The Land of Footprints

S >> Stewart Edward White >> The Land of Footprints

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The 465 Holland & Holland double cordite rifle. This beautiful
weapon, built and balanced like a fine hammerless shotgun, was
fitted with open sights. It was of course essentially a close
range emergency gun, but was capable of accurate work at a
distance. I killed one buffalo dead with it, across a wide canyon,
with the 300-yard leaf up on the back sight. Its game list
however was limited to rhinoceroses, hippopotamuses, buffaloes
and crocodiles. The recoil in spite of its weight of twelve and
one half pounds, was tremendous; but unnoticeable when I was
shooting at any of these brutes. Its total record was 31
cartridges fired with 29 hits representing 13 head of game.

The conditions militating against marksmanship are often severe.
Hard work in the tropics is not the most steadying regime in the
world, and outside a man's nerves, he is often bothered by queer
lights, and the effects of the mirage that swirls from the
sun-heated plain. The ranges, too, are rather long. I took the
trouble to pace out about every kill, and find that antelope in the
plains averaged 245 yards; with a maximum of 638 yards, while
antelope in covered country averaged 148 yards, with a maximum of
311.

APPENDIX IV. THE AMERICAN IN AFRICA

IN WHICH HE APPEARS AS DIFFERENT FROM THE ENGLISHMAN

It is always interesting to play the other fellow's game his way,
and then, in light of experience, to see wherein our way and his
way modify each other.

The above proposition here refers to camping. We do considerable
of it in our country, especially in our North and West. After we
have been at it for some time, we evolve a method of our own. The
basis of that method is to do without; to GO LIGHT. At first even
the best of us will carry too much plunder, but ten years of
philosophy and rainstorms, trails and trials, will bring us to an
irreducible minimum. A party of three will get along with two
pack horses, say; or, on a harder trip, each will carry the
necessities on his own back. To take just as little as is
consistent with comfort is to play the game skilfully. Any
article must pay in use for its transportation.

With this ideal deeply ingrained by the test of experience, the
American camper is appalled by the caravan his British cousins
consider necessary for a trip into the African back country. His
said cousin has, perhaps, very kindly offered to have his outfit
ready for him when he arrives. He does arrive to find from one
hundred to one hundred and fifty men gathered as his personal
attendants.

"Great Scot!" he cries, "I want to go camping; I don't want to
invade anybody's territory. Why the army?"

He discovers that these are porters, to carry his effects.

"What effects?" he demands, bewildered. As far as he knows, he
has two guns, some ammunition, and a black tin box, bought in
London, and half-filled with extra clothes, a few medicines, a
thermometer, and some little personal knick-knacks. He has been
wondering what else he is going to put in to keep things from
rattling about. Of course he expected besides these to take along
a little plain grub, and some blankets, and a frying pan and
kettle or so.

The English friend has known several Americans, so he explains
patiently.

"I know this seems foolish to you," he says, "but you must
remember you are under the equator and you must do things
differently here. As long as you keep fit you are safe; but if
you get run down a bit you'll go. You've got to do yourself well,
down here, rather better than you have to in any other climate.
You need all the comfort you can get; and you want to save
yourself all you can."

This has a reasonable sound and the American does not yet know
the game. Recovering from his first shock, he begins to look
things over. There is a double tent, folding camp chair, folding
easy chair, folding table, wash basin, bath tub, cot, mosquito
curtains, clothes hangers; there are oil lanterns, oil carriers,
two loads of mysterious cooking utensils and cook camp stuff;
there is an open fly, which his friend explains is his dining
tent; and there are from a dozen to twenty boxes standing in a
row, each with its padlock. "I didn't go in for luxury,"
apologizes the English friend. "Of course we can easily add
anything you want but I remember you wrote me that you wanted to
travel light."

"What are those?" our American inquires, pointing to the locked
boxes.

He learns that they are chop boxes, containing food and supplies.
At this he rises on his hind legs and paws the air.

"Food!" he shrieks. "Why, man alive, I'm alone, and I am only
going to be out three months! I can carry all I'll ever eat in
three months in one of those boxes."

But the Englishman patiently explains. You cannot live on "bacon
and beans" in this country, so to speak. You must do yourself
rather well, you know, to keep in condition. And you cannot pack
food in bags, it must be tinned. And then, of course, such things
as your sparklet siphons and lime juice require careful
packing-and your champagne.

"Champagne," breathes the American in awestricken tones.

"Exactly, dear boy, an absolute necessity. After a touch of sun
there's nothing picks you up better than a mouthful of fizz. It's
used as a medicine, not a drink, you understand."

The American reflects again that this is the other fellow's game,
and that the other fellow has been playing it for some time, and
that he ought to know. But he cannot yet see why the one hundred
and fifty men. Again the Englishman explains. There is the
Headman to run the show. Correct: we need him. Then there are
four askaris. What are they? Native soldiers. No, you won't be
fighting anything; but they keep the men going, and act as sort
of sub-foremen in bossing the complicated work. Next is your
cook, and your own valet and that of your horse. Also your two
gunbearers.

"Hold on!" cries our friend. "I have only two guns, and I'm going
to carry one myself."

But this, he learns, is quite impossible. It is never done. It is
absolutely necessary, in this climate, to avoid all work.

That makes how many? Ten already, and there seem to be three tent
loads, one bed load, one chair and table load, one lantern load,
two miscellaneous loads, two cook loads, one personal box, and
fifteen chop boxes-total twenty-six, plus the staff, as above,
thirty-six. Why all the rest of the army?

Very simple: these thirty-six men have, according to regulation,
seven tents, and certain personal effects, and they must have
"potio" or a ration of one and a half pounds per diem. These
things must be carried by more men.

"I see," murmurs the American, crushed, "and these more men have
more tents and more potio, which must also be carried. It's like
the House that Jack Built."

So our American concludes still once again that the other fellow
knows his own game, and starts out. He learns he has what is
called a "modest safari"; and spares a fleeting wonder as to what
a really elaborate safari must be. The procession takes the
field. He soon sees the value of the four askaris-the necessity
of whom he has secretly doubted. Without their vigorous seconding
the headman would have a hard time indeed. Also, when he observes
the labour of tent-making, packing, washing, and general service
performed by his tent boy, he abandons the notion that that
individual could just as well take care of the horse as well,
especially as the horse has to have all his grass cut and brought
to him. At evening our friend has a hot bath, a long cool fizzly
drink of lime juice and soda; he puts on the clean clothes laid
out for him, assumes soft mosquito boots, and sits down to
dinner. This is served to him in courses, and on enamel ware.
Each course has its proper-sized plate and cutlery. He starts
with soup, goes down through tinned whitebait or other fish, an
entree, a roast, perhaps a curry, a sweet, and small coffee. He
is certainly being "done well," and he enjoys the comfort of it.

There comes a time when he begins to wonder a little. It is all
very pleasant, of course, and perhaps very necessary; they all
tell him it is. But, after all, it is a little galling to the
average man to think that of him. Your Englishman doesn't mind that;
he enjoys being taken care of: but the sportsman of American
training likes to stand on his own feet as far as he is able and
conditions permit. Besides, it is expensive. Besides that, it is
a confounded nuisance, especially when potio gives out and more
must be sought, near or far. Then, if he is wise, he begins to do
a little figuring on his own account.

My experience was very much as above. Three of us went out for
eleven weeks with what was considered a very "modest" safari
indeed. It comprised one hundred and eighteen men. My fifth and
last trip, also with two companions, was for three months. Our
personnel consisted, all told, forty men.

In essentials the Englishman is absolutely right. One cannot camp
in Africa as one would at home. The experimenter would be dead in
a month. In his application of that principle, however, he seems
to the American point of view to overshoot. Let us examine his
proposition in terms of the essentials-food, clothing, shelter.
There is no doubt but that a man must keep in top condition as
far as possible; and that, to do so, he must have plenty of good
food. He can never do as we do on very hard trips at home: take a
little tea, sugar, coffee, flour, salt, oatmeal. But on the other
hand, he certainly does not need a five-course dinner every
night, nor a complete battery of cutlery, napery and table ware
to eat it from. Flour, sugar, oatmeal, tea and coffee, rice,
beans, onions, curry, dried fruits, a little bacon, and some
dehydrated vegetables will do him very well indeed-with what he
can shoot. These will pack in waterproof bags very comfortably.
In addition to feeding himself well, he finds he must not sleep
next to the ground, he must have a hot bath every day, but never
a cold one, and he must shelter himself with a double tent
against the sun.

Those are the absolute necessities of the climate. In other
words, if he carries a double tent, a cot, a folding bath; and
gives a little attention to a properly balanced food supply, he
has met the situation.

If, in addition, he takes canned goods, soda siphons, lime juice,
easy chairs and all the rest of the paraphernalia, he is merely
using a basic principle as an excuse to include sheer luxuries.
In further extenuation of this he is apt to argue that porters
are cheap, and that it costs but little more to carry these extra
comforts. Against this argument, of course, I have nothing to
say. It is the inalienable right of every man to carry all the
luxuries he wants. My point is that the average American
sportsman does not want them, and only takes them because he is
overpersuaded that these things are not luxuries, but
necessities. For, mark you, he could take the same things into
the Sierras or the North-by paying; but he doesn't.

I repeat, it is the inalienable right of any man to travel as
luxuriously as he pleases. But by the same token it is not his
right to pretend that luxuries are necessities. That is to put
himself into the same category with the man who always finds some
other excuse for taking a drink than the simple one that he wants
it.

The Englishman's point of view is that he objects to "pigging
it," as he says. "Pigging it" means changing your home habits in
any way. If you have been accustomed to eating your sardines
after a meal, and somebody offers them to you first, that is
"pigging it." In other words, as nearly as I can make out,
"pigging it" does not so much mean doing things in an inadequate
fashion as DOING THEM DIFFERENTLY. Therefore, the Englishman in
the field likes to approximate as closely as may be his life in
town, even if it takes one hundred and fifty men to do it. Which
reduces the "pigging it" argument to an attempt at condemnation
by calling names.

The American temperament, on the contrary, being more
experimental and independent, prefers to build anew upon its
essentials. Where the Englishman covers the situation
blanket-wise with his old institutions, the American prefers to
construct new institutions on the necessities of the case. He
objects strongly to being taken care of too completely. He
objects strongly to losing the keen enjoyment of overcoming
difficulties and enduring hardships. The Englishman by habit and
training has no such objections. He likes to be taken care of,
financially, personally, and everlastingly. That is his ideal of
life. If he can be taken care of better by employing three
hundred porters and packing eight tin trunks of personal
effects-as I have seen it done-he will so employ and take. That
is all right: he likes it.

But the American does not like it. A good deal of the fun for him
is in going light, in matching himself against his environment.
It is no fun to him to carry his complete little civilization
along with him, laboriously. If he must have cotton wool, let it
be as little cotton wool as possible. He likes to be comfortable;
but he likes to be comfortable with the minimum of means.
Striking just the proper balance somehow adds to his interest in
the game. And how he DOES object to that ever-recurring
thought-that he is such a helpless mollusc that it requires a
small regiment to get him safely around the country!

Both means are perfectly legitimate, of course; and neither view
is open to criticism. All either man is justified in saying is
that he, personally, wouldn't get much fun out of doing it the
other way. As a matter of fact, human nature generally goes
beyond its justifications and is prone to criticise. The
Englishman waxes a trifle caustic on the subject of "pigging it";
and the American indulges in more than a bit of sarcasm on the
subject of "being led about Africa like a dog on a string."

By some such roundabout mental process as the above the American
comes to the conclusion that he need not necessarily adopt the
other fellow's method of playing this game. His own method needs
modification, but it will do. He ventures to leave out the tables
and easy chair, takes a camp stool and eats off a chop box. To
the best of his belief his health does not suffer from this. He
gets on with a camper's allowance of plate, cup and cutlery, and
so cuts out a load and a half of assorted kitchen utensils and
table ware. He even does without a tablecloth and napkins! He
discards the lime juice and siphons, and purchases a canvas
evaporation bag to cool the water. He fires one gunbearer, and
undertakes the formidable physical feat of carrying one of his
rifles himself. And, above all, he modifies that grub list. The
purchase of waterproof bags gets rid of a lot of tin: the staple
groceries do quite as well as London fancy stuff. Golden syrup
takes the place of all the miscellaneous jams, marmalades and
other sweets. The canned goods go by the board. He lays in a
stock of dried fruit. At the end, he is possessed of a grub list
but little different from that of his Rocky Mountain trips. Some
few items he has cut down; and some he has substituted; but bulk
and weight are the same. For his three months' trip he has four
or five chop boxes all told.

And then suddenly he finds that thus he has made a reduction all
along the line. Tent load, two men; grub and kitchen, five men;
personal, one man; bed, one man; miscellaneous, one or two. There
is now no need for headmen and askaris to handle this little lot.
Twenty more to carry food for the men-he is off with a quarter
of the number of his first "modest safari."

You who are sportsmen and are not going to Africa, as is the case
with most, will perhaps read this, because we are always
interested in how the other fellow does it. To the few who are
intending an exploration of the dark continent this concentration
of a year's experience may be valuable. Remember to sleep off the
ground, not to starve yourself, to protect yourself from the sun,
to let negroes do all hard work but marching and hunting. Do
these things your own way, using your common-sense on how to get
at it. You'll be all right.

That, I conceive, covers the case. The remainder of your
equipment has to do with camp affairs, and merely needs listing.
The question here is not of the sort to get, but of what to take.
The tents, cooking affairs, etc., are well adapted to the
country. In selecting your tent, however, you will do very well
to pick out one whose veranda fly reaches fairly to the ground,
instead of stopping halfway.

1 tent and ground sheet
1 folding cot and cork mattress,
1 pillow, 3 single blankets
1 combined folding bath and ashstand ("X" brand)
1 camp stool
3 folding candle lanterns
1 gallon turpentine
3 lbs. alum
1 river rope
Sail needles and twine
3 pangas (native tools for chopping and digging)
Cook outfit (select these yourself, and cut out the extras)
2 axes (small)
Plenty laundry soap
Evaporation bag
2 pails
10 yards cotton cloth ("Mericani")

These things, your food, your porters' outfits and what trade
goods you may need are quite sufficient. You will have all you
want, and not too much. If you take care of yourself, you ought
to keep in good health. Your small outfit permits greater
mobility than does that of the English cousin, infinitely less
nuisance and expense. Furthermore, you feel that once more you
are "next to things," instead of "being led about Africa like a
dog on a string."

APPENDIX V. THE AMERICAN IN AFRICA

WHAT HE SHOULD TAKE

Before going to Africa I read as many books as I could get hold
of on the subject, some of them by Americans. In every case the
authors have given a chapter detailing the necessary outfit.
Invariably they have followed the Englishman's ideas almost
absolutely. Nobody has ventured to modify those ideas in any
essential manner. Some have deprecatingly ventured to remark that
it is as well to leave out the tinned carfare-if you do not like
carfare; but that is as far as they care to go. The lists are
those of the firms who make a business of equipping caravans. The
heads of such firms are generally old African travellers. They
furnish the equipment their customers demand; and as English
sportsmen generally all demand the same thing, the firms end by
issuing a printed list of essentials for shooting parties in
Africa, including carfare. Travellers follow the lists blindly,
and later copy them verbatim into their books. Not one has
thought to empty out the whole bag of tricks, to examine them in
the light of reason, and to pick out what a man of American
habits, as contrasted to one of English habits, would like to
have. This cannot be done a priori; it requires the test of
experience to determine how to meet, in our own way, the unusual
demands of climate and conditions.

And please note, when the heads of these equipment firms, these
old African travellers, take the field for themselves, they pay
no attention whatever to their own printed lists of "essentials."

Now, premising that the English sportsman has, by many years'
experience, worked out just what he likes to take into the field;
and assuring you solemnly that his ideas are not in the least the
ideas of American sportsman, let us see if we cannot do something
for ourselves.

At present the American has either to take over in toto the
English idea, which is not adapted to him, and is-TO HIM-a
nuisance, or to go it blind, without experience except that
acquired in a temperate climate, which is dangerous. I am not
going to copy out the English list again, even for comparison. I
have not the space; and if curious enough, you can find it in any
book on modern African travel. Of course I realize well that few
Americans go to Africa; but I also realize well that the
sportsman is a crank, a wild and eager enthusiast over items of
equipment anywhere. He-and I am thinking emphatically of
him-would avidly devour the details of the proper outfit for the
gentle art of hunting the totally extinct whiffenpoof.

Let us begin, first of all, with:

Personal Equipment Clothes. On the top of your head you must have
a sun helmet. Get it of cork, not of pith. The latter has a habit
of melting unobtrusively about your ears when it rains. A helmet
in brush is the next noisiest thing to a circus band, so it is
always well to have, also, a double terai. This is not something
to eat. It is a wide felt hat, and then another wide felt hat on
top of that. The vertical-rays-of-the-tropical-sun (pronounced
as one word to save time after you have heard and said it a
thousand times) are supposed to get tangled and lost somewhere
between the two hats. It is not, however, a good contraption to
go in all day when the sun is strong.

As underwear you want the lightest Jaeger wool. Doesn't sound
well for tropics, but it is an essential. You will sweat enough
anyway, even if you get down to a brass wire costume like the
natives. It is when you stop in the shade, or the breeze, or the
dusk of evening, that the trouble comes. A chill means trouble,
SURE. Two extra suits are all you want. There is no earthly sense
in bringing more. Your tent boy washes them out whenever he can
lay hands on them-it is one of his harmless manias.

Your shirt should be of the thinnest brown flannel. Leather the
shoulders, and part way down the upper arm, with chamois. This is
to protect your precious garment against the thorns when you dive
through them. On the back you have buttons sewed wherewith to
attach a spine pad. Before I went to Africa I searched eagerly
for information or illustration of a spine pad. I guessed what it
must be for, and to an extent what it must be like, but all
writers maintained a conservative reticence as to the thing
itself. Here is the first authorized description. A spine pad is
a quilted affair in consistency like the things you are supposed
to lift hot flat-irons with. On the outside it is brown flannel,
like the shirt; on the inside it is a gaudy orange colour. The
latter is not for aesthetic effect, but to intercept actinic
rays. It is eight or ten inches wide, is shaped to button close
up under your collar, and extends halfway down your back. In
addition it is well to wear a silk handkerchief around the neck;
as the spine and back of the head seem to be the most vulnerable
to the sun.

For breeches, suit yourself as to material. It will have to be
very tough, and of fast colour. The best cut is the
"semi-riding," loose at the knees, which should be well faced
with soft leather, both for crawling, and to save the cloth in
grass and low brush. One pair ought to last four months, roughly
speaking. You will find a thin pair of ordinary khaki trousers
very comfortable as a change for wear about camp. In passing I
would call your attention to "shorts." Shorts are loose, bobbed
off khaki breeches, like knee drawers. With them are worn puttees
or leather leggings, and low boots. The knees are bare. They are
much affected by young Englishmen. I observed them carefully at
every opportunity, and my private opinion is that man has rarely
managed to invent as idiotically unfitted a contraption for the
purpose in hand. In a country teeming with poisonous insects,
ticks, fever-bearing mosquitoes; in a country where vegetation is
unusually well armed with thorns, spines and hooks, mostly
poisonous; in a country where, oftener than in any other a man is
called upon to get down on his hands and knees and crawl a few
assorted abrading miles, it would seem an obvious necessity to
protect one's bare skin as much as possible. The only reason
given for these astonishing garments is that they are cooler and
freer to walk in. That I can believe. But they allow ticks and
other insects to crawl up, mosquitoes to bite, thorns to tear,
and assorted troubles to enter. And I can vouch by experience
that ordinary breeches are not uncomfortably hot or tight.
Indeed, one does not get especially hot in the legs anyway. I
noticed that none of the old-time hunters like Cuninghame or Judd
wore shorts. The real reason is not that they are cool, but that
they are picturesque. Common belief to the contrary, your average
practical, matter-of-fact Englishman loves to dress up. I knew
one engaged in farming-picturesque farming-in our own West, who
used to appear at afternoon tea in a clean suit of blue overalls!
It is a harmless amusement. Our own youths do it, also,
substituting chaps for shorts, perhaps. I am not criticising the
spirit in them; but merely trying to keep mistaken shorts off
you.

For leg gear I found that nothing could beat our American
combination of high-laced boots and heavy knit socks. Leather
leggings are noisy, and the rolled puttees hot and binding. Have
your boots ten or twelve inches high, with a flap to buckle over
the tie of the laces, with soles of the mercury-impregnated
leather called "elk hide," and with small Hungarian hobs. Your
tent boy will grease these every day with "dubbin," of which you
want a good supply. It is not my intention to offer free
advertisements generally, but I wore one pair of boots all the
time I was in Africa, through wet, heat, and long, long walking.
They were in good condition when I gave them away finally, and
had not started a stitch. They were made by that excellent
craftsman, A. A. Cutter, of Eau Claire, Wis., and he deserves and
is entirely welcome to this puff. Needless to remark, I have
received no especial favours from Mr. Cutter.

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