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.