Chapter I: From Paris to the Niger

The journey from Paris to the Niger is scarcely so simple as that from Nice to Algeria.

Having fallen asleep in a railway carriage on your departure from Paris, you awake six weeks later on a canoe-barge upon the Niger.

The steamer lands you at the entrance to the Senegal, in a country which has belonged to France for centuries, and yet is only known to the general public by its thermometrical mention, inscribed between ‘_bains ordinaires_’ and ‘_culture des vers à soie_’ at 40° centigrade as ‘the temperature of Senegal.’ These rudimentary notions are not even accurate. Will you believe that for months there you wear your greatcoat morning and evening, the mean temperature registered at the local observatory being 24°, not 40°?

From Dakar (the port of Senegal, and the finest harbour on the west coast of Africa) you go by train to St. Louis, the capital of the colony. Greeting to those one hundred and seventy odd miles of iron road! They are the first laid by Europeans in Negraic Africa, and date from 1882. Civilisation has stamped other of its signs upon these virgin soils. In St. Louis and at Rufisk (an important commercial town in Dakar Bay) you find the streets lighted by electricity; and universal suffrage is vigorously handled under the form of legislative elections, municipalities, and general elections. Betting and horse-racing are treated with equal vigour.

A small service of steamers starts regularly twice a week from the quays of St. Louis for the Sudan. The management on board is comfortable and dear; and you play poker in the saloon just as on any big self-respecting steamer. For eight days you watch the banks of the Senegal monotonously unfold; then comes the morning when you moor on a broken bank at the foot of a huge tree. This is Kayes, the port and actual capital of the Sudan.

A pestilential corner, and the solution of the following difficult problem: How to be at the same time a town in the middle of a swamp and a swamp in the middle of a town. This anomalous method of building a town makes you think for a moment that you have arrived at the end of the world, but you recover your self-possession on seeing the telegraph wires crossing the street and on hearing the whistle of the locomotives. A railway in fact continues the path from the Senegal to the Niger, and will one day carry the traveller right up to Bammaku so easily that we shall be able to reckon it a fortnight from Paris to the Niger.

At present the railway only extends 108 of the 341 miles that separate Kayes from Bammaku. For the first 78 miles its track (reduced to a three-foot way as are certain local lines in France) is normal and open to commercial traffic. Its administration and maintenance are in the hands of military engineers, and the trains arrive at both ends with remarkable punctuality. Its only mistake is in stopping at Bafoulaba, where the Bafing and the Bakoy unite to form the Senegal. After that you have to content yourself, for the present, with a décauville for the 130 miles to Dioubaba.

I found my caravan, which had gone on in front, awaiting me at Dioubaba. I picked up luggage, porters, and horse there, and a curious adventure in addition. I had stumbled upon a white horse in the early part of my journey. I say stumbled, for I should assuredly never have bought such a thing; the colonial administration had kindly placed it at my disposal. A white horse! What a predicament! Bad luck, as every one knows, bad luck for the rest of the journey! How could I avert such an evil omen? Providence obligingly came to my rescue by one of those secret ways which are His.

I luckily noticed at Kayes that my saddle-cloth was missing, and I tried all the shops (not a long business) without being able to find another. In these countries the only thing you can find that you want or can rely upon is--yourself. I had to fall back upon one of those blankets they sell to the negro, and chose one that was cheap and red, but soft to the horse’s back. He, the horse, had come by luggage-van as far as Bafoulaba, but as the décauville was unable to carry him further in that manner, I sent him on by road to Dioubaba, whilst I made use of the little railway. It is just as well to avoid twenty-eight miles of road on horseback when you have some hundreds in prospect. It was night when the miniature train entered the leafy vault at Dioubaba, that serves as station and waiting-room. My people were all asleep, and my horse peacefully grazing. Nothing abnormal there, apparently. But at starting next morning, as I was about to bestride my mount for the first time, what did I see?--A scarlet horse! Imagine my joy! It was evidently the finger of God that had thus transformed my steed,--aided by heat, perspiration, and the negro blanket. Behold me now, full of confidence for the rest of my journey.

The adventure did not end here, for in spite of repeated groomings and washings it proved impossible to restore my charger to his original colour. The dye, detestable for blankets, is admirable for horses. My animal was the wonder of the natives of all the villages we passed through. ‘Ah! these white men,’ they said, ‘they can even make scarlet horses!’

Enough of the horse! Let us now review my equipment. First among them is my _valet-de-chambre_, butler, etc., etc., for numerous functions accumulate in the Sudan under the modest title of ‘_garçon_.’ He is a black, thick-lipped fellow, with a European straw hat, a white vest with shiny leather buttons, short breeches with narrow blue-and-white stripes, naked legs, and feet ditto. One of the survivors of the Bonnier affair, in which he figured under the title of ‘Captain Nigote’s servant.’ His master was the solitary officer who escaped from the Touaregs, only to die shortly after my arrival. Splendid testimonials. The doctor says he is ‘an excellent sick-nurse.’ I immediately engage him upon that, with the idea that if I leave my bones in the desert it will at least be with the conviction that they have been well cared for. To sum him up: he is a well-balanced person, no chatterbox, but dignified, as becomes a person of note.

There is nothing tragic nor historical about my cook. He is my joy, except in those deadly moments when I rage with despair. I engaged him rather hurriedly. ‘Can you cook?’ ‘Oh yes!’ he replied, with the assurance of every good nigger when questioned concerning his capabilities. If I had said, ‘Can you paint like Raphael and Murillo?’ he would have answered ‘Oh yes,’ with equal conviction. In reality he can whistle a few bars of the Marseillaise tolerably well, and can boil water and eggs--hard. I do all the rest.

The third and last person of my establishment is the groom. A silent, bearded fellow, with Semitic profile. He leads the horse up to me when we start, holds the stirrup, and disappears for the rest of the journey, reappearing at the end of it to hold the stirrup, and vanish again--with the animal. Never a word says he to me, and never a word say I to him. I do not even know his name: he is a riddle, an enigma. It would not surprise me to learn that he is the nigger from Porte St. Denis, though I have not yet heard the clock ticking in his stomach.

Around this trinity circle twenty-two natives, uniform as to rarity of drapery, but very varied as to coiffure. Some have hair like astrachan or door-mats; the heads of others are shaved as bare as a lawyer’s chin; some have a tuft in the middle, others again rejoice in a circular fringe like the beard of some old sea-dog. Scarcely less variegated are the colours of their skins: treacle black, charcoal black, dull prune, shiny prune, coffee colour, Seine colour--a whole scale is well represented.

Place half a hundredweight of baskets and cases upon each head, and you have a very complete sketch of the equipment necessary for travel in the Sudan.

Having made use of various means of locomotion, since leaving Paris, for accomplishing his journey with comfort and rapidity, the traveller now finds himself face to face with the most primitive of all--the road, I may add, the African road. That is to say, something vague, that has nothing in common with its European prototype but the name; something to which levelling, ballasting, a firm soil, and even bridges are unknown. And it is only now that the soul of the African traveller thrills and tastes of joy. Another life is beginning for him, the true life, the only life--the life of the bush.

What makes this life so intoxicating to all who experience it, from the officer straight from the military academy down to the private or marine-artilleryman fresh from a village school; from the aristocrat of royal descent to the professor of rhetoric? It captivates all alike; the ministerial quill-driver become colonial official, the engineer, the artist, and the man of commerce who superintends a factory.

Its charm cannot easily be explained to the sedentary; it escapes analysis, being as subtle as it is penetrating.

Let me see. The food is indifferent, the water is indifferent, the sleeping is indifferent, and your health is often in a precarious state. Heat and fatigue are the only things superior in quality, and yet your heart is filled to overflowing with contentment. As it can hardly be their inconveniences that make the hours spent in the bush so delightful, it must be the sensations that are grafted on them, and the wonderful pictures accompanying them. It is the mingling of the human with the free life of forests and plains that have existed for thousands and thousands of years; and the fact that you are contemplating that life with centuries of civilisation beating in your veins. It is something, too, in the manner in which these people express their thoughts. You are accosted by giants who could crush you between their finger and thumb, and who address you humbly, ‘Greet one of God’s poor.’ In another village an old skeleton of a chief totally ignores your arrival, your presence, even your visit. You stand near enough to touch his foot, and he continues impassively squatting and reading his Koran, until you half expect to hear the whistling of a lance through the air, to see the flash of a sabre, or hear the cocking of an old musket. Then, again, some old negress stops your horse, mumbling words that are unintelligible. She smiles at you, and offers you a handful of sweet roots. To give her pleasure, and because her wrinkled smile recalls the fact that such poor old things took pity on René Caillié and Mungo Park (your predecessors in this corner of Africa), and saved them from dying of hunger, you accept her present of cold cooked roots. Her joy is great, and by some small donation you double it. To put the finishing touch to her pleasing contentment, you bite one of her offerings and continue your way, absently munching the sweet batatas, whose flavour so strangely recalls the _marron glacé_. Memory is sent galloping in pursuit of visions of your native land, and you recall the fact that it is snowing and hailing hard there, while you have been gently cooking since daybreak.

And then life in the bush means flocks of guinea-fowls running about in the thickets, and coveys of young partridges that rise, careless of sportsmen, from under your horse’s very hoofs. It means strange, intoxicating scents that suddenly envelop you, and leave you as suddenly as they came; and a delirium of sunsets passionately colouring a sky that was monotonously colourless the moment before. And nights! One night we encamped in the huts surrounding a village square, and my men lighted huge fires in the open air. The gleams from their flames carved a vault of red and gold upon the darkness, and under this arch a fantastic ballet took place. The wings of bats, illuminated from below, made streaks of light upon the night, like the trails of falling stars, and were distantly encircled with satellites of fireflies.

But I can only give a tenth part, and that feebly, of the unexpected sights and sensations I enjoyed. You cannot taste life’s choicest morsels reclining in an arm-chair.

* * * * *

Dioubaba, the terminus of the décauville, is situated in the heart of lovely mountain and river scenery. Its landscape would realise a handsome income in Europe. The river Bakoy, hitherto closely confined, here breaks into a rocky waterfall, some hundreds of yards in length, full of rapids and foaming currents. The horizon is bordered by mountain-tops, and the river-banks are covered by gigantic trees festooned with garlands of long creepers. A sergeant of the engineers acts as station-master, and a sapper attends to the telegraph. They are perfectly happy, they say; and are married, according to the custom of the country, of course, to two gay little natives with charming ways. This society is completed by Bibi, a young hippopotamus, lately captured, and very tame. With a discretion, unlooked for in such an animal, he spends the day in the Bakoy, so as not to interfere with his friends’ occupations. They go to the bank when in want of amusement and call ‘Bibi! Bibi!’ Bibi’s pink muzzle soon appears; he looks round for them with his little black eyes, and, dripping and wriggling, he runs up to be caressed.

* * * * *

The road from Dioubaba to Bammaku cuts from east to west across the massive Foota Jallon range that separates the basin of the Senegal from that of the Niger. It is full of pictures recalling the Forest of Fontainebleau, and is so abundantly watered that you fall asleep every night to the sound of some gurgling cascade or waterfall. I know nothing more suggestive than this road, the main artery of the Sudan. You see the colonial life coming and going upon it from day to day; and it also reflects the retrospective image of the life that rolled along the great European highways before the days of coaches. Without the highwaymen, however, for we have made enormous progress since the pacification of the Sudan ten years ago. Then, travellers encamped upon it with sentinels posted at night as if they were in the country of an enemy. To-day it is as safe as the Champs Elysées.

Not that vehicles are numerous, but people are, and animals. They are principally parties of porters that you meet; some travelling to their destination laden with cases, and bundles, and sacks of millet; others returning, freed from their burdens, dancing and capering along the road to the sound of flute or drum, joyous as children let loose from school. There are _dioulas_, too, or native commercial travellers, with their servants or slaves and their wives and children, all driving donkeys laden with salt and pearls, etc.

A meeting between Europeans is particularly pleasant. You exchange bows and a declension of names, and titles when you have them; and a long talk ensues between two people who have never seen each other in their lives before. News of the interior is exchanged for news of Europe or the coast. You hear what is passing in the countries to which you are going and in the countries to which you are not going. You exchange a thousand little services, and, above all, the time! For watches in these climates develop the most fantastic manners, and the only thing you can be sure of is that they will never tell you the time even approximately. After this you turn your backs upon one another with all the grace in the world, and each resumes his journey.

The Europeans you meet are mostly government officials, officers, and privates. Some are returning to France for a holiday, having fulfilled their year or eighteen months of service, while others are newly arrived to take their vacant places. Sometimes you pass a hand-ambulance from which the head of some unlucky invalid emerges, and, if you are good-natured and furnished with plenty of provisions, it is very easy to play the good Samaritan on these occasions.

Unfortunately the man of commerce only furnishes the smallest share of these encounters: and why? The answer is to be found in the road itself and the troops of porters you are incessantly meeting upon it, for the head of man is too limited a means of transport to permit a very extensive traffic. Why not use vehicles then? The account given above of the _pseudo_ roads of the Sudan will answer this question, for they exist only in name. The commissariat department knows something of all this, for the forts we have set up in our vast Nigerian possessions must be victualled. Europeans, surrounded by black troops, live in them, keeping the country in order, civilising it, organising it, and preparing it for occupation. It is of course necessary to supply these garrisons with European provisions, such as cases of wine, great iron boxes of flour, coffee, sugar, barrels of salt meat, and arms, ammunition, clothes, tools, etc. To carry these stores to the river (the only easy means of transport) the commissariat possesses carts which are set upon this pretence of a road; at what cost of time, trouble, and money it would take volumes to tell. One meets these transports from time to time, struggling with the chasms and other asperities of the so-called roads. They are commanded by artillery officers, and are always accompanied by a veterinary; but I prefer to leave to your imagination the condition to which the unhappy mules are reduced, even though they only do ten or twelve miles a day. It is a terrible thing this victualling, its shadow pursues you all along the road. Encampments are provided every ten or twelve miles with straw huts for the men and picket-lines for the animals. You can follow the progress of the transports by the litter of rags, bits of paper and abandoned carts they leave behind them. Two forts mark the road from Badoumba to Kita. Neither is garrisoned, and both have fallen a prey to the commissariat department. Their various outworks and approaches are strewn with a litter of cases on which one reads medicines, sugar, candles, oil, etc., and the names of the places to which these stores are destined--Farannah, Siguiri, Segu, or Timbuctoo. The forts themselves are filled from end to end with squatting porters awaiting their share of burdens; and you hear, in the snatches of conversation and the orders that are flying about, of nothing but ‘cases’ and ‘transport.’ The impatience with which Europeans and natives alike are awaiting the continuation of the rail from Dioubaba to Bammaku becomes suddenly comprehensible.

* * * * *

At last beyond Kundu (a third fort, completely abandoned) you reach the line of cleavage between the Senegal and Niger. So far the country has been pleasantly varied, recalling somewhat of Switzerland without giving an equal impression of fertility; but in the next and last twenty-five miles of the road springs and rivulets multiply at every step. Agriculture, interspersed with charming glimpses of silvery water, spreads over uninterrupted fields for the rest of the way. The villages cluster closer together, and are more densely populated. In a delightful valley of the great Kati mountains a stream tumbles along between two rocky ledges, which start suddenly aside and spread into a fan, to disappear upon the distant banks of the Niger.

It was not without a certain amount of emotion that I approached the great river, and for this reason. It was four years now since I first started for the Niger and failed to reach it! My then companion, Captain Faidherbe, was making his third attempt to reach that serpent of Western Africa. In his first he followed the Flatters Mission along the Southern Nigerian route. In the second, starting from the frontier of Portuguese Guinea, he was stopped by wars among the natives. For the third time he started from Benty and the Mellacorée, in the company of the painter Adrien Marie and myself, only to be cut short by Samory’s troops at a distance of twenty-five miles from its banks; and two years ago he died without having seen the Niger.

The memory of his ill-fortune possessed me, and grew more intense with every stage of the journey. I had an idea that some of his ill-luck must pursue me. Assuredly I too shall not see this Niger, I thought. And now at last, after doubling the stages for the last five days (so great was my anxiety to reach it), my horse begins to stumble down the steep and rocky declivity that leads to the river. I dismount, and a fresh anxiety seizes me. Suppose it is only another great disillusion to which I am advancing?

The narrow path widens suddenly; its rocky sides are flung right and left like the leaves of a door. ‘There is the Djoliba,’ says my historical servant, as calmly as if he were announcing ‘Dinner is served.’ It is an impressive spectacle from the height of the road that still clings to the hill. A vast horizon lies at my feet bathed in the splendours of a tropical sunset, and down there, in a plain of gold and green and red, shines a silver trail bordered by a line of darkness. There it is, a mere vapour, the dream of a river in a valley of dreams, and the dark line is the hills by which it flows, almost invisibly. ‘God is great’ as they say here. There is no disillusion, as is so often the case in the realisation of the unknown. I can scarcely take my eyes from the serenely majestic panorama that is spread before me.

And now come what may! I remount my horse and urge him to a gallop along the road, bordered by trees, that stretches across the plain. A postern stops me, bearing a placard on which is written in white letters on black, like the name of a railway station: Bammaku.