“Na bush pig dat,” said Elias sadly, as we listened to the faint sound of the retreating hogs.
“Na fine chop,” said Andraia wistfully. “Na fine chop for European, too,” he continued, fixing me with a reproachful eye, in case I should think his disappointment was purely selfish.
“This gun no got power for kill bush pig,” I explained hurriedly, “at Eshobi I get other gun much bigger.”
““E get plenty power?”
“Yes, he get plenty power, he fit kill bush pig, tiger, even elephant,” I said, boasting wildly.
“Eh . . . aehh! Na true, sah?”
“Na true. One day we go for bush and we go get plenty bush pig, plenty.” “Yessir,” they chorused.
We continued on our way, the hunters happy with the thought of the roast bush pig to come, and I dwelling pleasantly on the memory of the two beautiful beasts we had just seen, and feeling that my prestige was still intact.
A long time after we met the Red River Hogs I was in a considerably more exhausted condition when we had our third and last encounter for that day. We came to an area of the forest floor which looked as though it had been ploughed up: the leaf-mould had been raked and scrabbled, rocks and branches overturned, and green saplings bent and chewed.
My two hunters examined the signs and then Elias crept to my side and whispered the magic word “soombo”. Now soombo means a Drill, and the Drill is that prepossessing baboon one sees in the zoos with a glowing posterior and the savage frown. I always have had a soft spot in my heart for Drills, perhaps because they always display the more unmentionable parts of their bodies with such refreshing candour, to the horror of the zoo public. In any case, here, if I was to believe Elias, was a whole herd of them, and I was not going to miss the chance of seeing them in the wild state, so we crept forward with all speed in the direction of the grunts and peevish screams which we could hear echoing through the forest ahead. For an hour we followed them, scrambling and ducking, crawling on all fours, and once, rather reluctantly on my part, we traversed about a hundred yards of swamp, flat on our tummies. But try as we would, we could not get close enough for a good view, and our only reward was an occasional flash of grey fur amongst the bushes. At length we gave it up and lay exhausted on the ground, smoking much-needed cigarettes and listening to the sounds of the departing Drills.
We continued on our circuitous route and reached the outlying huts of the village just after dark. I was scratched and dirty and extremely tired, but I felt elated that I had done what I had set out to do. Round a bright fire outside one of the huts squatted a circle of black figures. A child ran screaming into the hut at the sudden sight of this tattered white apparition. The parents rose to greet me.
“Welcome, Masa, welcome.”
“Evening, Masa . . . you done come?”
Soft voices and gleaming teeth in the firelight, and the pleasant smell of wood smoke.
“We go rest here small time, Elias,” I said, and squatted down thankfully by the fire. The earth was still warm from the sun. I could feel the ache in my legs disappearing and a pleasant glow running through my body.
“Masa go for bush?” inquired the elder man of the fireside party.
“Yes, we done go for bush,” said Elias importantly, and then broke into a torrent of Bayangi, gesturing into the dark forest to show the way we had gone.
There was a surprised chorus of “Eh . .. aehh’s” and more questioning. Elias turned to me, his buck teeth gleaming:
“I tell dis man, Masa, dat Masa savvay walk too much. Masa get plenty power . . ” he said, obviously thinking that I deserved flattery.
I smiled as modestly as I could.
“I tell him you get power pass black man, sah,” he continued, and then jokingly, “Masa like to go for bush?”
“I like too much,” I said firmly. Everyone laughed delightedly at the idea of a white man liking to go to the bush.
“Masa like to go again to bush to-night?” asked Elias, his eyes bright with laughter.
“Yes, I fit go for bush to-night,” I retorted. “I be hunter man, I no be woman.”
A great joke this, and greeted with a roar of laughter.
“Na true, na true,” said Elias. “Masa speak true.”
“Masa be proper man,” said Andraia, simpering at me. I passed the cigarettes round, and we squatted about the crackling fire, puffing contentedly, discussing this beef and that, until the dew started to fall heavily. Then we said good night and picked our way down the village street, redolent with the smell of palm oil, plantain and cassava — the night meal. Fires glimmered in the interiors of the huts, and at the doorways sat their owners, calling a soft greeting to us:
“Masa, you done come?”
“Welcome, Masa, welcome . . .”
“Good night, sah!”
I felt that it was good to be alive.
CHAPTER TWO
SMOKE AND SMALL BEEF
BEFORE the news of my arrival spread through the outlying villages, and every able-bodied man went to bush to catch animals for this madman who was buying them, and the trickle of arrivals swelled into a flood that overwhelmed me, I was able to make a number of trips into the deep forest. The object of most of these trips was not to catch animals but to find suitable spots for traps, mark hollow trees for smoking, and generally get a good idea of the surrounding forest. Unless you get to know the country you are operating in you find it almost impossible to get the animals you want, for each species has its own little section of forest, and unless you can discover where this is you stand little chance of getting specimens. Sometimes, of course, we were lucky enough to catch animals when we went on one of these expeditions:
one such occasion stands out in my memory, a day when I went out accompanied only by Elias.
Andraia, I had learned, was a hypochondriac of the first order: the slightest pain or fever would drive him into the dark interior of his hut, to lie there moaning and writhing, driving his three wives into a panic lest their lord should die. This particular day he was very bad, and so Elias had promised to come by himself to accompany me to the bush. I was beginning to wish that I had not arranged to go out at all, for the afternoon heat seemed more intense than usual. There was no sound from the collection: the birds sat on their perches, their eyes half closed, the rats and porcupines sprawled asleep in their banana-leaf beds; even the energetic monkeys were drowsy and quiet. The boys’ house vibrated with the combined snores of the staff, and I felt very tempted to join them in slumber. There was no breeze, the leaves hanging motionless on the trees. The heat had a dazzling, numbing quality that made you stupid and heavy. Even if you sat quite still in the shade you could still feel the sweat trickling in streams down your back and neck. Even if you sprawled in a chair you would soon find that you were sitting in a damp pool, that your shirt was black with moisture and stuck to your back and under your arms. With this heat came a heavy brooding silence: no bird songs, only the faint whisper of the cicada in the trees.