Thirty years ago the British colony of the Gold Coast possessed no railways, nor was there any export of cocoa. To-day she exports annually over a million pounds’ worth of cocoa-beans, requiring in the season over 100,000 carriers to convey the cocoa harvests to the railways. True statesmanship must always aim at releasing labour from the unproductive task of transport, in order that it may till the soil, but it is doubtful whether the African carrier will ever completely disappear.
Their long procession is never without interest; every man has some distinguishing mark upon which the white traveller may meditate as he trudges along, now in front, now in the centre, now again in the rear of a caravan. What a medley yonder man carries upon his head! There is the traveller’s “chop” box or his bundle of bedding, to which perhaps is lashed by means of a piece of forest vine, the sundry goods and chattels of that simple-hearted carrier—an old salmon tin filled with odd little packages of salt, chili peppers, bits of string, possibly a piece of soap, an old knife and the end of a native candle. There is also the “Sunday best,” whose owner, while looking happy enough in that strip of loin cloth held in place by a cheap European strap, yet strides the firmer and prouder because of that old cotton shirt and the patched white trousers so carefully protected by a bundle of forest leaves. Provisions, too, are there, carefully pounded, cooked and flavoured by the good wife at home. Those unsavoury manioca puddings for “her man” are generously accompanied by her catches of fish, smoked and set aside that he might each day have an appetizing morsel for his meal.
A LIGHTHEARTED CARRIER.
THE CANOE SINGER.
Other carriers are distinguished by the wounds and bruises of their calling—one limps along with a sore foot, but on he goes until the journey’s end; others there are with sore skin or nasty wounds, caused by forest thorns or rough stones, others whose chafed shoulders of yesterday now gape and become a resting-place for the torment of flies; yet, with it all, the impatient traveller too frequently falls to scolding and even cursing them for their “laziness”!
No white man should be allowed to travel beyond a day’s journey with a caravan unless he has a few medical aids for such bruised and wounded helpers, and it will repay him if human gratitude can be called a reward. Cuts and wounds are both the inevitable price of African travel, and it is a necessity and a duty to carry a few spare bandages and healing ointments. There is satisfaction too in gathering the sick men round in the evening and giving them a soothing plaster, ointment or a bandage. A little human kindness of this nature helps to make the journey a happier one for all, but alas too often what the Germans call tropenkoller has no conception of a remedy for complaints beyond the whip or the boot.
The carrier is no more an angel than other human beings, no matter whether pink or black; he has all the imperfections and the love of self-preservation of the brother who calls himself white. I remember once having all the loads laid out ready for the start and then giving the order for each man to choose his load. It was evident the carriers had mentally marked the load each would like to seize, for a dash was made for a small box only about 18 inches square and having the appearance of a 20 lb. load—but it was a case of cartridges weighing 80 lbs.! How promptly they all discarded that box and dashed away for the larger but lighter loads!
Strangely enough the carrier seldom “pilfers” on a journey. The white man’s goods may suffer depredations on the steamer or on the train, but on the march there seems to be a sacred community of interest which safeguards the goods of most white men as effectively as if protected by the spirit-haunted herbs and parrot feathers of the witch doctor, but when civilization, in the shape of steamers and railway trains, enters barbarous regions away goes the eighth commandment. There is one respect in which every African traveller invariably suffers—hungry at the mid-day hour, he calls for “chop”; thirsty, he asks for filtered water; or at night, dead tired, he looks for his folding bed; he may call in vain, for either from set purpose with some definite object in view, or from stupidity, these essentials to the white man are generally “miles behind.”