and then the head. If there were a similar army of human amazons, they would be invincible.
We met them throughout our journeys. But repeated attacks teach the art of defense. When one of us noticed an ant army on the march, he made it known, and, straightaway, without noise, without a fuss being made, without disturbing the stretches of grass—which to the ants are what a big forest is for us—one of us would take boiling water in a kettle and pour it over the ant army as it advanced. Another tactic is to throw burning torches on to them. But in any case, do not let them get on to your legs.
The Siafu are not the only African ants; there are many others. There is a species of small red ants, whose scurrying soldiers sometimes take over roads and fields. There is also a species of black ants, even smaller than the red ones, which lives under tree trunks, under the bark of trees, and beneath stones. These often have small beetles living among them, the Clavigere (key-holder), and another, a rather fatter one, the Paussus, whom they keep well-fed, and from whom they ask the favor of an occasional lick.
Another kind of ant, a transparent red in color and middle-sized, is found on the East African coast. It likes to live in orange and mango trees, and gathers their leaves to make its home.
There is another kind of ant, whose members live alone. It is fat, long, and black. It smells so strongly of carrion, that you can smell one at two or three meters’ distance. I have put some of them into flasks, which, even when opened and washed, have kept the smell for more than a year. Now, if the substance of this little creature were used in the perfumery trade, the results would be startling.
Yet another fascinating species can often be found on pathways. They are slightly longer than the ferocious Siafu, and extremely black. They also advance in army-style columns, and are about 0.02 or 0.03 meters is size. They do not protect each other; it is an individualistic society. However, the humming sound which they produce is so strong that you hear them before you see them. But for all their determination, there is a simple, albeit rather strange, way of halting their march, and we owe it to Father Gommenginger. Take a stick, and kill the ant who is leading the column and leave his body lying there. Immediately, those who were following him, will stop and cluster round, they are clearly very shaken, gradually they turn round, and go back to wherever they started. This is a tribe for which, it would seem, that a body lying across the path is an evil omen.
But where do these long columns go? Mgr. de Courmont has often decided to follow them, and he told us he has repeatedly seen them fall on a nest of termites or white ants which they literally plunder. These are then useful ants, and since no remedy has been found for termites and their ravaging, it might be a good idea to breed a tribe of these Sungu-Sungu ants near the building liable to be attacked by termites. The results might be very satisfactory.
But just look how I have got sidetracked! I wanted to talk about human beings, but the ants delayed me. Certainly, in the countries where both breeds dwell, there are marked similarities between the two species. Ants are constantly at war, and so are our men; ants are slave-owners and so are men; ants do not keep food supplies in reserve, nor do men.
From Mafisi, we had to march for three hours to get to Mwadunda, a canton whose capital is Kikone, where we found the old chief Kubo, who has been already mentioned.
From there, we came near to the sea and, crossing a low-lying and uncultivated plain, where several varieties of palm tree were growing, such as the Egyptian palm, the elegant Guinean palm, and the majestic borassus palm from Ethiopia, we came to a little village with practically no one there, and we encamped there. We had arrived at Madzoreni, that is to say “The fan at the palm trees.” The enormous number of beautiful palm trees that one can see here make this a very appropriate name. But if you look closely, you find there is something wrong. The good people of this part of the world had thought that the best way to get palm wine is to cut off the heads of the palm tree and to make a little hole at the top where they could find palm wine every morning. Unhappily, neither men nor trees live long without heads, and the palm trees are dead. Only their long trunks, straight, but with a bulge toward the top, stand on the plain, and, at night, when the wind blows from the beach, the moon casts a sad light on these survivors. You would think they were the palaces and temples of an ancient town, whose columns survive as the proof of their past splendor.
Palm trunks at Vumba (drawing by author)
Here we find ourselves facing Wasini, a small inhabited island, with a good harbor, but not much drinking water. The inhabitants have farms and wells on the continent which they face, at Chuyu, at Pongwe, at Madzoreni, where we had arrived, and at Vanga, where we were going. All these places, which together are called Vumba, an area which goes up to Pangani, was formerly occupied by settlements of Persian Shirazi, so says tradition, and there are ruins to prove it. Nowadays the inhabitants have a rather poor standard of living; some farm, others fish, a few make salt. Every three days at a place near here, the coastal people and the people from the interior come here for a market and exchange commodities and news. The Digo enjoy these markets and people sometimes come from a great distance.
About half an hour after our arrival, a large group of people came to Mgr. de Courmont, who told them to come and see me. What was up?
The spokesman, after some steady coughing, the result of his being overcome by emotion, began by saying as follows.
“A long time ago, a very long time ago, people about whom we know nothing, but who must surely have been Europeans, came here. We were not born, nor were our fathers, nor even our grandfathers. It was long ago. And these Europeans built a town, of which one can see the ruins, and they dug a well and put a wall of stone around it. Why afterwards did they leave our country? We do not know; but it is still the case with Europeans that they travel around everywhere, and just when you think they have settled down, they disappear. Every tribe has its own manner of living. We stay where we are: but you are nomads. Well, to come back to these Europeans, ever since they left, the Devil has been controlling the well, and this is particularly regrettable since it seems to have clean water, something we often lack.”
“Well, then?” said I.
“Well, when we saw you coming here today, you being the first Europeans to come here after those who came before our grandfathers were born, we said to each other, ‘It is God, who has sent them.’ Please, drive out the Devil, whom your brothers have placed there and let us draw water from your well.”
“All right, we give you our permission.”
“Many thanks. We were sure such kind people as you would agree, but please drive the Devil out before we start.”
Straightaway, I explained the problem to the bishop and asked for authorization to perform an exorcism, for evidently the problem was a very serious one.
“I give you all necessary powers,” said Mgr. de Courmont.
Then, in a great crowd—locals, porters, children, old men, and old women—we set off to find the bedeviled well. Really, it was a story to set your blood tingling. After marching for a quarter of an hour, we found ourselves caught up in a maze of creepers, undergrowth, and tall trees. Finally, we came up against ruins, probably of Persian origin, certainly not left by Europeans. On one side, there was a hole, guarded by a stone wall, about six meters deep and quite broad, with, at the bottom, a pool of greenish water covering a heap of rotten leaves. The oldest man in the crowd took my hand, and, with an air of mystery, whispered to me, “Here it is.”
Fr. Gommenginger, who roared with laughter like a pagan, made it difficult for me to keep a straight face. But, finally, I pulled myself together, I asked people to bring dead trees and dry leaves. They brought me armfuls which I hurled into the frightening hole. A deep silence gripped us all. In front of us, an enormous trunk of a baobab tree lay, stretched out. A narrow path went up to it, and so I guessed that here was one of the shrines where traditional Africans make sacrifices.
“If” said I, “you want the Devil to leave, you must renounce him. Do you renounce him?”
“We renounce him,” they cried.
“Then