"What are those?" our American inquires, pointing to the locked
boxes.
He learns that they are chop boxes, containing food and supplies.
At this he rises on his hind legs and paws the air.
"Food!" he shrieks. "Why, man alive, I'm alone, and I am only
going to be out three months! I can carry all I'll ever eat in
three months in one of those boxes."
But the Englishman patiently explains. You cannot live on "bacon
and beans" in this country, so to speak. You must do yourself
rather well, you know, to keep in condition. And you cannot pack
food in bags, it must be tinned. And then, of course, such things
as your sparklet siphons and lime juice require careful
packing-and your champagne.
"Champagne," breathes the American in awestricken tones.
"Exactly, dear boy, an absolute necessity. After a touch of sun
there's nothing picks you up better than a mouthful of fizz. It's
used as a medicine, not a drink, you understand."
The American reflects again that this is the other fellow's game,
and that the other fellow has been playing it for some time, and
that he ought to know. But he cannot yet see why the one hundred
and fifty men. Again the Englishman explains. There is the
Headman to run the show. Correct: we need him. Then there are
four askaris. What are they? Native soldiers. No, you won't be
fighting anything; but they keep the men going, and act as sort
of sub-foremen in bossing the complicated work. Next is your
cook, and your own valet and that of your horse. Also your two
gunbearers.
"Hold on!" cries our friend. "I have only two guns, and I'm going
to carry one myself."
But this, he learns, is quite impossible. It is never done. It is
absolutely necessary, in this climate, to avoid all work.
That makes how many? Ten already, and there seem to be three tent
loads, one bed load, one chair and table load, one lantern load,
two miscellaneous loads, two cook loads, one personal box, and
fifteen chop boxes-total twenty-six, plus the staff, as above,
thirty-six. Why all the rest of the army?
Very simple: these thirty-six men have, according to regulation,
seven tents, and certain personal effects, and they must have
"potio" or a ration of one and a half pounds per diem. These
things must be carried by more men.
"I see," murmurs the American, crushed, "and these more men have
more tents and more potio, which must also be carried. It's like
the House that Jack Built."
So our American concludes still once again that the other fellow
knows his own game, and starts out. He learns he has what is
called a "modest safari"; and spares a fleeting wonder as to what
a really elaborate safari must be. The procession takes the
field. He soon sees the value of the four askaris-the necessity
of whom he has secretly doubted. Without their vigorous seconding
the headman would have a hard time indeed. Also, when he observes
the labour of tent-making, packing, washing, and general service
performed by his tent boy, he abandons the notion that that
individual could just as well take care of the horse as well,
especially as the horse has to have all his grass cut and brought
to him. At evening our friend has a hot bath, a long cool fizzly
drink of lime juice and soda; he puts on the clean clothes laid
out for him, assumes soft mosquito boots, and sits down to
dinner. This is served to him in courses, and on enamel ware.
Each course has its proper-sized plate and cutlery. He starts
with soup, goes down through tinned whitebait or other fish, an
entree, a roast, perhaps a curry, a sweet, and small coffee. He
is certainly being "done well," and he enjoys the comfort of it.
There comes a time when he begins to wonder a little. It is all
very pleasant, of course, and perhaps very necessary; they all
tell him it is. But, after all, it is a little galling to the
average man to think that of him. Your Englishman doesn't mind that;
he enjoys being taken care of: but the sportsman of American
training likes to stand on his own feet as far as he is able and
conditions permit. Besides, it is expensive. Besides that, it is
a confounded nuisance, especially when potio gives out and more
must be sought, near or far. Then, if he is wise, he begins to do
a little figuring on his own account.
My experience was very much as above. Three of us went out for
eleven weeks with what was considered a very "modest" safari
indeed. It comprised one hundred and eighteen men. My fifth and
last trip, also with two companions, was for three months. Our
personnel consisted, all told, forty men.
In essentials the Englishman is absolutely right. One cannot camp
in Africa as one would at home. The experimenter would be dead in
a month. In his application of that principle, however, he seems
to the American point of view to overshoot. Let us examine his
proposition in terms of the essentials-food, clothing, shelter.
There is no doubt but that a man must keep in top condition as
far as possible; and that, to do so, he must have plenty of good
food. He can never do as we do on very hard trips at home: take a
little tea, sugar, coffee, flour, salt, oatmeal. But on the other
hand, he certainly does not need a five-course dinner every
night, nor a complete battery of cutlery, napery and table ware
to eat it from. Flour, sugar, oatmeal, tea and coffee, rice,
beans, onions, curry, dried fruits, a little bacon, and some
dehydrated vegetables will do him very well indeed-with what he
can shoot.
