CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE VILLAGE IN THE LAKE
KUMEA was a large village and, for the Cameroons, comparatively civilized: that is to say, it had a white population of about ten people, it could boast of a United Africa Company store and a small hospital, and it was a regular stopping point for all the lorries from the coast. In consequence we thought that it would produce little in the way of rare specimens for us, and we looked on it more as a base within easy reach of port rather than a collecting station of possible value. To our surprise Kumba, and its inhabitants, produced for us some of our very choicest specimens.
The first of these arrived not long after we had settled in the three nice, airy school-houses which were situated on the edge of the village. A wild-looking fellow presented himself one day, bearing on his head a long cage skilfully made out of bamboo, and carefully wrapped in banana leaves. The man, it turned out, was a native from the French Cameroons, some thirty miles away, and he could speak nothing but his own dialect and a sort of pidgin-French. As my French is of much the same variety anyway, I found that we could converse. He told me that he had heard that I was buying monkeys, and so he had gone off to his farm and caught me some. Just like that. He then tore off the banana leaves and displayed to my astonished eyes three monkeys of a species that I had never seen before, sitting in the bamboo cage. On looking closer, moreover, I discovered that there were, in reality, four monkeys, for one of the females clutched a tiny baby to her breast, but it was so small that it was half buried in her fur. They were big handsome beasts, a very dark slate-grey all over, except for two spots of colour: under their chins the hair was soft and fluffy, like a powder-puff, and pure white; on the lower back the hair was a bright rust red in certain lights. Without argument I paid him the very modest price he demanded, and then tried to interrogate him in my very best French. A man who could catch monkeys in this quantity, and of this species, was, I knew, worth cultivating.
“Allons, mon ami, avec quelles choses avez-vous entrappe ces animaux?” I asked hopefully. “Pardon, monsieur ?”
I repeated, substituting a word for “animaux” that I hoped meant monkey.
The man thought for a long time, scratching his head.
“Je ne comprendspas, monsieur,” he said apologetically.
Frantically I looked around for rescue, and at that moment John appeared. Now I knew that my stalwart companion had spent some time in Belgium, and remembered that he could speak French or, at least, had told me that he could. So I called him over and he entered the fray. Speaking with a delightful Oxford accent he translated to my wild tattooed tribesman, and to my surprise the man understood. He replied with a flood of speech, and this time it was John who could not understand. After a hectic half-hour, during which we all spouted French, pidgin, and English at each other, and used nearly every French phrase except “the pen of my aunt”, we got the man’s story out of him. Apparently he would build a small cage of logs in his farm, somewhere near the place he knew monkeys to be, and then bait it with ripe bananas. When the monkey troop entered to feast on the fruit they dislodged some sticks, carefully balanced, and the door slammed shut behind them. I implored him to go and catch me more, and underlined it by dashing him two packs of cigarettes. He promised he would try, and left, but I never saw him again. I expect the price he had received for the first lot of monkeys had been enough to keep him going for several months and, according to the Cameroon outlook, why bother to work when you have enough money to buy what you want? Time enough to find a job when you are out of cash. A delightful sentiment, no doubt, and one that displays a very attractive philosophy, but it is hardly the sort of thing a collector wants of his hunters.
The monkeys turned out to be Preuss’s Guenon, or the Red-backed Monkey, and a species that had not been seen alive in England for about forty years. As soon as I could I moved them into decent cages, separating the mother and the baby so that they would not be worried or bullied by the others. They were the pride of my monkey collection, and I gloated over them for several days. Then, one frightful morning, some dreadful little child (who I sincerely trust has met with a bad and painful end) crept unseen into the animal house and started to open the cage doors to feed the monkeys. This did not matter with most of them, for they were tame and would accept food from the hand with confidence. But my precious Preuss’s had not settled down yet and were certainly not used to strangers opening their cage doors and waving fruit at them. One of the males jumped down and proceeded to bite the hand that was trying to feed him. The boy, of course, leapt back and for a couple of minutes the door was unguarded and open. That was time enough for the monkeys, who were out of their cage and on to the rafters in a second. Just at that moment the animal boys arrived and captured the culprit, saw the monkeys dancing on the rafters, and came running for me. But by the time we had rushed back to the animal house with nets it was too late, and my lovely pair of monkeys were galloping away across the grass in the direction of the nearest trees. The staff gave chase, but they were hopelessly outdistanced. I only hoped that the animals would have the sense to make for the deep forest with all speed, for if they hung around the trees in the village they would most certainly be shot for chop. So now I was left with my solitary female and her baby.
Carefully I approached the cause of my loss whose hand, I noticed with immense satisfaction, was badly bitten. But he glanced at my face, realized that I was not going to be charitable, and fled as fast as his little black legs could carry him. The panting staff returned, and immediately set off in pursuit of the boy, but he, like the monkeys, had too much of a start, and he disappeared among the back streets of the village.
I was still moaning about my loss two days later and hoping that the man from the French Cameroons would return with more of the Guenons, when I received a specimen that more than compensated for the loss of my monkeys. A youth presented himself to me clutching in his arms a box that had once, according to the label, contained bars of Lifebuoy soap. A strong odour argued that it was only recently the soap had been removed from the interior. I prised off the lid and looked into the dark and smelly box, and there crouched an Angwantibo.
Once more there was an uproar: the animal had to be confined in a makeshift cage while a proper one was constructed. The temporary home was not worthy of the beast’s rarity and value, but it was better than that suffocating box. The boy was paid, congratulated, and told to try again, which he promised to do. The next day I had just placed the animal in its proper cage, and placed the cage lovingly next to the one that contained the original specimen, when the same boy walked in carrying the same soap box.
“Ah . . . aaa!” I greeted him jovially, “na what beef you done bring? Another same same for dis one?” and I gestured at the Angwantibos.
“Yes, sah,” he said unemotionally.
“What?” I said. “You no get same beef again, eh?”