We got away from Koulikoro on the afternoon of December 30, 1923. There were seven or eight barges lashed together, my own being the rearmost, and these were in the tow of a little flat-bottomed vessel, which bore the distinguished name of René Caillié. The captain, engineer, and crew were all blacks. The decks of the small steamer and the roof of the shelter were piled high with logs which constituted the fuel. Two of the barges were house-boats like my own, and these were occupied by a small party of officers and sousofficiers bound for Timbuktu, a couple of civil servants, and a trader or two for points down the river. The other barges were loaded with freight, and their decks crowded with native passengers. We were fourteen days making the voyage to Kabara, the port of the mysterious Saharan city. But the time was none too long. The winding shores of the river presented a succession of charming little pictures. The whole valley of the river teams with life. The waters abound in fine fish, to catch and market which is the province of one particular river tribe, the Bosos. Crocodiles sprawl on the long yellow strips of sand, and offer inviting targets to the rifle, though I saw none that approached in size the formidable, predatory "caiman" of the Philippines. Water-fowl were innumerable, and included ducks and geese of remarkable size and beauty. A specimen of one of the larger species of ducks measured twentyseven and three-quarter inches from tip of bill to end of tail, and fifty-three and one half inches between the tips of spread wings. This species is black and white, but carries a beautiful splash of scarlet over the back, with a red spot as big as the palm of a hand on the breast. Dressed, it was almost the size of a young turkey, and hardly less tender and edible. Pigeons, doves, partridges, and guinea-fowl abound in the trees and brush along the shore, and occasionally roe-bucks may be seen coming to or returning from water. Once or twice a day we tied up on the banks alongside of great woodpiles, where the fuel of the René Caillié was leisurely replenished. On these occasions I would go hunting through the sparse timber, or explore the streets of some little town or village. These frequent settlements are interesting and really charming. The valley of the Niger has its own type of architecture,—mud walls, windows latticed by adobe bricks set in geometrical patterns, ornamental doorways, and particularly, low mud minarets thrust up like the blunt stub of a fat cigar above the roofline. These singular little minarets always carry the timbers used to support scaffolding built up in their construction and necessary for their repair, and these timbers stick out in all directions like pins from a perpendicular cushion. Above the roofs of the village rise great thorn trees, palms, and sometimes the grotesque baobab tree. For a mile around such communities lie the millet fields, at that season of the year in stubble, but the main activities of the village were always on the shore. The waters of the Niger were falling, and in the damp, fluvial slopes patches of garden verdure were springing up, including little areas planted to tobacco. The shallow waters of the stream in front of every town were always crowded with innumerable bathers and women were ceaselessly washing, scrubbing their utensils, or filling the water gourds. The population of the Niger valley is a mixture of the many stocks and tribes of this part of the Sudan. Yet the system of assignment of trade or occupation to special tribal groups or classes still persists, and this is especially marked in the cattle industry, which, over many hundreds of miles, is practically confined to one singular, semi-nomadic people, the Fula or Peuhls. Some writers connect this people with the ancient Egyptians, but they are probably one of the mixtures of Berbers and blacks. They extend from Senegal to the Nile. Their hair is smooth or falls in ringlets and is never woolly. Their faces are oval and the features often are delicate. They are virile, warlike and in Northern Nigeria, where they conquered the Hausa kingdoms, they showed real talent for government. They were always to be seen along the shores of the Niger, bringing their herds of spotted, long-horn cattle down to the banks for water, or stabling their animals in rude camps, either by a picket line attached to a four-foot, or within little zaribas, or thorn bush-corrals. At certain points on the river the settlements rise to the dignity of historic towns, such as Segou, Mopti, and especially Djenné, once the seat of a famous empire, which, being off the Niger and on its important affluent, the Bani, I did not see. At other points along the Niger, -Sansanding, Diafarabé, and Niafounké,-there are administrative posts, branches of several European commercial companies, and Syrian traders. Yet the character of the valley as a whole is aboriginal and purely African. As we approached Kabara, the gay life of the shore gave place to vast swamps of reeds or marshes. The river spread out to miles of width. The current ran swiftly, and the smoothness of the river at times was heavily disturbed by the strong desert wind. One day we lost a man overboard. He was a respectable black from the town of Niafounké. The René Caillié at once cast off its tow and went back and circled the spot where he had gone down, but nothing could be found of him, except the prayer rug upon which he had been kneeling. Except between Mopti and Kabara, where the river was high, we ran only daytimes, tying up at night on some favorable beach. As dusk fell, our crews and passengers would swarm ashore, build numerous fires along the bank, and gather in talkative and merry groups before settling down for the night's repose. At one fire a group of seven or eight blacks would give themselves up to story telling. One, particularly, had a long narrative which he was repeatedly called upon to act out, to the intense delight of the others. At its climax, his auditors threw themselves on their backs, kicked their heels in the air and laughed long and deliriously. They never wearied of having this tale unfolded anew. There is genuine fascination in river life, and no life could be more independent and comfortable than in a commodious little chaland, unless we accept Huckleberry Finn's judgment of a Mississippi raft. In the |