Gurum Camp has a name for hospitality to persons on trek, but, like most places, it possesses no spare sleeping equipment. What was to be done? Our hope rested in the trust that we were earlier than the carriers, whose way was along a path near the other side of the ford. How we devoutly wished they had not struck a different direction! Still, they were not likely to look for us and we might not see them, hidden by the long grass. Standing at the edge of the river, we therefore took turns in shouting and sounding a whistle. The performance had become a trifle monotonous and trying when we were gladdened by the sight of the loads moving along our front a few hundred yards distant. The whistle drew attention, and on the men coming to the brink of the river they were made to understand that they were to return to Gurum Camp, and we also retraced our course.
Next morning, little rain having fallen during the night, I determined to again try the ford of the Gurum River. The stream had greatly abated and the doki boy now quite “fit” to lead the way over. The necessity for a guide may be explained by the fact that although the crossing is a narrow one it is hazardous to go over without a competent guide after a storm, as the action of the water, pouring along, frequently works deep holes in the bed, and a horse stumbling into one might readily break a leg. Should the guide step over such a cavity he could swim away. Taking a zigzag line, with the water up to the horses’ girths we went across.
A little way past there is a patch of cultivation by Pagans who live up in the neighbouring hills. It is a good example of their skilled agriculture. Yams, sweet potatoes and ground-nuts are planted on ridges of earth straight, wavy and forked shaped; and on low circular mounds enclosed by a six-inch higher layer of soil to keep the rain from running off the ground.
Another system of miniature irrigation practised on the patch is that of rings of earth, about three feet in diameter on the top of which—three inches wide—ground-nuts grow, the cup-like interior retaining rain. Narrow, shallow ditches intersect the field and are instrumental in fertilising it.
The lines between the early-growing crops are scrupulously weeded. Notwithstanding continuous alternating showers and sunshine, there was not a blade of parasitical growth. I estimated the Hausas of Kano Province to be scrupulously clean farmers, unexcelled until I came to this Pagan country. Yet the people, who are also workers in metal and have a love of music, are, I suppose, to be ruled outside civilisation because they wear practically no clothes. How horrible! Wait until they learn the graces of the silk hat and the unnaturally tight-lacing, then they will be our brothers and sisters, especially if they do the proper thing religiously. Now they have their ju-jus, their harmless superstitions. How awful! I hope we on the continents of Europe and America have no ju-jus.
Having returned to Naraguta the next short journey was to Fedderi, for the purpose of seeing the tin-mining there. Fedderi is 24 miles south-east, two days’ trek. It is postally described as “near Naraguta.”
There are Headmen and Headmen; I mean of working gangs or carriers, not village Headmen. Many of the former are thoroughly reliable; some, speaking a few words of English, I fear cannot be given that character. They mislead both sides between whom they are a link of conversation, the white man and the labourers or carriers.
Hearing I wished to visit the tin-winning operations at Fedderi, Mr S. A. Molyneux, the Manager, offered the use as carriers of his labourers who were bringing tin for transport. They presented themselves, in charge of a Headman named Gotum Karo. He at once favourably impressed me as having thorough control over his men, who promptly moved as he ordered. Instead of allowing them to pick up and, as is sometimes done, to an extent scramble in selecting their respective loads, he partly lifted each to try its weight and sharply told off a carrier for the duty. I subsequently heard that Gotum Karo had been in the Northern Nigeria Regiment. He had evidently taken away with his service the facility of giving the word of command. I soon discovered he had also acquired some of the evil cunning of “the old soldier.”
As the labourers stood in line, the packages laid in front of them, Gotum Karo advanced towards me and proceeded to several salaams and “Zaki” repeatedly. Becoming impatient to get on the road, I interrupted the salutations by asking severely what he was seeking and why he did not move off. He came to the point immediately. “They,” he said, pointing over his shoulder to the labourers, “want chop money,” i.e., money for food allowance.