CHAPTER XIX

BACK IN SOKODE

The first stage of our journey to Malfakasa, the half-way house, so to speak, between Bassari and Sokode, led us down to the Kamaa River along a beautiful, well-kept road, planted on either side with mango trees. The Kamaa in the dry season is, like most West African rivers, practically without water; but during the rainy season it is frequently quite unfordable, and many a poor native, I was informed, has lost his life in its treacherous whirlpools, while attempting a crossing that looks perhaps easy, but is in reality excessively dangerous.

To us, of course, the crossing presented no difficulty. The road on the far side of the river, too, though rocky, is fairly good, undulating up and down, and twining in and out amongst an open bush country until the foot of the Malfakasa Mountain is reached. Then commences a fearful climb of about two hours' duration. For the greater part of the way riding was out of the question. We had to lead our horses, clambering painfully up slippery slopes, dragging them after us, often threading our way between huge boulders where there was hardly room for them to pass. Arrived at the top of the shoulder of the mountain, we had to go along the ridge for about half an hour, then followed an exceedingly steep, well-nigh perpendicular descent of about two hundred feet, to the almost dry boulder-strewn bed of a small stream; and out of which a corresponding though not so steep rise led up to a little plateau where the rest-house is situated.

From here a lovely view is obtained over the whole surrounding country, reminding me somewhat of that seen from our old house at Aledjo. The round huts, too, were very clean and comfortable; but, owing to lack of room on the tiny plateau, they are situated rather too close to the native compound and songu, whence the smell of cooking, and other even more potent odours, was wafted in a manner more pronounced than pleasant. I noticed this the more on account of a splitting headache from which I suffered, due no doubt to the heat and the hardships of the ascent. I was, too, exceedingly tired; so for the last time I rolled myself in my horse-rug, with my saddle for a pillow, and despite the pain from my throbbing temples, was soon lost in blissful unconsciousness.

I awoke feeling almost my old self, and able to properly appreciate the magnificent scenery that surrounded us on all sides. One needs to spend, as I had done, two or three months traversing the brown sun-baked veldt of the northern Togoland Sudan, in order to fully enjoy the sight of these verdure-clad mountains. Here one seemed alone with Nature, and with Nature's God. There was no village near, only a few resident negroes to look after the rest-house for European travellers, and its native equivalent, the songu. To right and left, in front and behind, wherever the eye ranged, it rested on a wilderness of wild mountain country, peak on peak jumbled together in chaotic, yet magnificent confusion. To the north was the outstanding mass of Tabalo Mountain, where is situated a curious village, called by the natives Uro-Ganede-Bo, which means "The-Place-where-the-Crown-Prince-is-educated." Here, in the olden days of Togo native history, the eldest son of the reigning Uro, or king, of Paratau, lived alone with his tutors, who instructed him in the arts of war and of peace, and in the duties appertaining to a native ruler. The place, I was informed, is practically impregnable to attack from a native army, no matter how large, and even a European force would find it a hard nut to crack. Here, in this mountain fortress, the young prince remained closely secluded until he came of age, and even afterwards he was only permitted to pay an occasional brief, flying visit to Paratau, never permanently leaving his rocky retreat until such time as his father, the old Uro, died, and he was called down with much ceremony, and the beating of many drums, to reign in his stead.

We are now looking forward eagerly to a return to civilisation. At Sokode, our next stage, we are in touch with the telegraph once more, and there are rumours that a big motor car has been put upon the road since we have been away, and is available for the journey down to the rail-head at Atakpame. It is time we emerged from the wilderness, for our stock of provisions is beginning to give out. Here at Malfakasa we opened our last tin of condensed milk. The last of our coffee and butter we used before reaching Bassari. Our table salt gave out long previously, and we have had to make shift with the coarse native article, carefully sifted.

The country round here is the home of a curious little bush fowl, which looks exactly like an English bantam. We used to see them running alongside the road on our way up, and when I first caught sight of one I called out to Schomburgk: "Hullo! We must be nearing a village. Here's a chicken straying about the track." Later on I learnt that they were wild birds, and indigenous to the mountain regions of West Africa.

Malfakasa means "Long Gun"; malfa--gun, and kasa--long; and the story goes that it derived its name from a famous outlaw who, many years ago, used to sit up here with a gun and rob the caravans, and levy blackmail on such solitary travellers as desired to pass. Of course I cannot vouch for the truth of this yarn, which is in the nature of a native tradition, but it seems to me that it is very likely to be true. Anyhow, it is difficult to conceive a better place for a robber stronghold than this rocky, isolated peak, with its steep, tortuous, boulder-strewn approaches.

After resting the usual part of a day and a night at Malfakasa, we set out for Sokode very early the next morning, the conversation during the first part of the journey turning almost entirely on whether we should be able to secure the motor car of which we had heard, to take us down to Atakpame. If this is available, and native rumours crystallize as to its existence, at all events, the nearer we get to Sokode, then we shall be able to accomplish in one day what otherwise will take us seven. Moreover, just south of Sokode one enters the tsetse-fly belt, which extends downwards as far as a point above twenty-five miles north of Lome; so if we cannot get the car, we must either travel by hammock and bicycle, or else ride our horses down after dark, as these animals cannot, of course, be taken through a fly-infested area in the daytime.

The view on the road leading down from Malfakasa is fully as beautiful and picturesque as that leading up to it from the north. On quitting the plateau, one sees far away to the north-east the Sudu Mountains, and in between the great level Tim plain. This plain, or steppe, got its name in rather a curious way. Mostly the various districts, or areas of country, in West Africa take their names from the tribes inhabiting them. Thus, one speaks of the Konkombwa country, the Gourma country, and so on. Now the Tim plain is inhabited by our old friends the Tschaudjo, who, as I have previously explained, came riding on horses from the north, conquering or driving out the aborigines before them, and harrying the country with fire and sword. The invaders were called by the original inhabitants of the soil Kotokoli, which means "warriors" or "robbers," the two terms being interchangeable, and, amongst primitive peoples, frequently identical; and the strange, barbaric "lingo" they spoke--strange and barbaric that is to say to the peaceful aborigines--was dubbed by them "tim." When they took possession of the plain, and settled there, the neighbouring tribes no longer cared, perhaps no longer dared, to call them by the opprobrious name of Kotokoli (robbers), and so they used to refer to them as the folk who spoke "tim," and in time this became a general term for the country inhabited by them. It is perhaps the only instance in West Africa of a land being named after a language, and not after a people.

After a not unpleasant and interesting twenty-mile ride, we at length reached Sokode, where the District Commissioner, Herr von Parpart, being still absent, we made a bee-line for the post office. Here we found a huge mail awaiting us, and many cablegrams. We soon set the wires humming in return; in fact, we indulged in a regular telegraphic orgie: after which we went over to the house of our old friend Mr. Kuepers, the Government schoolmaster at the station, from whom we received a most hearty and hospitable welcome. We also heard from him full particulars concerning the motor car, about the very existence of which up till now we had been more or less doubtful. It was, he told us, a big and powerful automobile, capable not only of carrying our entire party, but also of transporting our personal luggage, leaving only the heavy baggage to be carried by man transport. It had been put on the road by the Togo Company, and was now at Atakpame, whence it could be summoned by telegraph, the cost of hiring it for the journey being ninepence per mile.

This, of course, was splendid news, and put us all in the best of spirits, which were further enhanced by the receipt of a second communication from the Moving Picture Sales Agency in London, saying that all the rest of the films to hand had turned out well, and were of the highest possible quality. That night we stayed at the rest-house near the station, and sat up late talking of home and friends. The one drop of bitterness in our overflowing cup of happiness was the knowledge that we should now have to part from our horses, to whom we had become very much attached. Next day, however, we received a wire from the Hon. W. H. Grey, whom we had met on the steamer on the outward voyage, offering to take over all our animals, and to transport them to Accra, where they would be well cared for and looked after. This, again, was very acceptable news, for it would have caused us infinite pain and regret to have had to sell the faithful animals, that had carried us safely for so many hundreds of miles, back to the natives, to be ill-treated as only a native can ill-treat a horse, and to be tortured by the horrible bits they habitually use. Nevertheless, when they left that night for the coast, after a final caress and a feed of sugar, we all felt a bit down-hearted. I know I felt it like parting from old friends. Schomburgk had detailed a soldier to accompany them on the downward journey, and had given him the strictest and most minute instructions as to each day's itinerary. He was also warned on no account to permit them to travel before nightfall, after which the dreaded tsetse-fly sleeps. This is, of course, the insect that is responsible for the fatal sleeping-sickness in man. We, however, saw no cases of this terrible disease while we were in Togo, although it is known to exist there and according to some accounts is spreading. As regards domestic animals--horses, oxen, and so forth--they can be moved safely through the worst fly-belts if proper care be taken. They must be shut up in a hut during the daytime, and for preference in a hut situated in or near a village, since the tsetse invariably shuns the habitations of man, preferring to live out its life in the low, unhealthy localities it most frequents, near to water, stagnant if possible, and with plenty of thick tropical undergrowth wherein it can breed and take refuge from its many enemies.

We stayed five days in Sokode, paying visits, resting from the fatigue of our long journey, and generally enjoying ourselves. Amongst other notable people we called upon, was the Mallam of Dedaure. "Mallam," I perhaps ought to explain, meant originally a priest or teacher, but the term is now applied loosely in West Africa to any native who, owing to his wealth or learning, has raised himself far above the common herd. This particular Mallam struck me as being absolutely the finest-looking native I had seen during our trip. Tall, beautifully proportioned, with clear-cut aquiline features, a small well-kept beard, and always exquisitely dressed, he would have been a striking figure anywhere, let alone out here in the heart of the African bush. Schomburgk said he was the best specimen of a native he had come across anywhere in Africa, and I can quite believe him. I imagine, though, that he is by no means a full-blooded Togo native, but has Arab blood in his veins, and probably a goodly proportion of it. He was a well-educated man, and before we left he wrote on a board in exquisite Arabic characters what he assured me was a eulogistic account, and personal description, of my humble self.

What impressed me most during my stay in Sokode, however, was the splendidly-appointed Government school, of which Mr. Kuepers is the principal. He is assisted by several native teachers, and it is really wonderful to see the way in which the scholars--all boys--from the bush villages hereabouts assimilate the knowledge that is put before them. Mr. Kuepers assured me that they make far apter and better pupils than do European children of a similar age. Their minds seem to be more quick and ready to receive outside impressions. It is like writing with a new pen on a perfectly blank sheet of paper, or sowing seed in virgin soil. And this rapid progress they make is the more remarkable, in view of the fact that these little African kiddies, when they begin to attend school, have first to be taught the German language, or at least enough of it to enable them to understand their lessons, to grasp the purport of the questions asked, and to frame their answers. Unfortunately, however, this quickness of perception, and the desire to learn, does not last beyond a certain age. Directly the boy begins to blossom into a man, which in this climate and amongst the black races is somewhere between the thirteenth and the fourteenth year, he comes to a dead stop as it were. Restless and uneasy, he cannot be brought to fix his mind upon his tasks, and seizes the first opportunity to return to his native village, where, it is to be feared, he quickly forgets most, if not all, of what he has learnt. There are exceptions, of course, but this is the general rule. In the pregnant words of one of the native teachers, spoken with no touch of lightness, but solemnly and even sadly: "When the young native Afrikander begins to think about women, he thinks no longer any more about lessons."

On one of my visits to the school, I was asked to put some questions to the children, and I asked a small boy of eight or thereabouts, "What is a mouse?" His answer, transcribed word for word from my note-book, was as follows: "A mouse is a small animal, with four legs, two eyes, and a thin long tail; on its back are brown hairs, and it has white hairs under its stomach." The description is incomplete, but I doubt if one English or German child out of a hundred, of a like age, could have given offhand as good a one. I also asked a class generally the old, old "catch" question in mental arithmetic of our childhood's days: "If a herring and a half cost three-halfpence, what is the price of eleven herrings?" I had previously announced that I would give a penny to every child who answered it correctly, and that I would allow them three minutes by my watch to think it out. It was most interesting to watch their thoughtful, intent little black faces, as they wrestled inwardly with the puzzling problem. When time was called, hardly a child but gave some sort of an answer, many being obviously mere guess-work; but two of the scholars earned their pennies, and more than earned them, for not only were their answers correct, but they explained to me how they arrived at them.

The children are very prettily mannered. If one meets a group of them on the road, they will line up, stand rigidly to attention, and give one a smiling "Good morning." If, as frequently happens, one comes across them seated by a stream, and repeating their lessons together in the sort of a sing-song chorus they greatly affect, the same thing happens. Of course, however, these children are picked children. Only a certain number are taken from each village, and not above a certain number in all. At present the sum total for whom accommodation is available is about one hundred; but new school buildings are being erected; then the classes will be very largely augmented. The children are taken entire charge of by the Government during the time they are at school. A small daily sum is allowed each child for food and lodging, this being handed over _pro rata_ to certain approved native women living in the village, who undertake in return to board and sleep so many of them. Each child is also given by the Government a little blue smock, and books, slates, pencils, and so forth are of course provided free.

On the evening before the day we had fixed for our departure, Herr von Parpart asked us to dinner. This gentleman, by the way, was not at Sokode when we were here on our upward journey. If he had been, we certainly should not have stayed at Paratau. He is a most courteous, considerate man, who radiates energy, kindness, and good-nature; altogether a splendid example of the best type of German official. At the dinner-party were a Mr. and Mrs. Dehn, who were going up to Bassari to relieve Mr. Muckè, who was going home on leave. It follows, therefore, that she will be the second white woman in Togoland north of Sokode.

Prior to going in to dinner, we were seated outside the house on a little hillock, the top of which had been artificially flattened, chatting together and enjoying the cool evening air. It was a dark night, with very little moonlight. Suddenly, from a grove behind us, came the sound of children's voices singing an old German part-song. It was a choir of Mr. Kuepers' little scholars, and the musical treat had been arranged by him in our honour. I never heard anything more beautiful; or, under the circumstances, more affecting. Song after song of our childhood's days the young choristers reeled forth. Mrs. Dehn, who had only recently come out, started to use her handkerchief; and I think I should shortly have followed suit, had not our host come up at the crucial moment and led me into dinner.

The meal was a grand success, reminding me of the one Baron Codelli had treated us to on our arrival at Kamina from the coast six months previously. There was the same beautifully arranged table, the same sheen of damask and glitter of silver, the same noiseless, trained service, the same carefully chosen and perfectly cooked food. Everybody was in the highest spirits, and I enjoyed myself immensely. We sat late, and should have sat later at our host's urgent invitation, only that the motor-car had arrived that day from Atakpame, and we were due to start early in the morning. It seemed strange, by the way, to find my hammock--thoughtfully provided by my kind host--waiting at the door to take me home, in the same way as the electric brougham belonging to the house waits at home to whisk away the late-departing guest.

We had told our boys to call us at 5 A.M., but I confess that, for my part, it required no small effort of will to induce me to rise and dress. Out in the bush one is not used to dissipation. I wished now that I had refused that last half glass of champagne, or had dispensed with the liqueur. I will say no more.

Outside, the cold morning air acted as a tonic. There was the big car, panting to be off. It held seven people comfortably, and our ten boxes. Soon we were speeding along our homeward road, and my spirits rose with each succeeding mile. It was grand to fly along down the route up which we had toiled so slowly, to cover in an hour a stage that had taken us a whole day to traverse on cycles or by hammock. At Djabotaure, however, there came a sudden halt. Our left-hand hind wheel tyre burst with a loud report, and my heart sank within me at the prospect of being stranded here in this desolate spot, two days--by carriers--from Sokode and five from Atakpame. Luckily we carried a spare tyre, but it was a non-skidder, and from now on our driver had to be very careful.

The road in the Sokode district was perfect, that in the Atakpame district was not quite so good; and we were all more or less anxious, for we carried no more spare tyres, and another breakdown would have meant several days' delay. The bridges of planks, covered in some instances with clay, were negotiated in fear and trembling, for they had, of course, not been constructed for heavy motor traffic, and our big car, with its load, weighed a good bit over a ton. The natives we met seemed greatly interested in the new machine, which had not yet lost its novelty for them, and stood gaping after it much as the rustics used to do in Europe, I am told, when motor-cars first began to be used there. One big negro varied the ordinary proceeding by standing facing the car in the middle of the road, and backed as we approached, at the same time edging sideways. As a result he tumbled over backwards into a ditch, and the last I saw of him, as we sped by, was a pair of big flat feet projecting upwards, and waving wildly from the side of the road.

We overtook our horses at a village en route, and paused to see that our instructions were being properly carried out. At Blita, too, we stopped for breakfast, selecting this particular rest-house because it is the only one between Sokode and Atakpame that boasts a table. Here we used up absolutely the last of our provisions, and I remember thinking to myself that if a breakdown were to occur now, we should not only be subject to an irritating and vexatious delay, but that we should probably go hungry into the bargain. However, nothing happened; mechanism and tyres both held; and shortly after noon we rolled into Atakpame, and thence to Kamina.