himself came later on, to repay the courtesy call which we had made. He seemed to have finally realized that as we were not planning an annexation, nor wanted to present him with a flag, nor to give presents which would signify our sovereignty, we were much less important than his other European visitors.
All the same, there were those who thought that there was a chance to profit from these unbelievers. When Mbaruku had gone, we saw a dear little man with a wizened face, both sly and smiling, and a bent back, come up to us, holding a big Muslim rosary in one hand, and a long stick in the other. It was Bohero, who had been—can you guess?—the guide of Baron von der Decken in 1861 on his first expedition to Kilimanjaro. Now, he was just coming back from a journey to the interior. He told us he knew the hinterland like the palm of his hand. He spoke of a place which he called Molok, in Maasai country, where there is a mysterious cave which he had managed to enter one day, and, so he assured us, was full of marvels. For instance, big stones, neatly trimmed, and covered with inscriptions, in an unknown script. We were very thrilled to hear this; he saw our reaction and offered straightaway to be our guide—for 100,000 piasters!
Oh, really, Bohero? We had looked forward to a fascinating conversation, but it soon became burdensome and tedious, with frequent stops, as he launched pious ejaculations toward heaven, no doubt to ask pardon of the heavenly powers for spending so much time with unbelievers. Finally, he left us to pray or so he claimed, but assuring us he would come back. He did really come back, when night had fallen. The poor fellow wanted a case of rum.
I said, “But the Prophet has forbidden believers to drink stuff like that!”
He replied, “Oh yes, but I just take a little now and then, not as drink, but as medicine.”
He coughed energetically.
I asked, “How much do you take at a time?”
“Oh, perhaps a half-bottle, a full bottle.”
We said we would deal with his request in the morning. That morning, we felt very happy as we said farewell to Mbaruku, to Gasi, to Bohero, and to that whole place, swarming with slave-traders and crooks.
Chapter 6: Further On
A Beautiful Unpeopled Land. Attacked by Amazons. African Ants. Vumba Country and its Palm Trees.
The Devil’s Well.
Leaving Gasi, we went up to the high ground to avoid the lagoons and estuaries which we would have had to cross if we had kept to the coast. We were also anxious to see our Digo friends again. The country through which we passed was magnificent, composed of hills and valleys, with a fertile soil and bright green vegetation, well-watered, in places thickly wooded, but practically unpopulated. Who is responsible for this depopulation? Only Mbaruku is to blame.
Yellow Lissochilus (ground orchid)
Here and there, some turtledoves could be heard warbling as we went. They must have been astonished to see human beings. Surely what keeps them living in such a wilderness are the ears of maize and guinea corn still growing in the abandoned fields. Squawking he-parrots flit from tree to tree. Bands of monkeys roam, out for what they can get, but one does not see what they can take. There are many flowers on the paths and, among the flowers, many orchids. One of them, small and beautiful, provides a carpet for a big clearing in the forest; another, the lissochilos, is yellow and grows among various kinds of grass in a place where it can catch the full warmth of the sun. Yet another variety, which is really marvelous, can be seen in a stretch of forest, covering a large old tree which has fallen across the path and which provides a place for it to grow. Further along, on the edge of the forest, one can find enormous flowers with a very strong scent, and whose calyx is more than twenty centimeters in length. They hang from a kind of creeper and form a lovely bouquet. Its name is gardenia, but only insects seem to appreciate it, if one can conclude from the hundreds that swarm on it with delight.
We reached Mafisi, a village whose inhabitants are all Digo. What delightful people! At least here we experienced a hospitality that comes from the heart, and really it put us at our ease. Night fell, we enjoyed the customary evening chatter, we went to bed, we closed our eyes . . . then a cry, coming from Mgr. de Courmont’s tent, frightened us all. It was a surprise attack; we got ready to fight.
We started running, and by the light of the brands which had been given out to everyone, we saw the scurrying battalions of those fat black ants called Siafu. They are here, they are there, and they are everywhere; really, it was an invasion. But then the porters who had run up were themselves invaded. They were jumping about in the grass, holding their torches in their hands. They cried out, they rubbed the various parts of their bodies, they threw their clothes away, they rolled about on the ground, they twisted this way and that, they ranted and raved, they burst into laughter; it was a fascinating night-time show.
But while you watch and enjoy the scene, you suddenly feel yourself nipped, and put your hand to the place, then it happens elsewhere, and then yet again elsewhere; you yourself have been invaded and before you can sort yourself out, you find that these devilish creatures are on your legs, your chest, your arms, your beard, your hair. You feel you are going crazy.
I must tell you that these African ants outdo every living creature in ferocity. Their role in the order of things is to remove the remains of dead animals from the ground; however, if a living creature gets in the way of this work, its existence is at an end—insects, lizards, birds, even snakes are surrounded, attacked and destroyed.
As with many other similar insects, these ants exist in two forms: one, the smaller, is never larger than 0.008 of a meter. It has a regular appearance and is not really a great nuisance. The other species is twice as big, with a big head, in proportion to its size, has a dangerous pair of pincers, and can be diabolically malicious. The first is the male ant, the second the female, which, because of its warlike attitudes, naturalists call “the amazon.”
Among these amazons, a community of ants chooses one who is the object of very special care, being stuffed with food, and so becoming huge, often as large as a man’s little finger, and incapable of moving. Her only occupation is to produce new ants, and she fulfills this duty conscientiously, without stopping; there is always a baby ant coming out of her, to be immediately snatched up and put in its place by an old midwife ant. Really, ants are manufactured. One day, knocking down an old wall, I came across a Siafu queen-mother, and as I had scores to settle, I was bold enough to put her in a flask of alcohol. And so I can give you an exact portrait of her, of an ordinary “amazon” and of a mere male.
Often enough, in damp places, I have met a tribe of these ants, scattered here and there, moving ahead in dispersed order, looking for its everyday nourishment, busy with this and that. But also, for reasons which they themselves know—perhaps they want to start a new colony—they often gather together, organize themselves into military-style columns, and march ahead. Really, you should see them then! Their determination to march in order produces a small corridor, flanked by two ramparts of neat sand. This hollow road is only followed by the males, those inoffensive creatures: on each side the amazons crowd together, with their thick heads in the air, and their pincers set wide open, threatening and terrifying, ready to protect the others, and reminding me of the “archway of swords” which the Freemasons make with swords crossed over the heads of their dear members. Moreover, in the world of ants, perhaps they are, as it were, female freemasons, if only because they are not at all frank and they do not do any building. Whatever the case is, they follow their path, and if they enter a house because it lies on their route, or some animal remains attract them—provided that one leaves them to carry on—they will all do so, leaving no trace except their little track.
But if one should start to annoy them, to crush them, to push them about, their column will scatter straightaway, and they will attack you with the same determination that David showed against Goliath. Without delay, they put their pincers to work on your arms, your clothes, your skin, and you can see the little creature twisting around to give ever more effective pinches, clinging on for dear life, killing itself by a surfeit of rage. I have never seen