AFRICAN ADVENTURE

Auckland Star, Volume LXVI, Issue 302, 21 December 1935, Page 7 (Supplement)

AFRICAN ADVENTURE

(By MAJOR H. C. MAYDON.)

IT ie curious how we hold by our fetish, of a big spread for Christmas

Day. I have epent most of my Christmases for 30 years in jungle, mountains, or desert, and I still carry my Christmas pudding for the Great Day. But it ie generally my native cook who reminds me that "El yom el yidd" is about to dawn.

Ten years ago three of us were threading our way through the rugged ranges of the Red Sea Hills, bordering the western side of the Red Sea, as the Great Day grew nearer. We were on a shooting trip, exploring what in those days was almost virgin country from the shikari's viewpoint. We had just had a wonderful run of luck, mainly due. to the chance finding of a queer old man of ■ the hills, Idreee by name, an Arab nomad, whose only possessions in life were a most truculent camel, a coupU of goats and an invalid wife. But Idrees knew those mountains as no other living man. Water was scarce, but he knew the few reliable springs and wells. He also knew the haunts of game, and where the last known herd of Sudan Beisa. oryx had hidden themselves, and the great mountain which harboured the finest rams of Nubian ibex. A Dearth of Game. We had epent a wonderful week in his company, and now, laden with a few fine heads as trophies, we were heading for Karora, on the sandy littoral, one of the few gateways from the mountains into Italian Eritrea.

Idrees was still with us, much against his will, since he said we were leaving the land of game and going to an unknown sandy waste. We had been trekking hard for several days, our

camels were footsore, we were short of water, and now the cook reported that we were out of meat. Now on a six months' trek one naturally" carries many stores, and among them tinned meat for emergencies. But no one revels in tinned meat diet, and, as the cook expressed it, "bully no good! for Big Day.," So we called a council and that, at all hazards, some one of us must shoot meat, flesh or fowl, for our Christmas dinner. Bully and Christmas pudding—who had ever heard the like? But, unfortunately, by now our route had debouched from the heights to the rugged foothills overlooking the sandy belt of the littoral, and for three days we had eeen no game of any sort. We had passed one lonely spring and filled our tanks, but the water was brackish and most unpleasant. Christmas Eve dawned, but still the larder was empty. We would buy a young goat if we met a shepherd, but even they had wandered tar in search of grazing. The weather was hot and muggy; there was a storm brewing. We stavted the day badly, for M. sighted a herd of ariel gazelle and muddled a forlorn stalk, and we others rubbed it in and told him how he ought to have done it. By evening we grew desperate and rashly launched ourselves too far into the "blue," in search of game. The result was that we lost our caravan. Our camel transport had been loaded up and sent wandering off down a blind maze of twisting wadis, following a track of sorts, and with orders to halt and prepare camp at a certain waterhole about two hours ahead. The Philosophic Arab. But unless you have two Arabs in whom you can place confidence and who know the country, one to ride with you and one to go with the transport, nothing is more foolhardy than to let the transport out of your sight. If the camp is stationary, any Arab will take you out for miles and bring you back safely, but if the camp is moving it is a different story. To the Arab the dread of losing himself is non-existent. To him time is nothing. If he does not' find the caravan to-night, what matter? He has his farwa (goatskin) and a bag of dates on his saddle, and to-morrow is as good as to-day. To him the spoor is an open book, and if it is too dark to spoor, or it happens to rain, well, it is the will of Allah; he will find the caravan sometime. When you are arranging a rendezvous, the Arab does not always listen too carefully. He may not know the country, and you are probably reading a name off a map—the name of a well

Hunting the Christmas Dinner.

which only existed a year, maybe, and has long been forgotten. There are few inhabitants in that land, and those are nomads. There may be a few goat herda at the next water-hole, and, equally well, there may not, even if there is a water-hole at all.

We had been hunting vainly till sundown, keeping touch with one another acrose the hills, and working towards the supposed site of the new camp. As darkness fell we had joined up, but no welcoming lights greeted us as we crossed the last ridge down _to a broad wadi. It was hopeless looking for tracks in the dark, and, worse still, the threatening storm now broke in all its fury. The chief advantage of a camel is that on your makloofa (saddle) you should always carry enough to make you. selfcontained. Each of us carried a waterproof sheet, a couple of blankets, and * tiffin bag of sorts. By the time we liad built a narrowshelter and our Arabs had collected a mound of firewood, the billy-can of tea tvas purring, and life was not too bad. The desert is a wonderful place to make you live fox the present. As long as you have fire" and water and something to strengthen the inner man—even if it is out of a tin—it is still good to be alive. It was not quite so good a few hours later as the pelting downpour continued, and we huddled round the smoky campfire of damp logs, intoning mournfully, "'Twas Christmas Day in the workhouse," and sipping our nightcap of milkless tea. Changed Luck. We were stiff and cold when Christmas Day dawned at long last, with a clear blue sky and a blazing sun. We ssoon found our transport camels, and our men promised us good pools of fresh water for the night's halt. But we still vearned for fresh meat.

Luck soon changes in the wilds, and therein liee their great charm. You will never appreciate food and water until you have to look for them. Now that the haze, which foretells rain, had lifted, we found ourselves in wonderful coun-

try. Far away to the west rose the jagged peaks of the hills, rising here and there to 5000 ft, rent by deep wadis, nursing a sandy bed, slashed by a green line of tamarisk. Around us the grey sands of the desert sloped gently eastward, swirling round bleak, isolated peaks and draining to the blue waters of the far-distant sea. There were ' patches of bush and scrub and long grass, and, rarely, at the mouth of some wadi, a shady grove of acacia trees. The ancient eyes of Idrees suddenly flashed with the fire of youth. Hβ sensed game. M., eager to retrieve hie failure of yesterday, nodded to Idrees, and, pushing their camels, they disap-. peared into the bush to a flank. G. and I held to the caravan, loath to risk another night away from our beds. But in the evening march G. spotted a gazelle and was lured away from the column. At all hazards I meant to choose a cosy camp eite for our Christmas night. I had set my heart on a blazing log fire. At dusk I marked the very clump of heavy trees which I sought, set by a sheltered sandy glade. Meat or no meat, we would be comfortable; and, as I pointed it out to the camel men and ordered the halt, my roving eye caught a movement in a far patch of grass. A queer head, topping a long neck, peered at us curiously, body "hidden in the grass. Obara or giant bustard are rare in those parts, but they are unmistak- ■ able, and they are a fair substitute for turkey. Success All Hound. Darkness was falling fast and there was no time for finesse. Even as a man fumbled to loosen my shotgun, I . saw that our chance was slipping, and . that the great bird was creeping away. My mauser was ready, and I fluked a ; snap shot for luck. The bird fell. As we hurried up to collect our spoils an Arab with my shotgun tweaked my sleeve and pointed. I seized the gun and browned a bevy of guineafowl unscrupulously. 1 We were busy picking up when I heard i a shout, and G. trotted up with a gazelle ; slung behind his saddle. The cook's face was beaming over a roaring fire i as M.'s camel stole up from the dusk. ■ "All right, old lad," we shouted, "we ; shan't go hungry to-night, anyway." i "Yes," he replied, jauntily, "and it's ; me you've got to thank for it. So just i take bfl"k some of the rude things you said y rday." i "What," we both shouted, "you don't i mean to say that you have collected 1 something too?" i But he had. We might have known ' that old Idrees never sniffed the air in i vain. M. was carrying two gazelles (a • right and left), a wart-hog, and two more guineafowl. ( We had our Christmas dinner. There I are two ways of cooking game. The . menu read: —Venison—sucking pig— . roast capon —and, last but not least, i stuffed turkey (obara).