Exploration of Aïr

by Angus Buchanan

For the purpose of hunting, and, particularly as a means of defence, bows and arrows are universally in use in Damergou, and an adult male native is seldom seen abroad, no matter on what business he is intent, without bow in hand and a leather sheath, containing usually about fifteen arrows, slung from a cord over the left shoulder. The same weapon is much used in Damagarim and Kano provinces, but not to the same extent as in this still more remote and exposed zone, where the need for an arm for protection is imperative, since among the natives there is not only lingering dread of robbers descending across the desert from the north, but also the wild instinct of very primitive people, in dreadfully primitive surroundings, to wage war, one against the other, under the grim impulse of an existence that demands self-protection before all else, and upholds the faith that life is a struggle for “the survival of the fittest.” The European law of the country forbids any natives to possess fire-arms.

But, to return to Tsofo, I will endeavour to describe him, for he was an odd character in appearance and constitution, and at the same time somewhat typical of many of his kind. When I first laid eyes on him, I could not believe that the ill-clad, unkempt creature that stood before me was the chosen hunter that was to accompany me. Upon my word, I never saw a dirtier native; his bit of a gown, once white, now a smoked blackish colour, was cast carelessly over his shoulder and hung in rags about him, full of rents and badly frayed round the bottom edge; beneath this he wore an equally discoloured buck-skin loin-cloth and apron. He carried not a scrap of food when he joined me, and had nothing about his person except bow and arrows, and a hatchet and hunting-knife of his own crude making. Undoubtedly he was past his prime, in fact he was an old man, despite the stalwart framework that remained of deep chest, and mighty thighs and lower limbs which bespoke an athlete. His face was so wrinkled with exposure, and with frowning beneath the fierce rays of the sunlight, and so unkempt that it would be unkind to estimate his character by it. The coarse hair on his head and the scrub-beard on his chin were almost entirely grey, and his watery red-rimmed eyes betrayed declining years.

He wore a broad-brimmed, high-crowned hat, locally woven with dyed grasses, which was not unlike the garish headgear of a Spanish muleteer. On his feet he wore rough sandals cut to shape from a single piece of thick antelope-hide. He was a Beri-Beri native of a very primitive class, and most of his kind that I have seen have fine physique, but coarse features of heavy unattractive type, and I have often doubted the purity of their breeding.

As I have said, it would be unkind to judge Tsofo’s character by his unprepossessing appearance, so I will tell you how I found him in daily life. In his favour be it said: he knew perfectly the bush country where we hunted, and, during many long journeys in the most difficult bush I have ever encountered, he never failed to find his way back to the base camp, though he had one or two occasions for anxiety. On the other hand, Sakari, the Hausa boy, was quite bewildered in this country, and got separated from us and lost on three occasions, which goes to show that all natives have not that marvellous faculty of travelling in a given direction with animal-like instinct and memory, which is usually their most striking gift. On account of this shortcoming, it is interesting to note that Sakari had lived most of his life in Lagos and Kano, and belonged to a family of shop-keepers, so that no doubt environment, which has such a powerful influence on the character of mankind as well as on the lesser creatures of the earth, had much to do with his loss of natural instinct.

Tsofo’s knowledge of the bush was his greatest asset; as a hunter he was not a success, for undoubtedly he was too old, as I will explain below. But he was most eager to serve me and to bag game, and spared no pains to that end. Also he was on friendly terms with the few nomad Tuaregs who came about the shallow wells at Takoukout to water their herds and fill their water-skins. (With them this old hand at travelling light and camping anywhere bartered part of his share of the buck-meat killed, so that he could have millet-meal (Dawa) and goat cheese (Chuku) to vary his diet.) He was kindly disposed to all he met, and had always a word and a hand-pat for children, while he never attempted that domineering attitude which natives are so prone to assume, when backed by a white man’s presence, to bully some gift from the frightened bush-people.

Being an old man, long days were too much for Tsofo, but, even so, he never dropped behind while he hunted, though the efforts of the day often caused him to groan with pain and complain of sickness when we got into camp at night. He had wonderful strength and endurance for his age, and I often found myself admiring his dogged gait, though it was nothing less than pure animal toughness of the kind which one associates with tramps, or tinkers in the old country, who live outdoors the year round, and care little for bodily comfort and cleanliness so long as they can secure enough to eat.

Tsofo had his limitations: he would eat food in almost any condition and in large improvident quantities. When he joined my caravan he was well-nigh in a starving condition, and when a gazelle was killed for food, the old man fell upon it like a jackal, starting on the raw entrails, when disembowelling the animal, and thereafter cooking and eating meat until he was completely gorged. Next day he was sick and not so greedy, but he soon recovered, and before long I knew him to be a savage, untamed glutton when he had food in his possession. The old rascal, I’m sure, had been a very fine hunter and tracker, for he knew all the “tricks of the trade,” as it were, and the habits of the animals; but both eyesight and hearing were impaired to such an extent that he altogether lacked the acutely keyed keenness of those senses, which are essential to good hunting. I soon found that he was a blunderer after he had spoilt a chance or two to shoot in failing to detect the first slight movement of wary game, while he proved a dreadfully slow tracker, because, by reason of his bad eyesight, he often overshot the footprints he was following in the sand, and had to search about to pick up the right track again. His knowledge of the bush was invaluable, and, besides, he had an unassuming character that pleased me, so I always took him out, but when I understood his weakness, I did not allow him to join me up in front, but bade him follow some hundred yards behind.

Before I proceed to deal with the actual search for ostriches, I feel I should make reference to the climate, and its fierce antagonism to comfortable hunting in this part of the world.

I would not like to boldly assert that the climate in the Western Sudan is unhealthy for Europeans, for such an assertion might appear unjust in the estimation of some men of very adaptable and robust constitution, but on the whole I think it can justly be said that the climate is such as belongs to Central Africa in general, and that therefore it already has an accepted reputation for being very hot and trying. North of the neighbourhood of Kano there is no open water or marsh in the dry season (approximately from October to July), so that for the greater part of the year no hanging dampness, no mosquitoes, and no malaria are experienced in the country with which I am dealing—which is so much to the good. On the other hand you have a mighty opponent to comfort and health in the form of the merciless sun, which glares down upon the white glittering sand-surface of the earth with unmitigated fierceness, laying an awesome withering breathlessness upon the land which saps the energy of man and beast, so that they perforce forsake their occupations for the greater part of the day and seek rest in the shade; while even the plant life cannot survive the remorseless moisture-consuming oppressor in the sky, and leaves and grass that were green in the short rainy season, lie wilted and bleached on the sand. We Europeans of temperate zones love the sun, but I’m afraid Old Sol is a graceless and greedy robber of the earth’s vitality in some climes, and here, where Nature has raised no compact leafy screen upon the land, nor sends not clouds across the sky, he well-nigh reigns supreme over smitten wastes that lie wretchedly subdued because of his unopposed power. On account of the intense heat, and the exhaustion resultant therefrom, I found the climate very trying at times, for there are many occasions when the hunter must be afoot all day in the open, while, even if he chances to be in camp, the collector seldom enjoys relaxation from his busy labours by the specimen bench during the valuable hours of daylight. Records of temperature on 27th March read: 7 a.m., 58% Fahr.; noon, 105% Fahr.; 8 p.m., 71% Fahr. I have brought up the subject of climate at this juncture, because it was at Takoukout that I felt the heat more trying than at any other period—in fact, it temporarily sapped my strength to such an extent that I came near collapsing under the strain of day after day searching the stifling hot waterless country for restless, ever-travelling ostriches.

I will not enter into every incident of the unlucky hunting that I experienced at Takoukout, but will quote from my diary a few records of typical days. In all I hunted twenty days for ostriches and saw sixteen birds, but never fired a shot at any of them. Nevertheless, the general details of hunting them are, I feel sure, not without peculiar interest, and on that account I am induced to give some personal experiences.