The village of Tanout, 85 miles distant, lay across our path to Takoukout, and I set out with the intention of covering the distance in five days, which meant fairly stiff going for the well-loaded camels. As customary, we had the usual trouble with certain animals and their burdens on the first day out from Zinder, and were on the road, without pause for rest, from 7 a.m. till 4 p.m., when we reached Bakimaran after a journey of 18 miles. There is a belt of barren land which starts about 5 miles south of Zinder and continues northward until beyond Bakimaran—a belt altogether 25 to 30 miles in width—and it was across this that we travelled in setting out. It was drearily bare country, undulating in places with low rounded rises, sandy or covered with withered grass, and often with rough outcrops of gravel and boulders and rock, while, in patches, there was some scraggy bush and an odd tree. Few natives were encountered until Bakimaran was reached, and cattle and goat-herds, which are common to inhabited territory, were remarkably scarce, though the latter circumstance could, perhaps, in a measure be explained, as there are occasions in the dry season when grazing or water give out, and it is necessary that the main herds of the people be driven, often long distances, to find new pasturage. Apropos of this, there sometimes arises an amusing incident: a thunderstorm and sudden cloud-burst of heavy rain occurs in a limited locality and starts the grass growing green; before long a wandering bushman chances upon this fine pasture, and hastens away to fetch his lean and hungry herds to it; but on his return he finds to his disgust that someone, who has also made the discovery, has forestalled him, and there ensues lively dispute over rights of possession, which sometimes ends in angry abuse and even fighting—like to the madness of two hungry dogs that pounce together upon a dish of appetising food, antagonistic and snarling, although the vessel, in all probability, contains ample repast for both.
On the following day we departed from Bakimaran before dawn, and camped at Kaléloua in the afternoon. On the way we passed from the barren belt into fairly thick bush country, wherein no native habitations were seen until we reached our destination. The country now contained some big game. Red-fronted Gazelles were numerous, and were observed, usually, singly or in pairs, and I had no difficulty in shooting sufficient meat for my natives and the headmen of Kaléloua. Also one small band of giraffe were observed, but not disturbed, much to the disappointment of my natives, who were most anxious that I should kill those Rakuma-n-daji (Camels of the bush), which is the quaint Hausa name for those odd-shaped animals.
On the third day, which was a Sunday, we travelled to Dambiri. During the early part of the day we continued to pass through the bush belt we had entered on the previous day, but midway on the journey, after about 20 miles of bush country lay behind, this gave place again to open plains of sand and dry grass, which continued to Dambiri, and beyond as far as eye could see. In contour the open landscape was gently rolling, without any sharp rise, and not unlike the plain we had passed in leaving Zinder, except in the ever-growing supremacy of sand and solitude.
The growing poverty of the land is reflected in the natives and their habitations: the village of Dambiri, like the few others we had passed since leaving Zinder, was small, and the grass dwellings and yard fences built with less neatness and thoroughness than further south, and there was much that was unkempt and uncared for in the general aspect of the place, while the natives themselves were poor and raggedly clad. It is curious to note how surely the gradual change from fertile land to desert land is insistent of a corresponding falling off in the quantity and quality of the Hausaland natives, until they reach the very lowest ebb on the shores of the desert, and cease to venture farther; while another and vastly different race, the nomad Tuaregs, take up the duel of existence against nature in the great barren sea-like wastes beyond.
Dambiri, the designation of the village, is not an unpleasant Hausa name in quality of sound, but one gets rather a set-back if inquisitive enough to inquire into the literal English translation, for the meaning of the word is, “a bush cat with a bad smell”—which, I take it, rather pointedly has reference to the Civet Cat.
Once a week, on a set day, it is the custom of each village to hold market; and market-day constitutes the most important occasion in the routine of native life, for all are born traders, even in this impoverished territory of small productiveness, and outlying natives and the inhabitants of other villages travel eagerly, often long distances, with their quota of humble produce, to swell the concourse. Sunday was the day of market at Dambiri, so that there was unwonted stir about the place when we arrived, and much sound of tom-toms. I will not go into details of market-day at Dambiri, for the wares and proceedings are similar to those described at Kano; but I will make mention of the tom-tom music.
Those drum-beats which emanate so persistently from the village, and which sound so monotonous and aimless to the European stranger, have in reality a definite purpose to the initiated, for they are in fact declaring urgent news that is intended to reach the ears of all, something after the manner of the old-fashioned town-crier in our own country, who goes forth with a hand-bell to make quaint public proclamations. Here are a few examples selected out of many: a certain rattan, or scale of beats, means that a beast (ox, sheep, or goat) is about to be killed, and that those who want fresh meat should hasten to purchase it before the excessive heat of the climate works destruction upon it; another sound denotes that meat is being sold at the market-place—not at the slaughter-place; others call the population to foregather before the King’s dwelling, or to a wedding, or to feast; and yet another warns the people of the approach of a Saraki (local king) or a Amiru (emir or prince). In the examples which I have given, it will be seen that there is some need of urgency in the proclamation; and that is usually the case. Furthermore, the drum-beats of the tom-tom travel much farther than the human voice, and as it is often desired to reach the ears of the people at toil in the fields as well as those within the village, the inhabitants show cuteness in thus using their favourite instrument of music (?) for the duties of the day as well as for pleasure.
On the fourth day we journeyed throughout across strange wide plains of grass and sand, where no trees grow and but few scattered dwarf bushes, and camped at Mazia, which has an altitude of 1,700 ft., so that a decided ascent has set in since leaving Dambiri (1,500 ft.). In fact, on reaching Tanout next day, the highest altitude thus far encountered was recorded, namely, 1,800 ft., while a little further north, above Guinea Valley, the continuation of the same height of land recorded 1,900 ft., which is the highest point noted anywhere on my route from Kano to Agades.
During the late afternoon, at Mazia, I shot two Dorcas Gazelles and one great Arab Bustard to add to our scant supply of food. The dainty little Dorcas Gazelles are creatures that frequent the open plains and thin scrub, so that they too furnished evidence that we were now on the shores of the desert.
Water is not plentiful nor pure at Mazia: in fact, at this season (I am writing at the end of February), after four or five months have passed without rainfall, many wells reach a very low ebb, and pure water was a luxury enjoyed only at Zinder. Elsewhere it was always much discoloured with vegetable matter, and decaying timber props and soil; but it is precious enough even so, for it means no less than life to man and beast in this country of ravenous sunlight and terrifying dryness.