and Magazine of the Ceylon Agricultural Society. 



199 



A RUBBER HUNT. 



BY FRANK E. VERNE Y. 

 It is dawn in the Nigerian village of Ojuka, and 

 shimmering shaftsof sunlight gleam through the 

 scattering mist like swords of light in scabbards 

 of cloud, carving out of the greyness, in bold re- 

 lief, animated groups of polished ebony figures 

 flanked by rows of mud huts steaming in the 

 warmth of the young day. 



The scene is the village street; thtre is only 

 one street. It is wide and straggling, with a 

 mat fence and a "Ju Ju" tree at either end. This 

 morning it wears an aspect of unwonted anima- 

 tion at an hour when usually the crowing cocks 

 perched up in the hut thatches are the only 

 signs of inhabitance which the village betrays. 



Every hut has disgorged its tenants, and the 

 street is alive with the bustle and movement of 

 a busy excitement. Groups of grinning black 

 men are girding themselves with Long Dane guns, 

 spears, machettes, knives, etc. Women are pack- 

 ing into porterable loads, rice, yams, bananas, old 

 gin bottles, and kerosene tins filled with fresh 

 water. Pot Paunched piccaninnies are joyfully 

 capering round their elders, and grizzled old 

 greybeards are enviously eying the activities of 

 their more nimble kinsmen. 



Not so very many years ago an early morning 

 scene like this in a West African bush village 

 would have indicated a raid on a neighbouring 

 tribe for slaves or plunder, except that then the 

 women and children would have been cowering 

 with anxious faces in the headman's stockade 

 instead of being joyfully engaged in the prepara- 

 tions ; and the men would have been grim, not 

 gay. But today, the proceedings are borne of 

 the demands of civilisation, and the pursuits of 

 peace for the bloodless rivalry of trade has re- 

 placed the combats of inter-tribal strife. There 

 does not appear to be much connection between 

 the daybreak proceedings of these primitive 

 pagans and, say, a modern motor-car, but, as a 

 matter of fact, there is, for the Ojuka villagers 

 are oft* for a day's rubber collecting in the ad- 

 joining forests. They are going to preside at 

 the first process in the evolution of an automo- 

 bile tyre. These savages are going to wrest 

 from one of Nature's vast treasure-houses a 

 product indispensable to modern civilisation. 

 Heedless of the ultimate uses to which the rub- 

 ber they are going to collect will be put, care- 

 free as the wind, and as irresponsible as a crowd 

 of young schoolboys off for a picnic, the Ojukas 

 make their preparations. 



At length all is ready. Each man is loaded 

 with his own requirements. In a bundle on his 

 head is his day's food and his collecting para- 

 phernalia, and in his hand is his gun or spear 

 to frighten away the evil spirits of the forest. 



So the start is made and out of the village in 

 single file marches the procession of collectors. 



Into the Forest. 



Through fields of waving corn and millet 

 where the food supply of the village is growing, 

 and under gigantic mango-trees that strew the 

 pathway with luscious yellow fruit, the proces- 

 sion passes, until at length it reaches the edge 

 of the forest. 



Here there is a narrow track that worms its 

 way for miles and miles through the dense forest. 

 Into its gloom the collectors file with a last 

 look at the sunlight fields. Down the dim and 

 lofty aisle of Nature's temple between mammoth 

 creeper-clad tree pillars which tower up from 

 the thick carpet of centuries of fallen leaves, till 

 their tops are lost in the leafy gloom of a vast 

 canopy of many mingled branches, the caravan 

 winds its way. Its members heed not the won- 

 derful beauty of the forest flora, and pass un- 

 noticed exquisite flowers which would deli- 

 riously delight horticultural Europe. Neither 

 do they note any of Nature s more useful riches 

 beyond that for which they have come. 



Every native is busy looking for the trees 

 which he knows will fill his calabashes with the 

 milky rubber latex. He has before been shown 

 what to look for, and his eyes are only for the 

 straight-trunked rubber tree on the trailing 

 rubber vine. 



Each collector works independently, and so 

 when the rubber area is reached men begin to 

 drop out of the procession as they observe likely 

 spots. No general halt is called. The line of 

 collectors moves on until it is altogether dissi- 

 pated by the last man falling out to commence 

 operations, and the route and its vicinity is full 

 of "tappers." 



Tapping. 



Reaching the desirable spot, the dusky heathen 

 divests himself of his load by distributing on the 

 ground. Thin machette, or knife, in hand, he 

 proceeds to examine the trees and make his 

 selection. He makes series of gashes in the bark 

 of each selected tree, and under each gash places 

 a calabash for the exuding latex to run into. 

 Instead of making a series of separate incisions, 

 he may cut a long channel down the length of 

 the tree trunk with lateral cuts branching into 

 it, forming a sort of herring-bone pattorn. Then 

 at the bottom of the central channel he will 

 place a large gourd. 



When the collector has fixed all his available 

 receptacles to the trees which he has tapped, 

 and the latex begins to exude, he has nothing to 

 do, but make an occasional round of his tappings 

 to see that everything is satisfactory. It takes 

 a few hours for the vessel to fill, and the inter- 

 vening period is spent principally in eating and 

 drinking. The wait is further enlivened by 

 conversation, which, by reason of the dis- 

 tance between the speakers, is carried on in 

 full-powered shrieks. When a particularly 

 striking remark is made it is repeated 

 from man to man in tones of varying inten- 

 sity along the whole line of collectors, so 

 that at times the conversational area extends 

 for several miles. When the calabashes are full 

 or the tappings have finished their yield, they 

 are taken down, and the flow of latex, if still 

 continuing, stops itself by congealing on the 

 cut bark. 



The next thing which the native does is to 

 empty the milky latex into his cooking-pot, 

 wherein it is boiled until it solidifies sufficiently 

 to make it handable. When the desired condi- 

 tion of coagulation is achieved the native rolls 

 the crude rubber between his greasy palms into 

 dirty white balls, when it is ready for sale ty 

 the trader, 



