Chapter VI: The Shores of Bushland and Desert

Toward the end of February I left Zinder.

Takoukout, 109 miles farther on, was to be my next camping-place.

Before leaving Zinder I heard plenty of discouraging news of the journey confronting me: exploits of armed robbers and great scarcity of food were freely spoken of, by both Europeans and natives, as existing drawbacks to visiting Aïr; and I began to note that my Hausa boys were growing restive and suspicious of what lay ahead. In fact, in the end those fearsome but idle rumours unsettled and unnerved Mona to such an extent that, when the time drew near to go forward, I decided to send him back to Kano, deeming it useless to take him further in such a state of mind. Sakari was little better, but he was so helpful in skinning, that I was loath to let him go, and by the aid of increased wages was able to induce him to continue.

It was the old familiar trouble, for I have always found it difficult to induce natives, most of whom appear to have a strong erratical and unreliable temperament in their composition, to leave their homes on a long journey, and, when possibilities of hunger and danger are added, trouble may be anticipated after the undertaking has commenced, no matter how auspicious the start, nor how binding the promises, which were perfectly sincere at the time they were made.

For my own part I had often puzzled over the question: “Why is it that Aïr has so long been avoided by naturalists and travellers?” for, so far as I could gather, no one had explored the country in British interests since Dr. Barth’s geological and anti-slave trade mission to Central Africa in 1850—seventy years ago; but now I believed I had a cue, for hunger and danger are indeed companions of ill-omen sufficiently gruesome to warn away the wise—provided they are altogether without some opposite neighbours to stand by in time of stress and modify the fearsome picture. But of this more anon.

It may be said that in leaving Zinder, northward bound, one passes out into true Sahara and true wilderness. Henceforward the break-up of the natural bushland sets in, and wide belts of sand desert and dwarf bush alternate, until the vast sea of sand-plain is reached about 180 miles north of Zinder. Henceforward, also, the nature of the country undergoes change; it is more barren than before, which is reflected at once in the tremendous drop in population which occurs in the region or province of Damergou; and it is reflected, also, in the dwarf stature of the ill-nourished acacia trees, which, by the way, remind me much of the dying-down of the timber forests of Canada to the dwarf Scrub Pine on the shores of the sub-Arctic barren grounds. How strikingly similar are those two instances of landlocked shores, that are boundary between bushland and desert or plain, though they take effect in continents widely separated, and of entirely different climatic conditions! In both cases the trees are ill-thriven and dwarfed, but there is a difference: in the Sudan the cause is to be found in the unfertile sand and lack of moisture, while in Canada it is the severity of the winter in that particular latitude which lays its blight upon the land.

Then, too, as you enter wilderness and land of diminished population, you pass into country that is poorer in bird life, but richer by far in big-game than any territory to the south—as shall be seen as we progress.

The village of Tanout, 85 miles distant, lay across our path to Takoukout, and I set out with the intention of covering the distance in five days, which meant fairly stiff going for the well-loaded camels. As customary, we had the usual trouble with certain animals and their burdens on the first day out from Zinder, and were on the road, without pause for rest, from 7 a.m. till 4 p.m., when we reached Bakimaran after a journey of 18 miles. There is a belt of barren land which starts about 5 miles south of Zinder and continues northward until beyond Bakimaran—a belt altogether 25 to 30 miles in width—and it was across this that we travelled in setting out. It was drearily bare country, undulating in places with low rounded rises, sandy or covered with withered grass, and often with rough outcrops of gravel and boulders and rock, while, in patches, there was some scraggy bush and an odd tree. Few natives were encountered until Bakimaran was reached, and cattle and goat-herds, which are common to inhabited territory, were remarkably scarce, though the latter circumstance could, perhaps, in a measure be explained, as there are occasions in the dry season when grazing or water give out, and it is necessary that the main herds of the people be driven, often long distances, to find new pasturage. Apropos of this, there sometimes arises an amusing incident: a thunderstorm and sudden cloud-burst of heavy rain occurs in a limited locality and starts the grass growing green; before long a wandering bushman chances upon this fine pasture, and hastens away to fetch his lean and hungry herds to it; but on his return he finds to his disgust that someone, who has also made the discovery, has forestalled him, and there ensues lively dispute over rights of possession, which sometimes ends in angry abuse and even fighting—like to the madness of two hungry dogs that pounce together upon a dish of appetising food, antagonistic and snarling, although the vessel, in all probability, contains ample repast for both.

On the following day we departed from Bakimaran before dawn, and camped at Kaléloua in the afternoon. On the way we passed from the barren belt into fairly thick bush country, wherein no native habitations were seen until we reached our destination. The country now contained some big game. Red-fronted Gazelles were numerous, and were observed, usually, singly or in pairs, and I had no difficulty in shooting sufficient meat for my natives and the headmen of Kaléloua. Also one small band of giraffe were observed, but not disturbed, much to the disappointment of my natives, who were most anxious that I should kill those Rakuma-n-daji (Camels of the bush), which is the quaint Hausa name for those odd-shaped animals.

On the third day, which was a Sunday, we travelled to Dambiri. During the early part of the day we continued to pass through the bush belt we had entered on the previous day, but midway on the journey, after about 20 miles of bush country lay behind, this gave place again to open plains of sand and dry grass, which continued to Dambiri, and beyond as far as eye could see. In contour the open landscape was gently rolling, without any sharp rise, and not unlike the plain we had passed in leaving Zinder, except in the ever-growing supremacy of sand and solitude.

The growing poverty of the land is reflected in the natives and their habitations: the village of Dambiri, like the few others we had passed since leaving Zinder, was small, and the grass dwellings and yard fences built with less neatness and thoroughness than further south, and there was much that was unkempt and uncared for in the general aspect of the place, while the natives themselves were poor and raggedly clad. It is curious to note how surely the gradual change from fertile land to desert land is insistent of a corresponding falling off in the quantity and quality of the Hausaland natives, until they reach the very lowest ebb on the shores of the desert, and cease to venture farther; while another and vastly different race, the nomad Tuaregs, take up the duel of existence against nature in the great barren sea-like wastes beyond.

Dambiri, the designation of the village, is not an unpleasant Hausa name in quality of sound, but one gets rather a set-back if inquisitive enough to inquire into the literal English translation, for the meaning of the word is, “a bush cat with a bad smell”—which, I take it, rather pointedly has reference to the Civet Cat.

Once a week, on a set day, it is the custom of each village to hold market; and market-day constitutes the most important occasion in the routine of native life, for all are born traders, even in this impoverished territory of small productiveness, and outlying natives and the inhabitants of other villages travel eagerly, often long distances, with their quota of humble produce, to swell the concourse. Sunday was the day of market at Dambiri, so that there was unwonted stir about the place when we arrived, and much sound of tom-toms. I will not go into details of market-day at Dambiri, for the wares and proceedings are similar to those described at Kano; but I will make mention of the tom-tom music.

Those drum-beats which emanate so persistently from the village, and which sound so monotonous and aimless to the European stranger, have in reality a definite purpose to the initiated, for they are in fact declaring urgent news that is intended to reach the ears of all, something after the manner of the old-fashioned town-crier in our own country, who goes forth with a hand-bell to make quaint public proclamations. Here are a few examples selected out of many: a certain rattan, or scale of beats, means that a beast (ox, sheep, or goat) is about to be killed, and that those who want fresh meat should hasten to purchase it before the excessive heat of the climate works destruction upon it; another sound denotes that meat is being sold at the market-place—not at the slaughter-place; others call the population to foregather before the King’s dwelling, or to a wedding, or to feast; and yet another warns the people of the approach of a Saraki (local king) or a Amiru (emir or prince). In the examples which I have given, it will be seen that there is some need of urgency in the proclamation; and that is usually the case. Furthermore, the drum-beats of the tom-tom travel much farther than the human voice, and as it is often desired to reach the ears of the people at toil in the fields as well as those within the village, the inhabitants show cuteness in thus using their favourite instrument of music (?) for the duties of the day as well as for pleasure.

On the fourth day we journeyed throughout across strange wide plains of grass and sand, where no trees grow and but few scattered dwarf bushes, and camped at Mazia, which has an altitude of 1,700 ft., so that a decided ascent has set in since leaving Dambiri (1,500 ft.). In fact, on reaching Tanout next day, the highest altitude thus far encountered was recorded, namely, 1,800 ft., while a little further north, above Guinea Valley, the continuation of the same height of land recorded 1,900 ft., which is the highest point noted anywhere on my route from Kano to Agades.

During the late afternoon, at Mazia, I shot two Dorcas Gazelles and one great Arab Bustard to add to our scant supply of food. The dainty little Dorcas Gazelles are creatures that frequent the open plains and thin scrub, so that they too furnished evidence that we were now on the shores of the desert.

Water is not plentiful nor pure at Mazia: in fact, at this season (I am writing at the end of February), after four or five months have passed without rainfall, many wells reach a very low ebb, and pure water was a luxury enjoyed only at Zinder. Elsewhere it was always much discoloured with vegetable matter, and decaying timber props and soil; but it is precious enough even so, for it means no less than life to man and beast in this country of ravenous sunlight and terrifying dryness.

True to schedule, my caravan completed the 85-mile journey from Zinder to Tanout in the calculated time, and weary, dust-covered men and beasts camped at the Fort on the fifth day. On the way the country continued open and practically bushless, and little changed from that of the previous day, until the caravan drew near to Tanout, when three small hills became visible in the direction we were heading, while many of the low ridges among the sand-dunes were now strewn with dark glazed and rounded stones and pebbles, which gave to them a curious and striking resemblance, when viewed from a distance, to the colour of heather-hills at home in winter-time; also, in the low ground in the widely sweeping hollows between the rounded rises, there were often large circular or oval, basin-like, sand-coloured mud-flats, which, no doubt, hold lakes of water in the flood-rains of a good year (during some years very little rain falls in the wet season, which, roughly, is July and August in this territory, while there are occasions when the country is cruelly handicapped by two or three successive years of very slight rainfall), but which now appear to the eye as dry and smooth as a concrete area, and devoid of a single blade of grass or shrub or boulder—a cleanliness quite remarkable where no human hand has given aid.

At this season of the year Tanout is surrounded by dreadfully bare country, and one can scarcely conceive that the dead wastes of sand of the present time are, at another season, cultivated and green with the tall luxuriant growth of millet, guinea-corn, and maize; nevertheless, such is the case. The neighbourhood of Tanout is a renowned granary in the western Sudan, and it is to this territory that the Tuaregs of Aïr, who for lack of rain grow very little in their own country, send their caravans to barter for or purchase the grains which I have named above, which are the staple foods they live upon. This in some cases entails a journey of 170 miles (from Agades), and in others as much as 300 miles (from Timia, the furthest north inhabited village in Aïr to-day), which figures should be doubled if one wishes to calculate the full distance, outward and homeward, that caravans travel before they can bring food to the doors of their people.

The caravan track from the south runs straight into Tanout fort, which therefore acts as a barrier across the route, where all who pass may be questioned as to their identity and business—which is, in fact, a duty performed at this place, where a check is desired for military reasons on all native comings and goings. The fort, which stands facing south on a slight rise, is small; a square enclosure within high thick mud walls, containing a few humble hutments set back against the main structure and facing into the small open barrack square, which serve as quarters for the Europeans and magazines for military stores. The coloured troops are camped outside in a group of grass-thatched huts just west of the fort walls, where a straight avenue, planted with young trees that hesitate to take root in the ungracious soil, leads down to the native village, which lies in a dip about a quarter of a mile to the west. The native village is poorly constructed and primitive, much like the others in the region, even though this is the capital of Damergou. At the time of my visit there was one European officer and three N.C.O.s at the fort in command of the coloured troops; and a more isolated life than theirs could not well be imagined.

The native population in 1920 within the region of Damergou, of which Tanout is the capital, is detailed as follows:

Hausa 22,929
Beri-Beri 3,500
Tuareg 2,740
Fulani 370
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Total Population 29,539
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I also made some interesting notes with regard to the camels in this region and the alarming decline which has recently taken place—alarming because transport and existence in the country are so much dependent on those animals. It is stated that there were 15,000 camels in Damergou previous to the rising of 1916 in Aïr, whereas now there remain but 2,800—2,200 the property of Tuaregs, and 600 belonging to Beri-Beri. The chief reason of this great loss of animals appears to lie in the fact that at the time of the rising— which, I am told, had strong religious influence behind it, of the Senussi persuasion, as well as cunning instigation from Constantinople, where the Turks were already the sworn enemies of France in Europe—nearly all the Tuareg natives hastened north to join the rebel leader, Kaossen, taking with them their camels; and few of those camels ever returned. If one considers that a female camel has but one young at a birth, and that many years are required to rear camels to maturity, it will be seen that the loss is very serious, since it can hardly be replaced—unless animals were imported wholesale, which, I fancy, is an impossibility.

In the following two days I completed the journey to my destination at Takoukout, which is merely the native name of a shallow valley, wherein a few nomad Tuaregs, who live in gipsy-like families, herding their cattle and goats and roaming from place to place in the virgin bush, have excavated numerous pit-like wells to obtain sufficient water for themselves and their stock.

There are no native villages north of Tanout— none until Agades is reached, 169 miles away, at the southern end of the mountains of Aïr.

There is no water anywhere between Tanout and Takoukout at this season, so, before setting out, one camel was loaded with goat-skins of water sufficient to serve for the journey.

The country north of Tanout is very irregular, with much of the ground surface strewn with pebbles and bare of vegetation, while some strange and picturesque escarpments were passed before descending into Guinea Valley, which is about 300 ft. below the level of the high land on which Tanout is situated. In Guinea Valley, 13 miles north of Tanout, the barren belt, which had first been entered beyond Kaléloua at a point 50 miles back, is left behind, and in the low ground there is now more bush-growth, which continues to Takoukout, and beyond to the very edge of the desert-sea.

After a pleasant cool journey by moonlight, my caravan reached Takoukout on the second morning after my departure from Tanout; whereupon I prepared to make a permanent encampment whence to do some hunting, for in this last belt of bush before the desert is entered there is much game reported, and, what concerned me most, ostriches! Lord Rothschild was particularly anxious to secure specimens of those birds from this isolated region.