The Bafut Beagles

'I done tell dis man,' he explained, watching me fill the glass with an apparently uninterested eye, ' 'e go take you for some special place for mountain. For dis place you get some special kind of beef.'

'What kind of beef?' I asked.

'Beef,' said the Fon vaguely, gesturing with his half-empty glass, 'special kind of beef. You no get um yet.'

'Na bad beef dis?' I suggested.

The Fon put his glass on the table and spread out his enormous hands.

'Na so big,' he said, 'no be bad bad beef, but 'e bite too much. 'E go live for dat big big rock, 'e go go for under. Sometime 'e de hollar too much, 'e go Wheeeeeeeee!!! '

I sat and puzzled over the creature, while the Fon watched me hopefully.

''E look same same for Cutting-grass, but 'e no get tail for 'e larse,' he said at last, helpfully.

Light suddenly dawned, and I went in search of a book; I found the picture I wanted, and showed it to the Fon.

'Dis na de beef?' I asked.

'Ah! Na so,' said the Fon delightedly, stroking the portrait of the rock hyrax with his long fingers;' dis na de beef. How you decall um?'

' Rock hyrax.'

'Rooke hyrix?'

'Yes. How you de call um for Bafut?'

'Here we call um N'eer.'

I wrote the name down on the list of local names I was compiling, and then refilled the Fon's glass. He was still gazing in a trance at the engraving of the hyrax, tracing its outline with one slender finger.

'Wha!' he said at length in a wistful voice, 'na fine chop dis beef. You go cook um with coco yam …'

His voice died away and he licked his lips reminiscently.

The hunter fixed me with his eye, and shuffled his feet as an indication that he wanted to speak.

'Yes, na whatee?'

'Masa want to go for dis place de Fon de talk?'

'Yes. We go go to-morrow for morning time.'

'Yes, sah. For catch dis beef Masa go need plenty people. Dis beef fit run too much, sah.'

'All right, you go tell all my boys dey go for bush tomorrow.'

'Yes, sah.'

He stood and shuffled his feet again.

'Whatee?'

'Masa go want me again?'

'No, my friend. Go back for kitchen and drink your wine.'

'Tank you, sah,' he said, grinning, and disappeared into the gloom of the veranda.

Presently the Fon rose to go, and I walked with him as far as the road. As we paused at the edge of the compound he turned and smiled down at me from his great height.

'I be ole man,' he said; 'I de tire too much. If I no be ole man I go come with you for bush to-morrow.'

'You lie, my friend. You no be ole man. You done get power too much. You get plenty power, power pass all dis picken hunter man.'

He chuckled, and then sighed.

'No, my friend, you no speak true. My time done pass. I de tire too much. I get plenty wife, and dey de tire me too much. I get palaver with dis man, with dat man, an' it de tire me too much. Bafut na big place, plenty people. If you get plenty people you get plenty palaver."

'Na so, I savvay you get plenty work.'

'True,' he said, and then added, his eyes twinkling wickedly, ' sometimes I get palaver with the D.O., an' dat de tire me most of all.'

He shook my hand, and I could hear him chuckling as he walked off across the courtyard.

The next morning we set off on our hyrax hunt – myself, the four Bafut Beagles, and five of the household staff. For the first two or three miles we walked through the cultivated areas and the small farms. On the gently sloping hills fields had been dug, and the rich red earth shone in the early morning sunshine. In some of the fields the crops were already planted and ripe, the feathery bushes of cassava or the row of maize, each golden head with its blond tassel of silken thread waving in the breeze. In other fields the women were working, stripped to the waist, wielding short-handled, broad-bladed hoes. Some of them had tiny babies strapped to their backs, and they seemed as unaware of these encumbrances as a hunchback would be of his hump. Most of the older ones were smoking long black pipes, and the rank grey smoke swirled up into their faces as they bent over the ground. It was mostly the younger women who were doing the harder work of hoeing, and their lithe, glistening bodies moved rhythmically in the sun as they raised the heavy and clumsy implements high above their heads and then brought them sweeping down. Each time the blade buried itself in the red earth the owner would give a loud grunt.

As we walked through the fields among them they talked with us in their shrill voices, made jokes, and kughed uproariously, all without pausing in their work, and without losing its rhythm. The grunts that interspersed their remarks gave a curious sound to the conversation.

'Morning, Masa… ugh!.. which side you go? … ugh!'

'Masa go go for bush … ugh!… no be so, Masa?… ugh!'

'Masa go catch plenty beef… ugh!…Masa get power … ugh!'

'Walker strong, Masa… ugh!… catch beef plenty… ugh!'

Long after we had left the fields and were scrambling up the golden slopes of the foothills we could hear them chattering and laughing and the steady thump of the hoes striking home. When we reached the crest of the highest range of hills that surrounded Bafut the hunters pointed out our destination: a range of mountains, purple and misty, that seemed an enormous distance away. The household staff gave gasps and moans of dismay and astonishment that I should want them to walk so far, and Jacob, the cook, said that he did not think he would be able to manage it, as he had unfortunately picked up a thorn in his foot. Examination proved that there was no thorn in his foot, but a small stone in his shoe. The discovery and removal of the stone left him moody and disgruntled, and he lagged behind, talking to himself in a ferocious undertone. To my surprise, the distance was deceptive, and within three hours we were walking through a long winding valley at the end of which the mountains reared up in a wan of glittering gold and green. As we toiled up the slope through the waist-high grass, the hunters explained to me what the plan of campaign was to be. Apparently we had to round one of the smooth buttresses of the mountain range, and in between this projection and the next lay a long valley that thrust its way into the heart of the mountains. The sides of this valley were composed of almost sheer cliffs, at the base of which were the rocks where hyrax lived.

We scrambled round the great elbow of mountain, and there lay the valley before us, quiet and remote and filled with sparkling sunlight that lit the gaunt cliffs on each side – two long, crumpled curtains of rock flushed to pink and grey, patched with golden sunlight and soft blue shadows. Piled at the base of these cliffs were the legacies of many past cliff falls and landslides, a jumble of boulders of all shapes and sizes, some scattered about the curving floor of the valley, some piled up into tall, tottering chimneys. Over and around these rocks grew a rippling green rug of short undergrowth, long grass, hunched and crafty looking trees, small orchids and tall lilies, and a thick, strangling web of convolvulus with yellow, cream, and pink flowers. Scattered along the cliff faces were a series of cave mouths, dark and mysterious, some mere narrow clefts in the rock, others the size of a cathedral door. Down the centre of the valley ran a boisterous baby stream that wiggled joyfully in and out of the rocks, and leapt impatiently in lacy waterfalls from one level to the next as it hurried down the slope.

We paused at the head of the valley for a rest and a smoke, and I examined the rocks ahead with my field-glasses for any signs of life. But the valley seemed lifeless and deserted; the only sounds were the self-important and rather ridiculous tinkle of the diminutive stream, and the wind and the grass moving together with a stealthy sibilant whisper. High overhead a small hawk appeared against the delicate blue sky, paused for an instant, and swept out of view behind the jagged edge of the cliff. Jacob stood and surveyed the valley with a sour and gloomy expression on his pudgy countenance.