their torches in their hands. They cried out, they rubbed the various parts of their bodies, they threw their clothes away, they rolled about on the ground, they twisted this way and that, they ranted and raved, they burst into laughter; it was a fascinating night-time show.
But while you watch and enjoy the scene, you suddenly feel yourself nipped, and put your hand to the place, then it happens elsewhere, and then yet again elsewhere; you yourself have been invaded and before you can sort yourself out, you find that these devilish creatures are on your legs, your chest, your arms, your beard, your hair. You feel you are going crazy.
I must tell you that these African ants outdo every living creature in ferocity. Their role in the order of things is to remove the remains of dead animals from the ground; however, if a living creature gets in the way of this work, its existence is at an end—insects, lizards, birds, even snakes are surrounded, attacked and destroyed.
As with many other similar insects, these ants exist in two forms: one, the smaller, is never larger than 0.008 of a meter. It has a regular appearance and is not really a great nuisance. The other species is twice as big, with a big head, in proportion to its size, has a dangerous pair of pincers, and can be diabolically malicious. The first is the male ant, the second the female, which, because of its warlike attitudes, naturalists call “the amazon.”
Among these amazons, a community of ants chooses one who is the object of very special care, being stuffed with food, and so becoming huge, often as large as a man’s little finger, and incapable of moving. Her only occupation is to produce new ants, and she fulfills this duty conscientiously, without stopping; there is always a baby ant coming out of her, to be immediately snatched up and put in its place by an old midwife ant. Really, ants are manufactured. One day, knocking down an old wall, I came across a Siafu queen-mother, and as I had scores to settle, I was bold enough to put her in a flask of alcohol. And so I can give you an exact portrait of her, of an ordinary “amazon” and of a mere male.
Often enough, in damp places, I have met a tribe of these ants, scattered here and there, moving ahead in dispersed order, looking for its everyday nourishment, busy with this and that. But also, for reasons which they themselves know—perhaps they want to start a new colony—they often gather together, organize themselves into military-style columns, and march ahead. Really, you should see them then! Their determination to march in order produces a small corridor, flanked by two ramparts of neat sand. This hollow road is only followed by the males, those inoffensive creatures: on each side the amazons crowd together, with their thick heads in the air, and their pincers set wide open, threatening and terrifying, ready to protect the others, and reminding me of the “archway of swords” which the Freemasons make with swords crossed over the heads of their dear members. Moreover, in the world of ants, perhaps they are, as it were, female freemasons, if only because they are not at all frank and they do not do any building. Whatever the case is, they follow their path, and if they enter a house because it lies on their route, or some animal remains attract them—provided that one leaves them to carry on—they will all do so, leaving no trace except their little track.
But if one should start to annoy them, to crush them, to push them about, their column will scatter straightaway, and they will attack you with the same determination that David showed against Goliath. Without delay, they put their pincers to work on your arms, your clothes, your skin, and you can see the little creature twisting around to give ever more effective pinches, clinging on for dear life, killing itself by a surfeit of rage. I have never seen one fall off; what you must do is to tear off the body first, and then the head. If there were a similar army of human amazons, they would be invincible.
We met them throughout our journeys. But repeated attacks teach the art of defense. When one of us noticed an ant army on the march, he made it known, and, straightaway, without noise, without a fuss being made, without disturbing the stretches of grass—which to the ants are what a big forest is for us—one of us would take boiling water in a kettle and pour it over the ant army as it advanced. Another tactic is to throw burning torches on to them. But in any case, do not let them get on to your legs.
The Siafu are not the only African ants; there are many others. There is a species of small red ants, whose scurrying soldiers sometimes take over roads and fields. There is also a species of black ants, even smaller than the red ones, which lives under tree trunks, under the bark of trees, and beneath stones. These often have small beetles living among them, the Clavigere (key-holder), and another, a rather fatter one, the Paussus, whom they keep well-fed, and from whom they ask the favor of an occasional lick.
Another kind of ant, a transparent red in color and middle-sized, is found on the East African coast. It likes to live in orange and mango trees, and gathers their leaves to make its home.
There is another kind of ant, whose members live alone. It is fat, long, and black. It smells so strongly of carrion, that you can smell one at two or three meters’ distance. I have put some of them into flasks, which, even when opened and washed, have kept the smell for more than a year. Now, if the substance of this little creature were used in the perfumery trade, the results would be startling.
Yet another fascinating species can often be found on pathways. They are slightly longer than the ferocious Siafu, and extremely black. They also advance in army-style columns, and are about 0.02 or 0.03 meters is size. They do not protect each other; it is an individualistic society. However, the humming sound which they produce is so strong that you hear them before you see them. But for all their determination, there is a simple, albeit rather strange, way of halting their march, and we owe it to Father Gommenginger. Take a stick, and kill the ant who is leading the column and leave his body lying there. Immediately, those who were following him, will stop and cluster round, they are clearly very shaken, gradually they turn round, and go back to wherever they started. This is a tribe for which, it would seem, that a body lying across the path is an evil omen.
But where do these long columns go? Mgr. de Courmont has often decided to follow them, and he told us he has repeatedly seen them fall on a nest of termites or white ants which they literally plunder. These are then useful ants, and since no remedy has been found for termites and their ravaging, it might be a good idea to breed a tribe of these Sungu-Sungu ants near the building liable to be attacked by termites. The results might be very satisfactory.
But just look how I have got sidetracked! I wanted to talk about human beings, but the ants delayed me. Certainly, in the countries where both breeds dwell, there are marked similarities between the two species. Ants are constantly at war, and so are our men; ants are slave-owners and so are men; ants do not keep food supplies in reserve, nor do men.
From Mafisi, we had to march for three hours to get to Mwadunda, a canton whose capital is Kikone, where we found the old chief Kubo, who has been already mentioned.
From there, we came near to the sea and, crossing a low-lying and uncultivated plain, where several varieties of palm tree were growing, such as the Egyptian palm, the elegant Guinean palm, and the majestic borassus palm from Ethiopia, we came to a little village with practically no one there, and we encamped there. We had arrived at Madzoreni, that is to say “The fan at the palm trees.” The enormous number of beautiful palm trees that one can see here make this a very appropriate name. But if you look closely, you find there is something wrong. The good people of this part of the world had thought that the best way to get palm wine is to cut off the heads of the palm tree and to make a little hole at the top where they could find palm wine every morning. Unhappily, neither men nor trees live long without heads, and the palm trees are dead. Only their long trunks, straight, but with a bulge toward the top, stand on the plain, and, at night, when the wind blows from the beach, the moon casts a sad light on these survivors. You would think they were the palaces and temples of an ancient town, whose columns survive as the proof of their past splendor.
Palm
