The typical cultivator is not credited in literature with much skill as a hunter and trapper; his modicum of intellect is supposed to be entirely absorbed by the care of his fields, and none but tribes of the stamp of the Bushmen, the Pygmies and the Australian aborigines are assumed by our theoretic wisdom to be capable of dexterously killing game in forest or steppe, or taking it by skilful stratagem in a cunningly devised trap. And yet how wide of the mark is this opinion of the schools! Among the tribes of the district I am studying, the Makua are counted as good hunters, while at the same time they are like the rest, in the main, typical hoe-cultivators—i.e., people who, year after year, keep on tilling, with the primitive hoe, the ground painfully brought under cultivation. In spite of their agricultural habits their traps are constructed with wonderful ingenuity. The form and action of these traps is sufficiently evident from the accompanying sketches; but in case any reader should be entirely without the faculty of “technical sight,” I may add for his benefit that all these murderous implements depend on the same principle. Those intended for quadrupeds are so arranged that the animal in walking or running forward strikes against a fine net with his muzzle, or a thin cord with his foot. The net or the string is thereby pressed forward, the upper edge of the former glides downwards, but the end of the string moves a little to one side. In either case this movement sets free the end of a lever—a small stick which has hitherto, in a way sufficiently clear from the sketch—kept the trap set. It slips instantaneously round its support, and in so doing releases the tension of the tree or bent stick acting as a spring, which in its upward recoil draws a skilfully fixed noose tight round the neck of the animal, which is then strangled to death. Traps of similar construction, but still more cruel, are set for rats and the like, and, unfortunately, equal cunning and skill are applied to the pursuit of birds. Perhaps I shall find another opportunity of discussing this side of native life; it certainly deserves attention, for there is scarcely any department where the faculty of invention to be found in even the primitive mind is so clearly shown as in this aspect of the struggle for existence.
TRAP FOR ANTELOPES
Of psychological interest is the behaviour of the natives in face of my own activity in this part of my task. When, we two Europeans having finished our frugal dinner, Nils Knudsen has laid himself down for his well-deserved siesta, and the snoring of my warriors resounds, more rhythmically than harmoniously from the neighbouring baraza, I sit in the blazing sun, like the shadowless Schlemihl, only slightly protected by the larger of my two helmets, sketching.
TRAP FOR GUINEA-FOWL
TRAP FOR LARGE GAME
The ability to make a rapid and accurate sketch of any object in a few strokes is one whose value to the scientific explorer cannot be overrated. Photography is certainly a wonderful invention, but in the details of research-work carried on day by day, it is apt to fail one oftener than might be expected, and that not merely in the darkness of hut-interiors, but over and over again by daylight in the open air.
I am sitting sketching, then. Not a breath of air is stirring—all nature seems asleep. My pen, too, is growing tired, when I hear a noise immediately behind me. A hasty glance shows me that the momentum of universal human curiosity has overcome even the primæval force of negroid laziness. It is the whole band of my carriers, accompanied by a few people belonging to the place. They must have come up very softly, as they might easily do with their bare feet on the soft, sandy soil. Presently the whole crowd is looking over my shoulder in the greatest excitement. I do not let them disturb me; stroke follows stroke, the work nears completion,—at last it is finished. “Sawasawa?” (“Is it like?”) I ask eagerly, and the answering chorus of “Ndio” (“Yes”) is shouted into my ears with an enthusiasm which threatens to burst the tympanum. “Kizuri?” (“Is it fine?”) “Kizuri sana kabisa” (“Very fine, indeed”), they yell back still more loudly and enthusiastically; “Wewe fundi” (“You are a master-craftsman”). These flattering critics are my artists who, having practised themselves, may be supposed to know what they are talking about; the few washenzi, unlettered barbarians, unkissed of the Muse, have only joined in the chorus from gregarious instinct, mere cattle that they are.