Hippopotamus Hunters Are Dying Race

Press, Volume CVI, Issue 31247, 20 December 1966, Page 26

Hippopotamus Hunters Are Dying Race

(N.Z.P.A.-Reuter) NIAMEY (Niger). Hippopotamus hunters, skilled in the traditional methods of the hunt, are, like their prey, a dying race. Succumbing to the attractions of the town, the men of the river banks are no longer initiated into the necessary

skills—neither how to wield the harpoon, nor the knowledge of the magic which must accompany it.

In the first place, the wouldbe hunter must start young. His training begins almost before he is out of his cradle, watching his father sharpen the harpoon and prepare the canoe.

As he grows older, and is gradually initiated into secrets which have been jealously guarded from generation to generation, the child will learn how to choose the most suitable well-sharpened harpoon, how best to fix the iron spear on its wooden handle, and to put the magic stone in the canoe to prevent it from being damaged by the prey. He will know that every hunt starts the night before with a dinner which is attended by all taking part before they set otit in their various canoes. Magic powders are mixed with the various dishes served, to give the faltering courage, and girls sing and dance in honour of the huntsmen.

He will also learn those magic words and phrases without which even the most courageous of hunters would be lost: the phrase, for instance, which he must speak respectfully to ensure that his harpoon becomes poisoned and to make it fly straight and sink into the desired spot in the hippopotamus’s tough hide.

There are phrases which drive off evil spirits, tame the fierce animal at the moment of the kill—and cause his rival’s harpoons to go astray. The honours of the hunt go solely to the first man to sink a harpoon into the animal. After achieving this feat, the hunter may withdraw from the scene, leaving his companions to finish the job. Nor is. their task always easy. Even after they have put a further five to 20 harpoons in its flesh, the wounded animal continues to thresh about in the water, sometimes for hours, sometimes for several days. Even then the hippopotamus may elude them, and go off to die among the tall reeds along the river. If he can be caught, a more intrepid hunter will jump from his canoe and finish it off by thrusting a poisoned iron spear into its fleshy mouth. The chase thus ended, the huntsmen sing a hymn in praise of Harakoye, king of the waters, before beginning to chop up the carcase and share out the coarse, tough meat which has the taste of mud-flavoured beef.