro and his wife, whom I had met a few days previously. The former had been appointed a Commissioner in the district of Bandiagara, whither he now was on his way. I expected to meet them again later, as I was likely to be shooting in their district. However, we missed, and I never saw them again. The “Réné Caillé” soon outdistanced the barge, but she overtook us again during the course of the day, owing to our launch sticking, on several occasions of more or less long duration, on sandbanks.
This portion of the river is inhabited by a number of crocodiles. These repulsive creatures are hated and feared quite as much by the black man as by the European. Consequently there were several members of the crew eagerly on the look-out for the crouching forms of these animals as they basked in the sun on a sandbank. Immediately one was seen I used to be informed and would pick up my rifle for a shot. Sometimes even the keen eyes of the “boys” would be deceived, and they would mistake a log for a crocodile; there really is not much difference in the appearance of the two objects, and often one’s first intimation of the presence of a crocodile is given by seeing the supposed log suddenly and swiftly slide off the bank into the water. In the dazzling sun it was frequently difficult to distinguish these beasts, for their yellowish-grey bodies would assimilate well with the sand on which they were lying. Sometimes we would see them swimming in the river, the only thing discernible being a black speck just raised above the level of the water, which was probably a bit of the head. The natives are afraid to bathe in this portion of the river, owing to the frequent accidents which have occurred.
Many were the gruesome stories we were told. One of the pilots said he had a brother who was a fisherman in these parts. This man had a small son, and one day the mother had taken him down to the river while she was drawing water. The little fellow toddled a few yards off and began splashing in the shallow water near the edge of the stream, when by some misfortune he slipped into a deep pool and was at once carried off by a crocodile. The mother’s first warning was a cry of terror from the child, as it was drawn struggling under water by the horrible creature. The unfortunate woman’s horror and anguish as she stood there powerless must have been terrible to witness. Crocodiles are objects of superstition among the natives here. Usually crocodiles in the abstract are regarded as a “juju,” but in some cases these animals are kept alive in the village for fetish purposes.
At one place where we halted in the evening there was a big tank in the centre of the village. In this tank there lived a huge crocodile, for which the natives had a wholesome respect not unmingled with fear. Around the tank they had built a strong mud wall, several feet high. The creature used to be fed daily with enormous lumps of meat. He was reputed to be fifty years old, and he probably was a good deal older than that even, for the most aged inhabitants of the place could remember his existence when they were children. Undoubtedly crocodiles live to a very great age.
River crocodiles are said to travel long distances at times. I recollect once in India a river crocodile was found in a small swamp about twelve miles from the nearest water. It was known that no crocodile had been in the swamp previously, and it seemed as if it must have come across dry land for the whole of that distance.
The “Réné Caillé” used to steam about twelve hours a day, from sunrise to sunset. I suppose we covered an average daily distance of sixty miles. Travelling, even by the moon, at night was impossible owing to the narrowness of the navigable channel. When there is plenty of water in the river boats travel day and night. About five o’clock, or a little later, we generally halted for the night near a village. A supply of wood was then taken on board so as to be ready for an early start next day, and after that duty had been performed all hands were allowed to fall out to cook their evening meal. It was a cheery sight to watch the camp fires dotted about on the river bank, each with a little group of black figures busily engaged in cooking operations, while the little launch lay peacefully at anchor with the last rays of the setting sun reflecting their red light on to her.
I was glad to step ashore and stretch my legs on these occasions. If it was not too late I used to take my gun and a “boy,” and stroll off on the chance of getting a shot at a bushfowl or pigeon. On this part of the river there was a big, mottled pigeon. Its colour resembled red-roan more nearly than anything else. This pigeon is about twice as large as a green pigeon, and I always saw it near water. It feeds chiefly on rice or millet. Waterfowl were still extremely scarce; since leaving Koulikoro I had only seen one flight of duck.
The non-commissioned officer, who was going to Bobo Djilassu, was a keen sportsman and used often to accompany me in the evening expeditions. His gun was a 16-bore, and he told me he never bothered to clean it. One day out of curiosity I looked down the barrels. It certainly was in a very dirty condition, and it passes my comprehension how he managed to shoot with it at all. He was not a bad shot at a bird on the wing, but used to say he could not understand the necessity for shooting at birds flying when you could so often get an easy shot at a sitting pigeon or bushfowl! However, we had some pleasant walks together and generally brought in something for the “pot.”