I dare you to read it all

[NGONGE]

Not my usual kind of thing but I thought some of you may enjoy it.

 

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Hassan was my chief gunbearer, and for pious devotion to the Mohammedan faith he was second to none. He was the "Chantecler" of our outfit. Every morning at four o'clock, regardless of the weather, he would crawl out of his tent, drape himself in a white sheet, and cry out his prayers to Mecca. It was his voice that woke the camp, and the immediate answer to his prayers was sometimes quite irreverent, especially from the Wakamba porters, who were accustomed to sit up nearly all night gambling.

 

Hassan was a Somali, strictly honest and faithful. He had the Somali's love of a rupee, and there was no danger or hardship that he would not undergo in the hope of backsheesh. It is the African custom to backsheesh everybody when a lion is killed, so consequently the Somalis were always looking for lions. Perhaps he also prayed for them each morning.

 

When we started we had four Somali gunbearers, each of whom rose at dawn to pray. As we got up in the high altitudes, where the mornings were bitter cold, the number of suppliants dwindled down to one, and Hassan was the sole survivor. No cold or rain or early rising could cool the fierce religious ardor that burned within him.

 

Long before daybreak we would hear his voice raised in a singsong prayer full of strange runs and weird minors. The lions that roared and grunted near the camp would pause in wonder and then steal away as the sound of Hassan's devotions rang out through the chilly, dew-laden dawn. And as if fifteen minutes of morning prayer was not enough to keep him even with his religious obligations, he went through two more long recitals in the afternoon and at night.

 

I sometimes thought that behind his fervent ardor there was a considerable pride in his voice, for he introduced many interesting by-products of harmony that sounded more or less extraneous to both music and prayer. Nevertheless, Hassan was consistent. He never lied, he never stole, and it was part of his personal creed of honor to stand by his master in case of danger. Somali gunbearers are a good deal of a nuisance about a camp, partly because they are the aristocrats of Africa and demand large salaries, but chiefly because they require certain kinds of food that their religion requires them to eat. This is often difficult to secure when far from sources of supplies, and in consequence the equilibrium of camp harmony is sorely disturbed.

 

They are avaricious and money loving to a deplorable degree, but there is one thing that can be said for the Somali. He will never desert in time of danger and will cheerfully sacrifice himself for his master. He has the stamina of a higher type of civilization, and in comparison to him the lately reclaimed savage is not nearly so dependable in a crisis.

 

I sometimes suspected that Hassan was not really a gunbearer, but was merely a "camel man" who was tempted from his flocks by the high pay that African gunbearers receive. Notwithstanding this, he was courageous, faithful, willing, honest, good at skinning, and personally an agreeable companion during the months that we were together. I got to like him and often during our rests after long hours afield we would talk of our travels and adventures.

 

One day we stopped at the edge of the Molo River. A little bridge crossed the stream and I remembered that the equator is supposed to pass directly across the middle of this bridge. It struck me as being quite noteworthy, so I tried to tell Hassan all about it. I was hampered somewhat because he didn't know that the world was round, but after some time I got him to agree to that fact. Then by many illustrations I endeavored to describe the equator and told him it crossed the bridge. He got up and looked, but seemed unconvinced as well as unimpressed. Then I told him that it was an imaginary line that ran around the world right where it was fullest—half way between the north pole and the south pole. He brightened up at this and hastened to tell me that he had heard of the north pole from a man on a French ship. As I persevered in my geographical lecture he gradually became detached from my point of view, and when we finished I was talking equator and he was talking about a friend of his who had once been to Rotterdam.

 

The lecture was a "draw." But I noticed with satisfaction that when we walked across the bridge he looked furtively between each crack as if expecting to see something.

 

It was rather a curious thing, speaking of Hassan, to observe the respect with which the other natives treated his daily religious devotions. He was the only one in camp who prayed—at least openly—and as he knelt and bowed and went through the customary form of a Mohammedan prayer there was never the slightest disposition to make fun of him. In a camp of one hundred white men I feel sure that one of them who prayed aloud three times a day would hardly have escaped a good deal of irreverent ridicule from those about him. The natives in our camp never dreamed of questioning Hassan's right to worship in any way he pleased and the life and activities of the camp flowed along smoothly as if unconscious of the white-robed figure whose voice sang out his praises of Allah. The whole camp seemed to have a deep respect for Hassan.

 

 

Source

[NGONGE]

 

Abdi, our head-man, was also a Somali, but of a different tribe. He was from Jubaland and had lived many years with white men. In all save color he was more white than black. He was handsome, good-tempered, efficient, and so kind to his men that sometimes the discipline of the camp suffered because of it. It was Abdi's duty to direct the porters in their work of moving camp, distributing loads, pitching camp, getting wood for the big camp-fires, punishing delinquents and, in fact, to see that the work of the safari was done.

 

One night after we had been most successful in a big lion hunt during the day Abdi came to the mess tent, where we were lingering over a particularly good dinner. Abdi asked for his orders for the following day and then, seeing that we were in a talkative mood, he stopped a while to join in the stories of lion hunting.

 

After a time he told two of his own that he had brought from his boyhood home in Jubaland. They were so remarkable that you don't have to believe them unless you want to.

 

 

ABDI'S STORY ABOUT HIS UNCLE AND THE LIONS

"Once upon a time my uncle, who was a great runner, encountered six man-eating lions sitting in the road. He took his spear and tried to kill them, but they divided, three on each side of the road. So he took to his heels. To the next town it was twelve hours' march, but he ran it in ten hours, the lions in hot pursuit every minute of the time. When he reached the town he jumped over the thorn bush zareba, and the lions, close behind him, jumped over after him and were killed by his spear, one after the other."

 

ABDI'S STORY ABOUT THE WILY SOMALI AND THE LION

"Once upon a time there was a Somali who was warned not to go down a certain road on account of the man-eating lions. But he started out, armed with knife and spear. For a week he marched, sleeping in the trees at night and marching during the day. One day he suddenly came upon a big lion sitting in the road. He stopped, sharpening a little stick which he held in his left hand. Then he wrapped his 'tobe' or blanket around his left hand and arm. He then advanced to the lion and when it opened its mouth to bite him he thrust the sharp stick inside, up and down, thus gagging the lion. Then with his two hands he held the lion by its ears for three days. He couldn't let go because the lion would maul him with its heavy paws. He was thus in quite a fix.

 

"Finally another Somali came along and he asked the new-comer to hold the lion while he killed it with his spear. The other Somali consented and seized the lion by the ears. Then the first Somali laughed long and loud and said, 'I've held him three days, now you hold him three days.' Then he strolled down the road and disappeared. For seven days the second Somali held the lion and then by the same subterfuge turned it over to a third Somali. By this time the lion was pretty tired, so after one day the Somali shook the lion hard and then took out his knife and stabbed it to death."

 

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Same source as above.

[Legend of Zu]

^^^^ two great stories, Hassan is top bloke, altho I think Abdi made up the stories!

 

Cheers

[Cara.]

^Every Somali must know at least a half-dozen improbable stories involving lions.

 

The two men are paid employees, but naturally the Big Game Hunter prefers to see himself as their indulgent master.

[Cara.]

He does have a certain wit, even if laughably oblivious at times. Like commenting on how pleasant walking about in the midday sun is, not at all as unbearably hot as he had heard, while a 100 men carry his luggage, two men carry his rifles and camera, a cook saves him from having to go near an open fire, and someone probably fans him as soon as he sits down for a breather.

 

Americans!

[xiinfaniin]

I liked Hassan. He's noble. He's fearless. He's faithful.And he's Somali.

 

Abdi is beezaani, and a resourceful one at that.

[NGONGE]

^^ The photo fits the description too. Can't you see Cara swooning there? She had to make two replies just so she can revisit the thread and look at Hassan's photo.

 

Cara, this took place in 1910. If you ever have the time you may want to try to get hold of George Orwell's first novel (Burmese Days). In it, he beautifully exposes this Pukka Sahib mind-set and shows how even minor Europeans in charge of small towns in the middle of nowhere, adopted such an attitude and believed themselves to be of consequence, when they evidently were not! Sadly, it was the done thing back then.

 

But lets forget about all of that, I just gave you another chance to reply and steal another glance at Hassan.

[Paragon]

About the lions, Allaha u naxariistee, one of our neibhours Yuusuf Boor (a giant) killed himself a lion, skinned him and used the hide for his alool . True story. He brought the evidence with him and even developed a 'how to' manual for killing lions , but not to be tried at home (bush). Simply demostrational.

 

PS: Nice stories.

[umu zakaria]

Iam proud of Hassan. May he tranquil in Jannah insha Allah.

[Caano Geel]

It reminds me of the time when i met 'kan mukulaasha sanka ka majuujiya' ..

 

I had walked the dusty streets of the urban jungle for many-a-moon, hearing of stories concerning a young man with what i can only repeat in polite company as a fondness for interfering with the sinus of felines.

 

Struck by the strangeness of such a preoccupation, i could not altogether bring myself to believe such wild eccentricities and thought to my self that if he exists, his love for the preposterous must make his an english gentle man. But alas, i contented my self with the comforting thought of each to their own.

 

That is, until one day i came across this striking figure of a man, solem, serious and with fire in his eyes as though they were forged on the rocks of the dessert which seemed to pierce through you as well at the very least the three people behind you. His nose taking in the air and head darting left and right, measuring you up for size.

 

In an instance i recognised him as the one whose stories i had heard and for a moment, I wondered weather he mistook me for his prey and would seize upon me with the wild and frantic fever that the commuting hordes seize upon warm and just vacated seat on a tube train.

 

But he lulled me to a false sense of security and at the very moment that i thought i was safe, he pounced, throwing questions of such diabolical ingenuity, they struck like the fangs of beasts he molested and even the quickest of wit had no measurable chance.

 

With this recognition, i drew out my spear and shield and there in the streets we wrestled, each jabbing their weapon left and right whilst ducking the inevitable moulding that would result from the wrong move. and there we fought while our strengths held, till at last, the sweat from our battle had grown from the droplets on our brows to a puddle at our feet, and with it we fell to the ground gasping and weapons unsheathed ready for the slaughter when our strength would once again raise us to our feet.

[Libaax-Sankataabte]

Originally posted by Caano Geel:

[QB] It reminds me of the time when i met

'kan mukulaasha sanka ka majuujiya'

First an open insult.

 

But he lulled me to a false sense of security and at the very moment that i thought i was safe, he pounced, throwing questions of such diabolical ingenuity, they struck like the fangs of beasts he molested and even the quickest of wit had no measurable chance.

Oh, a little praise coming from the tough questioner himself.

 

I must admit the clever answers were just remarkable.

[Cara.]

Um, the mutual admiration society is now in session.

 

Ngonge, as if you didn't Ctrl+F for "native women in their altogether"

 

Jamaal, now the neighbor's youngsters would've told him "pics or it didn't happen." It's a sad loss of gullibility.

[Zafir]

What a story!

 

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No book on Africa seems complete unless this incident is mentioned

somewhere within its pages.

 

We looked out at Tsavo with devouring interest. All was still, with the

dead silence of a tropical night. Then the train steamed on and we had

several hours in a berth to think the matter over. In the early hours of

morning, we stopped at Simba, the "Place of Lions," where the

station-master has many lion scares even now. In the cold darkness of

the night we bundled up in thick clothes and went forward to sit on the

observation seat of the engine. Slowly the eastern skies became gray,

then pink, and finally day broke through heavy masses of clouds. It was

intensely cold. In the faint light we could see shadowy figures of

animals creeping home after their night's hunting. A huge cheetah

bounded along the track in front of us. A troop of giraffes slowly

ambled away from the track. A gaunt hyena loped off into the scrub near

the side of the railroad and then, as daylight became brighter, we found

ourselves in the midst of thousands of wild animals. Zebras,

hartebeests, Grant's gazelles, Thompson's gazelles, impalla, giraffes,

wildebeests, and many other antelope species cantered off and stood to

watch the train as it swept past them. It was a wonderful ride, perhaps

the most novel railway ride to be found any place in the world. On each

side of the Uganda Railroad there is a strip of land, narrow on the

north and wide on the south, in which game is protected from the

sportsman, and consequently the animals have learned to regard these

strips as sanctuary. There were many tales of lions as we rode along,

and the imagination pictured a slinking lion in every patch of reeds

along the way. I heard one lion story that makes the man-eaters of Tsavo

seem like vegetarians. It was told to me by a gentleman high in the

government service--a man of unimpeachable veracity. He says the story

is absolutely true, but refused to swear to it.

 

Once upon a time, so the story goes, there was a caravan of slaves

moving through the jungles of Africa. The slave-drivers were cruel and

they chained the poor savages together in bunches of ten. Each slave

wore an iron ring around his neck and the chain passed through this ring

and on to the rest of the ten. For days and weeks and months they

marched along, their chains clanking and their shoulders bending beneath

the heavy weight. From time to time the slave-drivers would jog them

along with a few lashes from a four-cornered "hippo" hide _kiboko_, or

whip. Quite naturally the life was far from pleasant to the chain-gang

and they watched eagerly for a chance to escape. Finally one dark night,

when the sentinels were asleep, a bunch of ten succeeded in creeping

away into the darkness. They were unarmed and chained from neck to neck,

one to another. For several days they made their way steadily toward the

coast. All seemed well. They ate fruit and nuts and herbs and began to

see visions of a pleasant arrival at the coast.

 

[Drawing: _They Made Their Way Steadily Toward the Coast_]

 

But, alas! Their hopes were soon to be dispelled. One night a deep

rumbling roar was heard in the jungle through which they were picking

their unanimous way. A shudder ran through the slaves. "_Simba_," they

whispered in terror. A little while later there was another rumble, this

time much closer. They speedily became more frightened. Here they were,

ten days' march from the coast, unarmed, and quite defenseless against a

lion.

 

Presently the lion appeared, his cruel, hungry eyes gleaming through the

night. They were frozen with horror, as slowly, slowly, slowly the great

animal crept toward them with his tail sibilantly lashing above his

back. They were now thoroughly alarmed and realized to the utmost that

the lion's intentions were open to grave suspicion. Breathlessly they

waited, or perhaps they tried to climb trees, but being chained together

they could not climb more than one tree. And there was not a single tree

big enough to hold more than nine of them. The record of the story is

now obscure, but the horrid tale goes on to relate that the lion gave a

frightful roar and leaped upon the tenth man, biting him to death in a

single snap. The dilemma of the others is obvious. They knew better than

to disturb a lion while it is eating. To do so would be to court sudden

death. So they sat still and watched the beast slowly and greedily

devour their comrade. Having finished his meal the great beast,

surfeited with food, slowly moved off into the jungle.

 

[Drawing: _The Lion's Intentions Were Open to Grave Suspicions_]

 

Immediately the nine remaining slaves took to their heels, dragging the

empty ring and chain of the late number ten. All night long they ran

until finally they became exhausted and fell asleep. In the afternoon

they again resumed their march, hopeful once more. But alas! again.

 

Along about supper-time they heard the distant roar of a lion. Presently

it sounded nearer and soon the gleaming eyes of the lion appeared once

more among the jungle grass. Once again they were frozen with horror as

the hungry beast devoured the last man in the row--number nine. Again

they sat helpless while the man-eater slowly finished his supper, and

again they were overjoyed to see him depart from their midst. As soon as

the last vestige of his tail had disappeared from view they scrambled up

and hiked briskly toward the coast, nine days away.

 

[Drawing: _While the Man-Eater Finished His Supper_]

 

They were now thoroughly alarmed, and almost dreaded the supper hour.

The next night the lion caught up with them again and proceeded to

devour number eight. He then peacefully ambled away, leaving another

empty ring.

 

The next night there was a spirited contest to see which end of the

chain should be last, but a vote was taken and it was decided six to one

in favor of continuing in their original formation. The one who voted

against was eaten that night and the remaining six, with the four empty

rings clanking behind them, resumed their mournful march to the coast,

six days away.

 

[Drawing: _Two to One_]

 

For five nights after this, the lion caught up with them and diminished

their number by five. Finally there was only one left and the coast was

a full day's march away. Could he make it? It looked like a desperate

chance, but he still had hopes. He noticed with pleasure that the lion

was becoming fat and probably could not travel fast. But he also noticed

with displeasure that he had forty feet of chain and nine heavy iron

neck rings to lug along and that extra weight naturally greatly

handicapped him. It was a thrilling race--the coast only one day away

and life or death the prize! Who can imagine the feelings of the poor

slave? But with a stout heart he struggled on through poisonous

morasses, and pushed his way through snaky creepers. The afternoon sun

slowly sank toward the western horizon and--

 

The locomotive at this point of the story screeched loudly. The wheels

grated on the track and my official friend leaped off the cow-catcher.

 

"Here!" I shouted, "what's the finish of that story?"

 

"I'll tell you the rest the next time I see you," he sang out, and so I

don't know just how the story ended.

[Zafir]

You got to love this Somaliland Lioness!

 

----------------------------------------------

 

There was another interesting character on board who caused many of us

to stop and think. He was a young British army officer who was mauled by

a lioness several months ago in Somaliland. He now walked with a decided

limp and was likely to lose his commission in the army because of

physical infirmities. He was cheerful, pleasant, and looked hopefully

forward to a time when he could have another go at a lion. This is the

way the thing happened: Last March he was shooting in Somaliland and ran

across a lioness. He shot her, but failed to disable her. She

immediately charged, chewed up his leg, arm and shoulder, and was then

killed by his Somali gunbearer. He was days from any help. He dressed

his own wounds and the natives tried to carry him to the nearest

settlement. Finally his bandages were exhausted, the natives deserted,

and it was only after frightful suffering that he reached help. In three

weeks blood poisoning set in, as is usual after the foul teeth of a lion

have entered the flesh, and for several months he was close to death.

Now he was up and about, cheerful and sunny, but a serious object lesson

to the lion hunters bound for the lair of the lion.

[Laba-X]

Ngonge, I swear I was going to post this very story a while ago but got bogged down with some work... Brilliant stuff mate!