At 1.15 the doki boy was seen coming back. He was accompanied by three villagers who called that there was an easy ford a little higher up. Pointing, they made towards it, and Hanza and a couple of men went to verify the information. Pushing our way through grass higher than the tallest among us, we came to a clearance a few hundred yards above the falls where the stream had narrowed considerably, and here the villagers demonstrated by wading to the middle breast-high and holding up their arms. The carriers were brought round, and by 1.45 we were over, I going pick-a-back. And very cool and comforting the muddy water felt as it made its way between the leather riding leggings and through the laced boots.
It then transpired there were two further streams near by to be got over. The next was a little deeper than the place just crossed, but presented no serious bar.
The third, however, though not so deep as the first, was quite as broad, about 300 feet, and proved to be only just fordable. Some of the carriers would not venture with loads, which were, therefore, taken over by a few making double journeys, and I sailed across “flying-angel” fashion, the sturdy Amadu being the craft. Instead of the water going deeper by degrees, almost at once the furthest point down was touched and lasted half-way. Balanced aloft, it was not too pleasant feeling the moving foundation gently and tentatively feeling his foothold, suddenly immersed to the chin, and to be conscious of a fairly hard current washing over your knees. However, nothing worse than a ducking was possible, and that was avoided.
When all the traps had been gathered it was 2.30, and Hanza enquired whether I would stay for the night at a village near by or go on to Badiko, which was three hours’ march. Personally, I would have preferred pushing on, but the men had been out 7½ hours in great heat, had not stopped at any place where they could get a meal, and had three high stream crossings, so after a little consideration I elected to stay at the village overnight.
There were notes of gratification at the announcement, and at once we struck inwards, passing, left and right, a plantation set with yams; then between guinea-corn 10 feet high, the stems bending and providing a shaded avenue; ground-nuts just in leaf, set at right-angles to the path and growing on ridges, the furrows as neatly weeded as any kitchen garden in England.
As we went across the open fields Hanza called to some people in the distance “Kow abinshi” (“Bring food”), and the cry was gladly repeated by the carriers—“Kow abinshi, Kow abinshi.” The hearers proceeded to carry out the request and to obtain the articles necessary for a little business, which to the Hausa women is second nature.
The tiny village into which we stepped was surrounded by guinea-corn taller than I had seen anywhere. The stems were 12 feet from the ground, completely hiding the mud houses. A roomy, circular one, not arranged by the Government—for the place is off the main bush track—but one belonging to the Headman of the village, a Fulani, was placed at my disposal. He brought fowls, a pumpkin, and had yams dug up. The inclusive charge for the house as well was 4s. He explained that no guinea-corn could be spared for the horses, so the doki boys were sent to cut grass.
Next morning came the villagers who had shown the river crossing. They were given 6d. each. As I came out of the house the second doki boy appeared. He wanted a “dash” for having swum his horse across the river the previous day. I asked him for what he thought I paid him wages; he shrugged his shoulders and smiled. Then I said that any “dash” I might give him would be at the end, not the beginning of his services, when I knew how he had done his work. Again a broad smile. Finally, I told the gentleman that the next time he asked for a “dash” I would discharge him instantly. A bow, and a “To, Zaki”—(“Very good, sir”)—was the acknowledgment. The “To”—pronounced “Taw”—was repeated by the circle of carriers who had come, doubtless at his invitation, to see the result of the doki boy’s experiment with the new master. It had failed.
To get to Juga that day was not within the range of trekking at this season, so Badiko, where I had calculated to be more than 40 hours earlier, was selected for the day’s halt. The village Headman led the way from the village—the name of which I gathered phonetically as Lafee Sala—through a maze of growing guinea-corn to open country. At the edge of the plantation, land formerly cultivated had reverted to a wild state.