While in camp at Sumbu I had another adventure with a puff-adder, which is, as I have explained elsewhere, one of the most venomous snakes in all Africa. We were sitting outside my tent after dinner, enjoying our coffee and cigarettes as usual, when my personal boy had occasion to go inside on some errand or other. A moment or two later there came the sound of a wild commotion from within. The boy was threshing about with a stick, and calling out excitedly something we could not understand. We jumped up, and the boy came running out, dangling the dead reptile gingerly at the end of his stick. He had, he explained, nearly stepped on it in the dark, and he showed us where it had been coiled, right opposite my toilet table, where I should have stood on entering. The curious instinct natives have about snakes, had warned him of his danger, but had I gone in I should almost certainly have trodden on it; and there would probably have been an end to me for good and all.
Soon after this incident a piece of very welcome news reached us. A native runner came trotting up to our camp with a letter in a cleft-stick, and wrapped in the usual oilskin. It proved to be a cablegram from the Moving Picture Sales Agency in London—the firm that is handling our films—telling us that the first lot of pictures had been received and developed, and that they had turned out very well indeed. Naturally, we were all immensely pleased and delighted, for as we had no proper facilities for developing our cinematograph negatives where we were, we had no means of judging how they were going to turn out, and Schomburgk, with memories of the failure that had attended his efforts during his former expedition, had been all along very anxious about the matter. Now all our apprehensions were set at rest, our spirits soared high, and we opened a bottle of champagne in honour of the occasion. The cablegram had only left London thirty-six hours previously. It had been re-transmitted by telephone from Lome to Mangu, whence it had been dispatched by relays of runners to our camp. The date stamp showed that it had left Mangu at ten o'clock that morning, and it reached us at eight o'clock in the evening, the distance from Mangu to Sumbu being approximately fifty-five miles. When it is remembered that there is no proper road between the two places, nor even a trail in many parts, that the heat in the daytime up here is so terrific that even the natives ordinarily do not care to move about in it, and that the letter had to be carried up hill and down dale, as well as across rivers and streams, it must be admitted that the performance was a good one. It had been brought to us by what is known as "chief's mail," an institution peculiar to Togo. The letter, message, telegram, or whatever it may be, is wrapped in oilskin by the clerk at the issuing office, firmly fixed into the cleft of a stick, and handed to a native runner, who at once dashes off with it to the nearest village along the line of the route it is intended it shall take. Arrived there, he calls out at the top of his voice "Chief's mail!" and hands it to the first native he happens to meet, who at once starts off with it at top speed to the next village, where the operation is repeated. In this way messages can be dispatched to practically any part of the country with marvellous celerity.
Our principal reason for remaining at Sumbu was because we wanted to photograph some pictures of hippopotami, which were reported to be fairly numerous in the Oti hereabouts. Schomburgk wanted to secure a good picture of the ordinary hippo, in order to show the contrast between these big fellows and the pygmy hippopotamus which he discovered in Liberia, and also to show how the one is practically always cooped up in some big pool, while the other, the little one, roams at will all over the place in the forest; otherwise he did not trouble greatly about game pictures. Day after day passed by, however, and we saw none, and Schomburgk began to get anxious. Eventually he sent natives out to look for them, promising a reward to whoever succeeded. That evening a couple of Tschokossi came in, and reported that they had located five of them some few miles up-stream, near a village called Panscheli. This, of course, was welcome news, and very early the following morning we set out for Panscheli, taking our camera with us. We crossed the river, which was fairly deep and infested with crocodiles, without mishap. I was being carried in a hammock, being a bit run down, and I confess to being a little bit nervous, as I was being carried by boys who were new to the business, and didn't know how to handle the hammock properly. Besides this, the responsibility of having to carry a white woman for the first time made them over careful, and their progress was slow and tedious. Proper hammock boys, like those who carried me from Atakpame to Sokode, are exceedingly swift, smooth, and easy in all their movements. They "break step," like stretcher-bearers are trained to do, and sing a curious sort of chanting melody as they trot along, which is very apt to lull one to sleep.
Altogether, what with the crossing, and one or two enforced halts on the way, the journey to Panscheli occupied about two and a half hours, and a little way beyond the village, in a big and very deep pool, we came up with the hippos—one big bull, one big cow, and three smaller ones. This was the first time I had ever seen hippopotami in a wild state, and Schomburgk was rather looking forward to my being impressed at the sight. As a matter of fact, however, I wasn't a bit impressed. The ungainly brutes only poked their heads above water at intervals to breathe, then down again. I was far more interested in those I had seen in captivity at the "Zoo" in Hamburg, and in Regent's Park, London.
So shy and wary were these Oti hippos, that even now we had tracked them to their lair our operator found it impossible to take pictures of them. So at length, hot, tired, and disgusted, we gave it up as a bad job, and Schomburgk proceeded to vent his anger on the crocodiles, shooting six or seven of them. He absolutely refused, however, to shoot any of the hippos, saying that they were harmless creatures, not like the beastly crocs, and that anyway it wouldn't be sport, but butchery, because the poor brutes, although they were in their native element, had not got the run of the river, but were cooped up in the pool, and had to come to the surface to breathe. Eventually, however, he so far relented as to give Hodgson permission to shoot one of the two big hippos, telling him to remain behind for that purpose. "Perhaps," he remarked, "you will never get another chance, and anyhow it will do for meat for the boys."
Meanwhile, on an island in the middle of the pool, I saw the most extraordinary sight I had ever beheld, an incident that I had often heard about, but never really believed. The low sandy islet was covered thick with innumerable water-fowl: teal, egrets, herons, and so forth. And right in amongst them were five enormous crocodiles, lying basking in the sun with their mouths wide open, and numbers of little white birds running in and out, and pecking with their tiny beaks at the interstices between the big cruel teeth. We promptly tried to cinema the scene, and again we were disappointed; in fact our luck seemed dead out on this particular day. The crackling of the dried grass alarmed the reptiles, and they promptly closed their cavernous mouths, and slid off the island into the river. Whether any of the poor little birds were accidentally trapped inside, under the—for the crocs—altogether exceptional circumstances of the case, I do not know, but Schomburgk said not, as these birds are exceedingly quick in their movements, and the crocodiles are careful not to hurt them. The little creatures are generally known throughout Western Africa as "tick-birds," and they do not go only with crocodiles, but with elephants, rhinoceri, buffaloes, &c., as well as tame cattle and sheep. They feed on the vermin, and especially on the ticks, that infest these creatures; hence their name. Hence, also, the fact that they are never wantonly interfered with by their hosts. Even the stupid crocodile has sense enough to know that it is good for him to be rid of vermin, and to have his great ugly yellow teeth picked and cleansed for him by these indefatigable little scavengers.
Panscheli, where we halted for a brief spell on our way back to Sumbu, is a prettily situated little village of the usual frowsy Tschokossi type. It stands on the left bank of the Oti going up-stream, Sumbu being on the right bank, and is surrounded by broad belts of palm-trees. Curiously enough, the natives hereabouts seem to make no use whatever of these valuable trees.
By permission of
Maj. H. Schomburgk, F.R.G.S.