The jungle folk of Africa

by Robert H. Milligan

I have said that Dr. Good had already made one journey into this interior. He chose Efulen for the site of the new mission station, and set natives to work cutting down trees and clearing the top of the hill. The name Efulen, which we afterwards gave it, was first used by the natives themselves. It is from a Bulu word, fula, which means to mix; for they never had seen such a mingling of people, of different towns and even hostile tribes, as they saw daily on our hill, where all could come with safety.

It was but few trees that the several workmen had cut when we arrived. For the native, especially when working for the white man, requires a large amount of intellectual stimulus. We found a bare spot of sufficient size for our tent, and there we pitched it and began felling the trees around us, letting the sun down upon ground that it had perhaps not reached for centuries. The wet season was upon us; the rains were heavier and more frequent each day. Our tent did not turn the heaviest rains, which sometimes came in on us in the night and saturated our beds; but it did us no harm. Much more serious were the extreme and rapid alternations of temperature within the tent. After a thunder-storm it was often cold enough to make our teeth chatter, while between showers, if the sun shone upon the wet tent, it was impossible to endure the heat inside. At such times, however, all we had to do was to stay outside. We slept on camp-beds, three of which filled the tent, leaving in the middle just room enough for a table, and we sat on our beds while eating, side-dishes being placed on the beds. Our table, which Dr. Good and I made with a cross-cut saw, and which had no legs, was a solid cut out of a log three feet in diameter. The first time we sawed it through our saw sloped off in a line at least thirty degrees from the vertical and with an increasing curve, to Mr. Kerr’s undisguised amusement. But having served our apprenticeship we got the next quite straight. And since the slope of the hill was about thirty degrees, the log table, when properly placed, stood exactly upright, and Mr. Kerr’s ridicule was changed to admiration of our skill and judgment.

Most of our dishes were of tin, which we called our silver service. Indeed, there was no want of tin, for most of our food was imported in tins—meats, milk and butter. Africa, as some one says, is a land flowing with milk and honey—condensed milk and tinned honey. There are many varieties of tinned meats, according to the labels, but they all taste alike when one has become tired of them and dislikes them equally; sometimes, when one is feverish, the smell of them is as much as an ordinary stomach can digest in that debilitating climate. During those first months our meats were chiefly Armour’s sausage and some anomalous concoction of strong meats and stale onions called Irish Stew. We bought from the natives bananas, plantains and sweet potatoes, and after some time we were able to buy a chicken on rare occasions. As soon as possible we began raising our own chickens; but it was only after several months that we had them frequently. Our cook, a young man from the coast, who spoke Kru English, would come to me and ask: “Mastah, what thing you go chop? Must I kill a chicken, or must I kill a tin?” He much preferred to “kill a tin,” for in that case the cooking was very simple and consisted in punching a hole in the top of the tin and then placing it on an outside fire—we had no stove. When we began to have chickens occasionally the cook informed us that he must have an assistant, because “one man he no be fit for do all them work.” Thus we lived for two months and a half, until our house was built. We bore the rudeness of our circumstances by making them a constant source of mutual amusement. And often we conquered defeat itself by laughing at it.

The hill was crowded from dawn until dark with a pandemonium of naked and astonished natives, who had never seen white men before. They think aloud. Every impression utters itself in a yell. The habit of talking aloud to themselves is so common that some white men have accounted for it by supposing that they are talking to the spirits of their ancestors. I can only say that if this be so they evidently conceive of the other world as being very far away.

Each separate act or movement of us white strangers produced a shout of astonishment.

“He walks!” they shout, when he takes a step forward; or: “He sits down!” as they jostle each other for a front place to see the animal perform.

The animal, meanwhile, rises to his feet, sits down, then rises again, turns round slowly, lifts one leg, then the other, lifts his arms and turns round again. If he has a hat on he will take it off several times. If by any chance he should have a coat on he will take the coat off too. No matter how much he may take off they will still desire him to take off more and complete the vaudeville. He turns round once or twice more, moves each of his several limbs again, turns round again as an encore, and then sits down, while the crowd yells appreciation and delight. Then follows a lively discussion as to his appearance and proportions. Some of them think he would be good-looking if he only had some colour, but such a complexion would make anybody ugly. Others think that he is good-looking even as he is. An interesting query, however, is whether his whole body is white, or only his hands and face, the rest of him being black like themselves. In order to settle this urgent question they beg him to take off his trousers.

A GROUP OF ADMIRING NATIVES.