Carriers Resting in the Bush
There are no deserts in this part, neither are there any dense forests of huge trees, such as we usually think of when Central Africa is mentioned, and such as are really to be found in the Upper Congo basin, on the Gold Coast, and elsewhere. Two Yao boys, who had served in Ashanti with the King’s African Rifles, spoke of the West African forest with the same sort of surprise and wonder as any English rustic might have done. Both, independently, answered the question, ‘What is that country like?’ with the same expression—‘Palibe kuona, one cannot see!’ adding that the trees were high—very high (with an upward gesture of hands and eyes)—away up above one’s head. Large trees, growing close together, are just what one does not find, as a rule, in the country we are thinking of. The Bush (tengo, or chire) usually consists of small trees, thinly scattered, with tufts of grass, small bushes, and various herbaceous plants growing between them, and here and there a large tree standing by itself—perhaps a baobab, or a wild fig, or a silver-thorn acacia, covered with bright golden blossom. Or we have the kind of scenery described by travellers as park-like—open glades, covered with short grass (which, however, never makes turf; you can see the soil between the separate tufts), and dotted with clumps of scrub and small trees, singly or in groups. This is the kind of place where the zebras come to graze—not that I ever had the luck to see any. The small boys who had held out hopes of this treat, said, when we passed the place early in the afternoon, that it was still too hot—the mbidzi were all hidden in the bush, resting in the shade; they would come out to feed on the dambo when it grew cooler. When we returned along the same path the sun was declining, but there were still no mbidzi—a party of natives on their way to the village we had left had scared them.
Where there are no trees or bushes, the grass is usually of the tall, coarse-growing kind already referred to, which is used in hut-building, and has to be burned off at the end of every dry season—otherwise it would become an impenetrable jungle. The grass-fires serve a double purpose—that of clearing the ground and manuring it—but they nearly always spread to the bush, even if it is not fired purposely, to clear a space for new gardens, or accidentally, by some travellers’ camp-fire. These fires cause the scarcity of large trees, which, as a rule, are only found either in deep ravines along watercourses, which have always escaped the flames, or in the burying-grounds (the sacred groves called nkalango), where the people carefully beat out the fire before it reaches them.
These fires have from the earliest ages formed one of the characteristic features of African travel. One of the oldest records of exploration—the Periplus of Hanno—describes them, with other phenomena, in a weird and mysterious passage which fascinated my youth, and has not lost its charm even when the marvels are resolved into tolerably commonplace occurrences:—
‘Having taken in water, we sailed thence straight-forwards, until we came to a great gulf, which the interpreters said was called the Horn of the West.’ (This must have been somewhere near Sierra Leone, since the farthest point reached by the expedition seems to have been Sherbro Island.) ‘In it was a large island, and in the island a lake like a sea, and in this another island, on which we landed; and by day we saw nothing but woods, but by night we saw many fires burning, and heard the sound of flutes and cymbals, and the beating of drums, and an immense shouting. Fear came upon us, and the soothsayers bade us quit the island.’
Evidently the people were ‘playing,’ as the Anyanja say—and their dances last sometimes from dark to daylight, even now—or there was a lyke-wake on. Or else, maybe, they were well aware of the presence of the strangers, and kept out of sight by day, and the effect of the drums and flutes on the Carthaginian soothsayers was that desired by the performers.
‘Having speedily set sail, we passed by a burning country full of incense, and from it huge streams of fire flowed into the sea; and the land could not be walked upon because of the heat. Being alarmed, we speedily sailed away thence also, and going along four days, we saw by night the land full of flame, and in the midst was a lofty fire, greater than the rest, and seeming to touch the stars. This by day appeared as a vast mountain, called the Chariot of the Gods. On the third day from this, sailing by fiery streams, we came to a gulf called the Horn of the South.’
This, though the uninitiated would think it referred to a volcanic eruption, is really a very good description of a bush-fire on a large scale. On a moonless night in September, perhaps, you will see the black hills seamed with curved and zigzag lines of fire, as the blaze advances. Here and there a clump of dry scrub, or a dead tree, will burst into a sheet of flame, lighting up the dense white clouds of smoke. The heated air within the hollow stalks of grass and reeds expands till they burst with a sound like the firing of guns, which rises above a roar loud as that of the traffic of a great city. The smoke, rising from several points at once, hangs in the air and collects into a dense canopy of cloud, making the heat still more stifling, till, at last, sheet-lightnings begin to play about it, followed by low growls of thunder, and, perhaps, by the blessed relief of a shower. I have seen this happen more than once, though some writers appear to doubt it.
While these fires are going on, the air is full of black particles, which come floating down like an unnatural kind of snow, and the ground is covered with charred, crunching vegetation and grey ashes. The native name for this burning, or rather burnt stuff, is lupsya, and the early rains, which wash it away, are called kokalupsya, ‘that which sweeps away the lupsya.’ These rains are usually expected in October, and are a kind of prelude to the real rains, which should begin in November, but are sometimes delayed another month or even longer. While they last there may be continuous, soaking rains for three days together; but, more commonly, after a fine morning, the clouds begin to gather about 2 P.M., then a more or less heavy thunderstorm comes up, and the rain which follows continues into the night. By morning it is fine again, and then follows a half-day of the most exquisite weather, when you can almost feel things growing—till the thunderstorm comes up again as before. This will go on, day after day, till you get one without rain, as a change, or maybe a spell of steady rain, as aforesaid. There is usually a break of a few weeks about the end of the year—then the rains begin again, and last till March or April. Then begins the ‘hungry time,’ when the old food is done and the new crops are not yet ripe; it is sometimes a time of real scarcity, as the supplies barely last out the year, and leave no margin for emergencies. This is not so much from improvidence as from the difficulty of preserving the stores from mice and weevils. But some relief comes before long when the pumpkins, gourds, and cucumbers—many of which may be gathered wild—are ready, and they help to bridge over the time before the first ears of green maize can be plucked, though there is always a good deal of more or less serious illness at this season. About May the crops are ripe, and the dry season has fairly set in. There are occasional cold showers in June and July, and sometimes in the hills a week’s rain in August. At this time a chilly wind blows from the Indian Ocean, bringing with it heavy clouds, which, on some days, hang low, drifting along the slopes of the hills, and hurrying away to the west. Now and then, too, there is a thick white mist, like a sea-fog. But the sunny days, in the cold season, are bright and exhilarating. On such a day the difference between the temperature at noon and at night may be as much as 30°; and the dews are very heavy; a walk through long grass in the early morning drenches one like heavy rain. After this the air gets hotter and drier every day, and when the fires begin, it becomes still more oppressive. The most trying time of the year is the three or four weeks when the earth and all that is on it are ‘waiting for the rains.’ Curiously enough, the trees burst into leaf—with a greater variety of colour than our own in autumn—just before the rain comes, when the ground is so baked and hard that any growth seems impossible.