The Bafut Beagles

The squirrels in the forest were thoroughly alarmed, and the trees echoed to the sound of frantic chuckings. Now that they had realized how dangerous we were it was useless to try to attempt another capture, so we had to be content with the three we had caught; we packed up our nets and other equipment and made our way back to Bafut. Once there I placed my precious squirrels in three solid, tin-lined cages, filled their plates with food, and left them severely alone until they should have recovered from the indignity of capture. As soon as they were left alone they ventured out of the darkness of their bedrooms and demolished the pile of succulent fruits with which I had provided them, upset their water-pots, tested the tin lining of the cages to see if they could be gnawed through, and, finding that this was impossible, retired to their bedrooms again and slept. Seen at close quarters they were quite handsome beasts, with pale yellow bellies and cheeks, russet-red backs, and great banded tails. The effect was somewhat spoilt by their heads, which were large and rather horse-like, with tiny ears set close to the skull, and protuberant teeth.

I had read somewhere that these squirrels climb to the top branches of the forest trees in the early morning and utter the most powerful and astonishing cries: deep rolling sounds that were like the last notes of a giant gong being struck. I was interested to hear this cry, but I thought it unlikely that they would produce it in captivity. However, the morning after the capture I was awakened at about five-thirty by a peculiar noise; the collection was on the veranda outside my window, and when I sat up in bed I decided that the noise was coming from one of the cages, but I could not tell from which. I put on my dressing-gown and crept out of the door. I waited patiently in the dim light, chilly and half awake, for a repetition of the sound. It came again in a few minutes, and I could definitely trace it to the squirrels cage. The noise is extremely difficult to describe: it started like a groan, and as it got louder it took on a throbbing, vibrating note, the sort of thrumming you hear from telegraph poles - the sound seemed to blur and waver, like a gong hit very softly, rising to a crescendo and then dying away. The squirrels were obviously being rather half-hearted about their attempt; in the forest they would have put much more force into it, and then I should imagine it would be a weird and fascinating cry to hear, drifting through the misty branches.

That evening the Fon appeared, as usual, to find out what success the day had brought, and to present me with a calabash of fresh palm wine. With great pride I showed him the squirrels, and described the capture in detail for him. He was intrigued to know exactly where we had caught them, and, as I did not really know the locality, I had to go and call one of the hunters - who was merry-making in the kitchen - to explain to him. He stood in front of the Fon, answering his questions through cupped hands. It took quite a long time for the hunter to do this, for the country we had been in was uninhabited, so he could only describe our route by reference to various landmarks in the shape of rocks, trees, and curiously shaped hills. At last the Fon started to nod vigorously, and then sat for a few minutes in thought. Then he spoke to the hunter rapidly, making wide gestures with his long arms, while the hunter nodded and bowed. At length the Fon turned to me, smiling benignly, and carelessly, almost absent-mindedly, holding out his empty glass.

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 Wheeeeeeeeel!!

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

Rock hyrax.

Rooke hyrix?

yes. How you de call um for Bafut?

here we call um Neer.

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.