In Brightest Africa

by Carl Ethan Akeley

So Theodore Roosevelt, in that vivid word picture of jungle sights and sounds, the foreword of "African Game Trails," suggests the vast variety of animal acquaintances the hunter may make in Africa. I have sought out or happened upon many others besides my particular friends, the elephants and gorillas.

One of those whose "huge ungainliness is like that of a shape in a nightmare" is the hippopotamus. The small dugout in which the native makes his way up and down the Tana River is just a nice mouthful for him. He can splinter one between his great jaws in no time if he is sufficiently stirred up, but fortunately for the natives he is not easily enraged. He is more or less like the rhinoceros except that, while he is equally stupid, he rarely gets mad and so is not often dangerous.

Along the Tana River in 1906 the hippos were still very abundant, and I presume that a hunter passing along that stream to-day might shoot all he could possibly want. Although I saw probably only a small proportion of all I actually passed, I counted more than two hundred in a ten-mile march along the Tana. Sheltered by the rather high and precipitous banks of the river, the hippopotami if undisturbed bask quietly on the sand-bars during the day. If one is disturbed, he takes to the water, leaving exposed only the top of his head, his eyes, and nostrils, so that if he remains motionless one usually has to spend some time to determine whether the object protruding from the water is a hippo's head or a slate-coloured rock. If really frightened, he submerges entirely, exposing only his nostrils and those just long enough to blow and take in a fresh supply of air. Then down he goes, not to appear again for several minutes, frequently in quite a different place.

Cuninghame and I had a good opportunity to test his disposition one day as we were crossing Lake Naivasha. I was sitting at the tiller in the stern of the boat about half asleep in the hot sun of midday when there was a sudden explosion and our boat was lifted well out of the water. The keel had struck the back of a submerged hippopotamus. He came up thirty yards away with his mouth open, but he made no attempt to attack. We had the good luck to come down right side up, shipping only a little water. I hope he was as badly frightened as I was.

Because he is so little sport, even the pot hunters have left the hippo alone. However, most of the African tribes consider hippopotamus meat good eating and he is frequently killed by the natives for food. The fact is that in times of famine this animal is a valuable source of supply. In 1906, when we were on the Tana River, I found a bone yard with the bones of a great number of hippopotami along with various human bones. In a famine some fifteen or twenty years earlier, so the story goes, the natives had gravitated toward the Tana River to kill hippopotami to keep from starving and there had fought over this last source of food.

Double rows of tracks with grass growing between them, like those made by a wagon, trail along the Tana and are cut deep into the river's banks, where through long years the hippos have come up at night to graze and browse. His is a double track, because in travelling he does not place one foot before the other. He finds no food in the water, but he is at home there, and sometimes travels long distances overland from one pool or stream to another. How far he treks in this way I do not know, and the question is much disputed. I am certain that it is sometimes as much as fifty miles.

While I have found but little enjoyment in shooting any kind of animal, I confess that in hunting elephants and lions under certain conditions I have always felt that the animal had sufficient chance in the game to make it something like a sporting proposition. On the other hand, much of the shooting that I have had to do in order to obtain specimens for museum collections has had none of this aspect at all and has made me feel a great deal like a murderer. One of the worst of my experiences was with the wild ass of Somaliland on my first trip to Africa. These animals are rare, and as they are the only members of the horse family in that part of Africa, the Field Museum of Natural History was anxious to get specimens of them.

After several heart-breaking days' work my companion, Dodson, and I had secured but one specimen and several were needed for a group. One day under guidance of natives who promised to take us to a country where they abounded, we started out at three o'clock in the morning, with a couple of camels to bring back the skins if we got them. At about eight, as we were crossing a sandy plain where here and there a dwarfed shrub or tuft of grass had managed to find sustenance, one of the gun-bearers pointed out in the distance an object which he declared to be an ass. We advanced slowly. As there was no cover, there was no possibility of a stalk, and the chance of a shot at reasonable range seemed remote, for we had found in our previous experience that the wild ass is extremely shy and when once alarmed travels rapidly and for long distances. We approached to within two hundred yards and had begun to think that it was a native's tame donkey and expected to see its owner appear in the neighbourhood, when it became uneasy and started to bolt; but its curiosity brought it about for a last look and we took advantage of the opportunity and fired. It was hard hit, apparently, but recovered and stood facing us. We approached closer, and thinking it best to take no chances fired again—and then he merely walked about a little, making no apparent effort to go away. We approached carefully. He showed no signs of fear, and although "hard hit" stood stolidly until at last I put one hand on his withers and, tripping him, pushed him over. I began to feel that if this was sport I should never be a sportsman.

We now discovered that our scant supply of water was exhausted and although we wished to continue the hunt we realized that to get farther from camp without water would be risky indeed. The guide had assured us that there would be plenty of opportunity to get water on our route but we knew that it was five hours back to water, the way we had come, and five hours without water in the middle of the day would mean torture. It is said that in that region thirty hours without water means death to the native and twelve hours is the white man's limit. The guide assured us that if we would continue on an hour longer we would find water. After four hours of hard, hot marching we arrived at a hole in the ground where some time there had been water but not a drop remained. After a little digging at the bottom of the hole the natives declared there was no hope. Our trail for the last hour had been under a pitiless noonday sun along a narrow valley shut in on either side by steep, rocky hills, while we faced a veritable sand storm, a strong, hot wind that drove the burning sand into our faces and hands. The dry well was the last straw.