I Married Adventure

by Osa Johnson

  “Don’t you ever do that again!” I said, practically in collapse.

  Martin went straight to work, though I saw that he was shaking a little.

  The lion king, having eaten his fill, apparently decided now to investigate the flashlights and cameras. He even gave one of the cameras an experimental bite.

  “You let that camera alone!” my husband yelled, completely beside himself.

  The majestic cat glanced our way indifferently, then began chewing at the base on which the camera was fastened. The whole thing went over.

  Martin got out of the car again and began throwing rocks and anything else that came to hand. To add to the complication, one of the younger lions now decided to follow the cue of the older lion and, seizing one of the wires, tugged at it until he had torn it and several other wires from their fastenings.

  We sat there throwing rocks, shooting our guns into the air, yelling until we were hoarse, but not until those two lions had pulled down every wire, battery, camera, and pole of our equipment were they satisfied. Then they strolled off, their tails waving proudly, and our night of flashlight photography was definitely at an end.

  A few days later we came upon a large pride of young males resting under a cluster of trees, and we stopped to watch. They were extremely curious and began edging up to look us over. They were so playful and frisky that Martin obtained some new and very valuable film. We decided to lunch there and climbed out through the aperture at the top of the truck. Then we sat down to enjoy our sandwiches and to watch.

  At the sight of our food, the lions came up close to the car and sat down like a bunch of hungry beggars. I threw them some partridge legs, which they tasted, and then licked their chops as much as to say, “Pretty high-toned food for a wild lion.”

  For an hour they played about us, within a few feet of the car, bit at the tires and nipped at one another, and had a rowdy time. We even called them by name (not for exact resemblance, of course): Roy Chapman Andrews, the most dapper of them; Lowell Thomas, the one who roared most; George Dryden, the one who bit the tires and seemed most interested in the rubber business; Merian Cooper, the wise and well-mannered one who kept his distance through most of the fracas. And the lions seemed satisfied with the comparisons.

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  —

  Perhaps it was experiences of this sort that made us a little reckless and that had us thinking of the huge felines in terms of fireside tabbies. At any rate, we were on foot one very hot day—our camera and gun-bearers with us, of course—when we turned a sort of corner past a jagged rock and there, not twenty yards from us, was a sleeping lion.

  The big creature was on his feet almost instantly and facing us. He drew his ears back, switched his tail, and snarled—three signs I didn’t at all like. My husband proceeded busily, however, to set up his camera.

  “I don’t like his looks, Martin,” I said cautiously. At the same time I signaled for my gun.

  “Oh, he’s all right,” my husband said. “A little cranky, maybe, but just bluffing.” He started to crank the camera.

  Then, with a low growl, the lion started slowly toward us, his tail lashing from side to side. How at such a moment I could notice, and sharply at that, the ripple of his hard shoulder muscles under his shining yellow coat, I don’t know.

  “He’s going to charge, Martin—I tell you he is!”

  “I don’t think so,” my husband said, biting hard on his cigar.

  The lion, crouching tensely now, stared at us in what seemed to be an all-consuming hatred. Then he charged.

  Martin’s hand continued mechanically to crank the camera.

  The animal looked as large as a bull as he leaped toward us, mane flying, fangs bared. I seemed to be watching in a prolonged, timeless sort of daze, and then, without really being aware of what I was doing, I shot. Afterwards I couldn’t even recall taking aim.

  The lion seemed to hesitate in midair and then fell just thirteen feet from the camera’s tripod.

  * * *

  —

  To give an adequate picture of our almost innumerable encounters with lions of the Tanganyika region would require many weeks to tell. There were triumphs and disappointments. We worked long hours under the most discouraging conditions. We saw the leonine prototypes of the entire human race: the clown, the outcast, the misfit, the arrogant, the tragic, the noble, the dictator—yes, and even the flirt—and we made photographic records of all of these in their natural habitat.

  Sometimes our adventures were exciting; other times they were plain drudgery. Much of the time we were happy and comfortable; some of the time, as on all our safaris, we went through almost unbearable hardships. It was the sum total that mattered to us both, however, and there was an immense satisfaction in being able to present the true picture of this noble animal to the millions of people who had thought of him as a vicious, treacherous, bloodthirsty beast.

  * * *

  —

  In the middle of July we went to Nairobi to meet three Boy Scouts who, through the efforts of George Palmer Putnam, David T. Lyman, and James West, executive head of the Boy Scouts’ organization, were given a free trip to Africa.

  Since the Boy Scouts of the entire United States had selected these three lads for this fine adventure, our expectations, naturally, were high. When Dick Douglas, Dave Martin, and Douglas Oliver stepped from the train, however, we knew that no mere expectations could do them justice, and the five weeks they spent with us were diverting and extremely pleasant. We took them on safari with us, and they made the acquaintance of the lion, the rhino, and the elephant in their native surroundings. The porters were quite awed by the boys, not because they were white but more particularly because there was no native feat of skill at which the youngsters did not prove more proficient than the native himself.

  For example, the Wakambas live by their bows and arrows, but the boys, who knew little or nothing of archery, in a contest with them soon were able to beat all comers regardless of experience and age. These young Scouts also taught the natives curious types of wrestling. When it was time, at the end of the five weeks, for the boys to leave, I think our men were almost as sorry as we were to see them go.

  Chapter 27

  George Dryden and his son Eastman joined us in Africa in 1929. We had been to the States, had attended to the editing of our latest film and to the business details of its release, and now we were back again, preparing for the safari we had long promised ourselves into the Belgian Congo.

  Sound was now a part of motion pictures, and sound apparatus would be part of our equipment when we headed for the land of pygmies and gorillas. Our personnel, in consequence, was increased, and with us from the States had come Richard Maedler, sound cameraman; Louis Tappan, in charge of sound equipment; and DeWitt Sage, an enthusiastic young naturalist and son of Henry Sage, member of the board of trustees of the American Museum of Natural History.

  Preparations for a safari the size of this one were always tedious, confining, and tiring, and we hailed with delight the arrival of our dear friend George Dryden. He and his son had seen, in New York, the first rough editing of our film Simba, and nothing would do but that they themselves must visit the great Tanganyika “lion’s den” and make the acquaintance, so to speak, of some of the magnificent cats that had been our actors in that unrehearsed drama.

  This worked in perfectly with our plan to try out some of our new equipment and to familiarize the new members of our party with life on safari, so we assembled our men, and in two weeks we were on our way.

  Mr. Dryden’s previous adventures had been in Alaska and Canada, and in helping to build industrial and financial structures in the world of business. Africa was new to him, and business cares were left behind. That the unusually heavy rains in the Tanganyika section had turned the roads into so many bogs, that times without number we were all obliged to get out of the cars and di
g and push and haul, left Mr. Dryden completely unruffled. As a matter of fact, the worse things were—and we had our days of sweltering heat, and other days when swarms of stinging insects descended upon us—the greater patience he displayed. He was a crack shot and always cool when we were in a dangerous spot, a most considerate sportsman, and we have never had a finer nor more agreeable companion in all our travels.

  It was our luck, of course, just because we had bragged about the almost invariable good nature of our lion friends, that we should run into a cranky one at the very outset of our safari. My attention was distracted at the moment by something as completely inconsequential as a button hanging loose on the waistband of my khaki shirt, and it was George Dryden’s gun that stopped the catapulting onset of yellow fury.

  From then on, naturally, the teasing never stopped. Martin had told everybody who would listen, how “Osa held the gun,” and here I had been caught napping. Something like two months later, though, my husband tweaked my snub nose and said I had redeemed myself. It came about up on the Abyssinian border.

  The Drydens had extended their African trip to visit this ruggedly beautiful part of the country, and we were standing in a compact group one day watching old Boculy go through his mumbo jumbo over a piece of caked mud.

  Just then a gun was thrust into my hands and, whirling, I saw a rhino—strong, sharp horns gleaming in the sun—galloping straight toward us. I shot and, luckily, he swerved before he dropped. His momentum was such that had he held to his course, he would have plowed straight into us.

  My husband strutted for at least a week after that, and I was glad to see him so pleased, but, of course, I gave full credit to my gun-bearer.

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  —

  Shortly after Mr. Dryden and his son left on the Uganda railway for Mombasa, there to sail for England and the States, Martin and I started on our safari to the Belgian Congo.

  Our motor fleet this time consisted of seven Willys-Knights, four of which were trucks built with aluminum sides and tops. Two of these were camera-cars especially designed for taking pictures as we rolled, and one had a microphone as part of its equipment. One of the trucks was fitted out as a complete darkroom and, of course, carried a good portion of our photographic supplies. Another truck was convertible into a sort of living quarters, with two folding beds, a built-in gasoline stove, and as many essentials to comfort as it was possible to carry, for we knew in advance that a hard trip was ahead of us.

  We were to travel by rail from Nairobi to Tororo, in Uganda, and Martin had arranged for two coaches and two flatcars to carry us and our equipment. On the morning we piled aboard the little train on its narrow-gauge track, we resembled one of those small one-ring circuses that tour our own Middle West. Our party included four white men and myself, and twenty-one picked natives, including two cooks, personal servants, drivers, gun-bearers, and headmen.

  The train lurched so violently on its narrow-gauge track that it seemed certain we should all be smashed to bits, and I never was able to understand how our automobiles and trucks, carefully lashed though they were, remained on the flatcars. After two days of this nerve-racking travel, we pulled into Tororo and thankfully unloaded our cars. I don’t know when I’ve ever been so happy to get my hands on a steering wheel and to feel that, for a time at least, I could control my own destiny.

  Four days of driving brought us into the wretched, barren, steaming village of Butiaba, on Lake Albert. The barge we had reserved to carry our equipment across the lake was waiting. But the Samuel Baker, the steamship we were to board, had been delayed.

  Martin decided this would be a fine opportunity to run up to Murchison Falls for some pictures. We had been at Murchison Falls three years before, but this time we would not only record its roaring, raging sound, but capture on film the noisy, often raucous sounds of the animals in the area.

  Returning to Butiaba, we completed arrangements for the shipment of our supplies into the Belgian Congo. No easy task!

  Some six weeks before, we had shipped from Nairobi a hundred and fifty cases of gasoline and oil and grease for the cars, together with a hundred cases of foodstuffs, outboard motors, tents, guns, ammunition, and other supplies. This was waiting for us, and when we added to it the ten tons of paraphernalia carried on our seven cars, we found we had a veritable mountain of cargo.

  Fastening our heavily loaded barge to the Samuel Baker, which was to tow it, and boarding the steamer, we started on the thirty-mile journey across what is said to be one of the roughest bodies of inland water in the world. Again and again the lumbering barge seemed to stand on end, and it appeared certain, as Martin and I watched it from the rear of the boat, that all our precious possessions must tear loose from their moorings and slide to the bottom of Lake Albert. At ten o’clock that night, however, we nosed into the harbor of Kasenye, and the Belgian customs officials did what they could to unknot the red tape which, of necessity, tied up our goods.

  Early the next morning we headed our caravan toward the land of the pygmies. Our first goal was Irumu, main station of the eastern division of the Ituri forest. The road was very good, but it was so steep and wound in such tortuous curves that it was all we could do to make it with our heavy loads. It leveled out finally, however, and we rolled into Irumu without even a minor mishap.

  After establishing a temporary camp beyond Irumu, Martin and I set out to find a suitable site for our permanent base. Nearby, two roads branched off into a V, the left prong being the Beni road near the Semliki River, and the right prong leading to Mambasa, in the heart of the Ituri forest. We decided on the Beni road and headed into the depths of the forest. After a few days we met Deelia and Salou. Deelia was a sixty-pound, bewhiskered, agile old chap whose height was something like three feet ten inches. His perfectly formed body was covered with hair, and his only garments were a crude bead necklace and a loincloth of bark. The other pygmy was Deelia’s son, Salou, a fat, active fellow who stood a full twelve inches taller then his father. Both had wide-spreading nostrils and big, staring eyes. The pygmies spoke Kingwana, and Salou informed us proudly that he was chief of all the pygmies in that district.

  Nearby, shifting uneasily from foot to foot but seeming anxious to impress us with a certain importance, stood a big, strange-looking native. His large head was out of all proportion to his thin body, and he wore a straggly goatee which, if anything, added to the general silliness of his appearance. He was dressed in an old, ragged mess jacket and a pair of ancient trousers which probably had once been white. We were puzzled by the fact that Deelia and Salou paused frequently to confer with him, and then we learned to our astonishment that he was none other than Bwana Sura, a headman, for whom a pygmy village had been named. A man with neither standing nor influence among his own people, he had, for some unknown reason, made himself a power among the pygmies.

  Neither Deelia nor Salou could make head or tail of why we wanted to pitch camp near their village, but they set to with a will and had a place cleared for us, and soon we were comfortably installed in our roomy tents, with good beds, bathroom, and a large, pleasant, screened veranda.

  Each day Deelia and Salou brought a few pygmies into camp, and at length we had a little colony of thirty. Once they became aquainted with us and confident that we would not hurt them, they were a happy lot, and fun to work with. Bwana Sura, the big native, made himself a nuisance, however, along with his father, subchiefs, and various hangers-on. Shameless as any city mendicant, the big black pointed out things around camp which he thought he should have in payment for cleaning our campsite and bringing in the pygmies. As a matter of fact, he’d had very little to do with either, and so, thoroughly impatient one day, Martin booted him out. Bwana Sura held no grudge, however, and when we needed him later, he was available.

  After securing some excellent pictures of the pygmies’ native habits, Martin sent for Bwana Sura and asked him to have all his subchiefs within a
radius of fifteen miles assemble their subjects. My husband emphasized the fact that the little people must bring their drums and be ready for a big assembly.

  Messengers from the different villages arrived about a week later and told us where the pygmies, all gathered together, could be found. As might have been expected, they were massed in the darkest depths of the forest, and it became our job to transport them to our camp where the light was good and our sound equipment was set up.

  This of itself was a job to challenge Solomon, and I’m not certain to this day how it was accomplished. I give credit for much of it, however, to Martin’s fine smile and persuasive powers. For myself, I cajoled and coaxed, but the pygmies were simply terrified of our cars. After what seemed hours, I managed by gentle urgings and extravagant promises to fill my car with women and children. Some forty of the little men, each desperately clutching a miniature bow and arrow, were persuaded to enter one of the trucks.

  Presently the little people in my car began to sing—a sort of high, piping squeak. “Happy?” I queried lightly, feeling quite flattered. But by their expressions I knew they were singing to keep up their courage.

  To coax these strange little people out of the cars was almost as difficult as it had been to coax them in, and it was only when they saw the huge “debbies” of boiled rice, together with presents of tobacco, calico, and salt, that they conferred among themselves and apparently decided that we meant them no harm.

  They were beautifully formed little people, with clear skins and well-shaped bodies and heads. The only ornaments we saw were the occasional bead necklaces, and the only garments worn by either men or women were the breechclouts of calico or bark. The average height of the adults was around three feet ten inches, and their weight from sixty to seventy-five pounds.