The Pathfinders

H The mere animal pleasure of travelling is very great. Most travellers seem taken up with the difficulties of the way; the pleasures of roaming free seem forgotten."

(Livingstone’s Journal.) ROSSING the Kalahari Desert was not.

of course, like trying to cross the sandy Sahara. There were trees here and there, where water was to be found, and there were native tribes living in that wilderness. But it was a blank, hopeless-looking region, and travelling over it was little joy. Everywhere were sun-baked hillocks, sandy steeps and old, dry water-courses. The wait-a-bit thorn caught at the travellers’ clothing, and they had to look out for scorpions and poisonous centipedes. From time to time they came across herds of eland, steinbuck and gemsbuck, which are all able to do without water for long periods, as they live on the bulbs and desert melons, which contain a good deal of moisture in themselves. Whenever they met with the spoor of rhinos, buffaloes, or giraffes, they knew water could not be very far away. Parts of this great desert are apparently absolutely waterless, and yet the wild tribes that live there know how to find moisture even in that arid land. The Bakalahari, or desert people, and the little bushmen followed the migrations of the game herds all over the desert, but how they managed to live in such a place puzzled Livingstone. It was the Matabele warriors who first drove the Bakalahari into the desert, and the natives told many stories of how the wily tribesmen lured their Matabele enemy after them into a waterless tract of the wilderness. Burning with thirst, the warriors arrived at last in a bushman settlement and asked for water, but the little men told them coolly that not a drop was to be had. The Matabele could not believe that even a bushman could live without water, and, sitting down, they watched these people night and day to see where they kept their supply. At last their thirst drove them farther, and they departed, saying: “ Yak! Yak! These are not men. Let us go! ”

How Livingstone discovered these bushmen’s secrets can only be put down to the wonderful influence he always seemed to have over native tribes. Like Hannington, he had a special gift with natives, and always won their confidence and friendship. The Bakalahari had hidden water supplies underground, and had a most ingenious method of sucking up moisture from the soil. The women would bring ostrich shells with a hole in one end and would push a two-foot reed into the ground.

An
African
Game

These

men
are
Wa-Yao,
descendants
of
the
Slavers
who

gave
Livingstone
and
Bishop
Mackenzie

so
much
trouble.
They

are

playing a native

game called bhombwe, which is

not unlike draughts.

Ramming the sand firmly round the reed, they sucked hard at the other end of it, and after a time water rose into their mouths. Along a straw the water was then cleverly guided into the ostrich eggs. A method very much the same sort is used by the natives in parts of Central Africa to-day, and hunters have sometimes to choose between thirst and water sucked up into the mouth of a native woman and probably blood-stained from her cracked lips. The little desert people whom Livingstone met buried their precious water-eggs in the sand, and if any wandering strangers arrived they might search in vain for water, and would have to retire in disgust, which was just what the Bakalahari wanted them to do. The bushmen always amused and interested Livingstone. He said they were not such wanton liars as the Betshuana people.

After some days’ march they thought they had really discovered Lake Ngami. Oswell, who was a little ahead, suddenly raised a shout and threw his cap into the air in triumph. What he saw appeared to be a great stretch of water in the light of the setting sun. It was indeed so exactly like a lake that it deceived even the animals with them, but in another few moments the party realised their mistake. In that district the mirage plays cruel tricks over the shining surface of vast natural salt-pans, and the glitter on the scintillating face of the plain was like the sparkle of little rippling waves. The real lake was still three hundred miles away; so on they trudged once more, and in due time came to less arid country.

Livingstone was full of the enthusiasm of the true explorer. Almost every day’s march told him facts about this wonderful unknown Africa which had been a fast secret from any European before. The old maps of Africa contained more blanks than names, and the mountains and rivers that were printed on them were generally mere guesswork. As the old rhyme has it

“ Cartographers in Afric’s maps
With savage pictures fill the gaps.
And o’er the inhospitable downs
Place elephants instead of towns ! ”

One has to open a modern map to realise what we owe to Livingstone.

Certainly “ the downs ” were inhospitable enough, for they had to pass through some pretty dangerous and fever-ridden country but there were compensations, and to Oswell the elephants made up for everything. It was a regular hunter’s paradise, and they came across great herds of elephants and a particularly wary and dangerous species of white rhinoceros, armed with a straight horn. This rhino, known as the quebaaba, has a horn of about forty-three or forty-four inches in length, which, unlike the horn of its commoner cousin, curves slightly downwards instead of in an upward direction. When charging it carries its head very low, with the point of its wickedlooking horn quite close to the ground. To come suddenly upon a rhinoceros, as it stands stock-still among the bushes, with not a single motion in all its vast bulk except in its twinkling little pig-eyes, is almost like approaching an armoured car. The African rhino is a much bigger animal than the Indian beast one generally sees in a menagerie at home. He may measure anything up to six feet from the shoulder, and perhaps fourteen feet or more from stem to stern. When he does see you he can whirl about with the agility of a polo pony, and to see him charge is like watching a motor van coming down upon one, full steam up and endowed with an eagerly wicked disposition.

One thing the African rhino certainly does do—he makes useful paths for the traveller through difficult country. Thorn thickets, scrub, trees, all go down before this mighty steam-roller as he goes upon his way.

In the district where they came upon the quebaaba Oswell had two encounters with these white rhinos which nearly cost him his life.

On the first occasion he was riding Stael, his favourite horse, when he sighted the rhinoceros. Firing both barrels at the beast, Oswell tried to turn his mount and make off. But a thick bush under Stael’s chest stopped him for a moment, and in another second the wounded rhino was upon him. It drove in its horn under the horse’s flank, and lifting its head it tossed horse and rider into the air with such terrific force that the point of the long horn pierced the saddle. As they fell the iron stirrup scalped Oswell’s head for four inches in length and breadth. The rhino passed within a foot of the hunter’s body and then made off across country. Without a moment’s pause Oswell leapt upon his servant’s horse and was after his enemy like the wind. He had to wring the blood out of his eyes and to hold down the loose piece of scalp upon his head with his left hand, but on drawing up with the rhino he managed to hold his rifle steady with the right arm and shot the great beast dead. No words give one a better picture of Livingstone’s friend than his own description of the affair: “ That very morning,” he wrote, “ I had talked to Stael affectionately, as a man can talk to a good horse, telling him how when the hunting was over I would make him fat and happy. ... It was with a very sore heart that I put a ball through his head, took the saddle from his back and started wagonwards, walking half the distance, ten miles, and making my after-rider do likewise.” That was just like Hunter Oswell. Shaken and bleeding, he shared the ten-mile tramp as a simple matter of course with his black servant.

In his second accident with a rhino Oswell was on foot when the great beast gave chase. In a moment, almost, the great horn came lapping round his thigh; but even as the head went up, and Oswell with it, the hunter managed to fire both barrels into his enemy. When he came to upon the ground Oswell found he had a deep gash in his thigh, eight inches long and down to the bone in all its length, and it was a month before he was able to be up and about once more.

One thing the natives could never understand, and that was why white men should leave their own country and come so far merely to shoot game. “Why, these men are rich,” they would say, “ and they could slaughter oxen every day of their lives—and yet they come here, and endure so much thirst for the sake of this dry meat, none of which is equal to beef! Yes, and it is for the sake of play besides! ” and the puzzled one would laugh as if to say, “ Here are fools! ”

One day Oswell, who was riding in front of the wagons, saw what he thought was some animal rushing through the grass. He galloped after it and found it was a little bushwoman. She, poor creature, thought it was the usual thing—a thief—and began to deliver up her small bundle of traps. Never was a bushwoman more surprised when Livingstone, who came up, told her they only wanted water and would pay her if she led them to a spring. They gave her finally a large piece of meat and some beads and made the little woman laugh before she left them. Livingstone and Oswell, like Hannington and like Selous, belonged to that small band of true sportsmen who would rather starve than take a pound of food by force from ignorant natives. That could certainly not be said of many a hunting expedition in wildest Africa in the past. The food question is always a burning one, and sometimes a leader finds himself with several hundred men who have to be fed or they will rebel. Africa has demoralised a good many men; they have ended by doing things they would not care for people at home to know about.

It is true that a notable German explorer, who shall be nameless, coolly told an Edinburgh audience some years ago how he had cleared the natives out of his way. The present writer remembers very well hearing this man describe the effect of a Gatling gun upon a native village that, not altogether unnaturally, had not given him a warm welcome as he and his greedy caravan passed that way. But in the earlier days of African travel some cruel deeds were done by men who, unlike Livingstone, did not try to understand the native mind. There was absolutely no rule anywhere in the Africa of that day. Might was right, and cruelty reigned supreme. Every man’s hand was against the

THE PATHFINDERS

man of another tribe, and disease or the slave trade devastated vast tracts of country. One of the best-known lion hunters used to say that every sefari, or hunting expedition, not so very long ago, meant “ a little war.” Things have changed now—and the greatest of the men who brought that change about in Africa was David Livingstone.

In one of his letters William Oswell describes Livingstone’s astonishing patience with regard to native customs. “ I have sat seven weeks with him,” Oswell writes, “ on the bank of a swamp, because he was unwilling to run counter to the wishes of the people. I pressed him to move on with the horses; no active opposition would have been offered; but he would not wound the prejudices of the natives—and he was right.” A saying that Lord Roberts was fond of quoting was that “ There is a door everywhere which can be opened by love and sympathy and practical service.” Lots of men have failed in Africa just because they have not troubled to fit the right key to the door, or else perhaps because, unlike David Livingstone, they did not possess that key!

The River Zuga brought Livingstone, Oswell and Murray to the end of their trek, and now the best thing to be done was evidently to leave the wagons and follow the river to the lake. The Bakoba River people of that district practically lived in their frail canoes, which were merely trunks of trees scooped into the shape of a boat. If the tree was a crooked one the canoe was crooked too. They even slept in their canoes at night, the woods containing too many enemies to be comfortable. The white travellers made friends with these people and were paddled down the beautiful river in canoes. Sometimes they came in for an exciting scene on the river, and watched the native harpooners launch their javelins at a hippopotamus in full flight. It was as risky a business as whaling, and the hippo often got the best of it. He would turn upon his assailants and try his best to crush the canoe with his teeth, or smash it with a kick from his powerful hind foot.

The native harpoon is an ingenious weapon. An iron spear is fixed to the end of a long pole by strips of hibiscus bark, which is wound closely round the whole length of the shaft and secured at the opposite end. The hunters then paddle quietly down upon a sleeping hippo and plunge the harpoon into his body. The force of the blow separates the iron javelin from the corded handle, so that when the hippo sinks to the bottom of the river he carries the harpoon with him, attached to its long, unravelled cord. A small bladder at the end of the cord floats upon the surface, and after a discreet interval the canoe is paddled back to this float, and the dead or almost dead monster is secured in safety.

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Part of a Letter from Dr. Livingstone to his Daughter.

That is one way of hunting hippo; another method is to trap him. Livingstone came across a number of hippo traps, and nasty, dangerous things they are. Over one of the reedy tracks leading up from the river is suspended an enormous beam of wood. This beam hangs by a cord from a tall, forked pole, and at its “ business end ” is armed with a long spear-head smeared with poison. As soon as the hippo treads on a catch in the path, beneath the pole, the heavy weapon falls upon him, driving the spear deep into his back. The poison does not affect the meat, and in a short time that hippo becomes chops and steaks for the native hunters. Sometimes, however, the hunter is caught in one of these snares himself, as they are most cunningly concealed, and make the riverside tracks most dangerous for the unwary traveller.

These African marshes teem with every description of wild life. Livingstone delighted in the constant variety of game and the strangeplumaged birds that rose from the reeds along the river. Here they would see scores of plotuses and cormorants stretching out their snake-like heads; there great flocks of pelicans gliding over the water. Pretty little red and yellow weaver birds darted in and out of the grasses like big butterflies; tall herons stood silently gazing into the pools; flocks of small hawks pursued the dragon-flies; bright yellow ardetta flashed past in hundreds; and overhead hung great vultures and kites, closely quartering their reedy hunting-grounds. The little ardetta often prepared them for larger game concealed amongst the grass, for a flock of them would suddenly descend upon the backs of buffaloes and betray them to the hunters. Parts of the river scenery, again, strongly reminded Livingstone of the Clyde above Blantyre, and made him for the moment home-sick for the old country.

Then at last, on 1st August 1849, they came to the lake, and Livingstone saw the mysterious waters that he had planned for so many years to find. Lake Ngami means Lake Giraffe in the native language. It was evidently called so from its long, straggling shape, not unlike that big animal. When Livingstone and Oswell saw it first, it seemed a vast inland sea, stretching as far as the eye could reach. One of the rivers that joined on with the Zuga was called the Tamunakle, and a native told Livingstone that it came from “ a country full of rivers (or lakes), so many no one could tell their number, and full of large trees.” This fired the Doctor’s imagination, and he could think of nothing but that wonderful waterway in the heart of Africa, flowing through tracts that were marked “ desert ” upon the maps, but which he was convinced were nothing of the kind. We shall see how it led eventually to his great discovery of Lake Tanganyika and the other big African lakes.

Lake Ngami, when Livingstone saw it, was very much larger than it is to-day, and its height above sea-level is still a matter of dispute among geographers, in spite of modern exactness in such matters. Perhaps it may fall to one of our readers to be the man to go to “ Lake Giraffe ” for himself and settle the matter once and for all.

During this journey Livingstone, Oswell and Murray found an entirely new species of lechzve—a beautiful water-antelope, which in due time was named by zoologists after its famous discoverers.

It must have been very wonderful in those early days to wander over that vast game country of Africa. Nowadays there are few really wild places left in the whole world. Even in the game districts of British East Africa the paths are all well known; a safari is almost too evidently “conducted” for the rich Britishers; and the old-timers shake their heads.

Just before the war of 1914 Mr S. E. White and the well-known lion hunter, Mr Cunninghame, travelled through what is probably the last bit of completely virgin country in all Africa. It is in the centre of what was German East Africa, and there, on its vast plains, the hunter might gaze, as Livingstone did, on the countless herds of every species of game, or track the wild elephant in his own forests. In his journals Livingstone often described a safari through such country. In one of his letters home he wrote how they saw elephants, buffaloes, zebras, pigs, hippos, so tame and in such enormous numbers that “ it seemed as if we had got back to the time when megatheriae roamed about, undisturbed by man.” They had, he declares, to shout to them to get out of the way! Lions were so numerous in some districts that all the native huts were built on trees, and the people never went half-a-mile in the woods alone.