Evening Star Newspaper, September 22, 1935, Page 79

Magazine Section RAN into Tommy Tomson, the famous professional hunter, the other day in Djibouti, and the talk there, as every- where else in Africa, turned on Abys- sinia. Tfommy was telling us of his last trek, which had occupied three vears and covered three thousand miles - every yard of it on foot. “Did I go into Abyssinia?"’ smiled Tommy. “I did. And right across. I wish I hadn't.” “Why?" “A dozen of ale.” “What about it?" “On my conscience."’ “That sounds bad. Don’t say you sat and drank the lot before help arrived.” “No, Ididn't drink any of it, as a matter of fact. A case of ‘It is as the blood of my young men.' "’ ¢ “Drinking beer? . . . Drinking blood? .. ."” I murmured. “You may have heard of one David of Jerusalem. Quite a good hunter and fighter in his day. As you may remember, he was in a tight place, once, scrapping with the Arabs, and he and his safari had emptied their water-bottles, not a drop in the whole outfit, and their tongues gone dry and hanging out. We used to know the feeling in the Sahara. “Well, in case you've forgotten, a couple of his stout lads took a chance — apparently a chance in ten thousand — got down among the Arabs and brought their officer, this David, some water. They must have had charmed lives. When they brought the water to David, he wouldn't drink it. Poured it on the ground, and said: ‘It is as the blood of my voung men. . .." Fine fellow, David."”" “Why drag him in?" “T'11 tell you. I was on safari, in Abyssinia, THIS WEEK Illustration by E. F. Ward The white man had “gone all Abyssinian.” He dressed like a ras, and talked Amharic A Dozen of Ale Twelve men went on a mission—and a thirteenth wished he had never been born. An c/fi]ssim'afl story by Prrcivar, CHRISTOPHER WREN Author of “*Beaw Geste,”” ““Beau Sabreur” and other best sellers and by bad luck I heard that there was a white man camped a few miles beyond where [ was going to halt for a week or two. “As I hadn't seen a white man for months, I pushed on till I came to the camp of the weirdest specimen of, European humanity I ever met. For some reason, Heaven knows what, he had ‘gone all Abyssinian.’ Dressed like an Abyssinian ras — and talked Amharic if you'd let him. He wore a chamma, a white cotton sheet twelve feet by nine, worn like a toga and folded round the waist so that one end hung down to form a kind of skirt while the other hung over the left shoulder, leaving the right arm and shoulder bare, “A queer garment, the chamma, not only distinctive of the Abyssinian but also distinc- tive of your social or official rank in Abys- sinia; you can go to prison for wearing it in a way to which you have no right. “Well, this fellow — I won't tell you his name, although you’d know it — wore a chamma indicating the highest rank, with a broad colored border to it, almost royal. I've seen Ras Tafari himself wearing one no finer; and at sundown a special servant used to bring him the three-quarter length cape the nobles wear. Black satin it was, with a border of gold embroidery. He wore the native grey Copyright, 1935, United Newspapers Magazine Corporation felt hat, too. Made one sick to look at the beggar. “If T told you all the truth about him and his outfit, you wouldn’t believe me. Although he was the genuine article — explorer, pros- pector and big-game hunter — he was flashy, a boaster, a person of overbearing manner and over-powering swagger. ““He had an extremely bad effect on me, and brought out all the worst traits of my nature. Having invited me to chop, he actually asked me if I would care for a glass of champagne! Sounds hospitable, I know; but it wasn't. It was the purest swank and ostentation. “I said I detested champagne. Greatly preferred beer. That took him aback a little, and he remarked that, in that case, I had better send out for some. “Since we were hundreds of miles from the nearest beer, apart from native tej or talla, the remark was a safe one; but as almost everything he had said and done had put my hackle up, I thought it was time I got a little of my own back, and I had an idea — un- fortunately. “Now a very curious bird had attached himself to my safari, in the way that wander- ing natives often will. You don't know when they come, but one day you are conscious of the fact that you've seen that face before. It has been hanging around. Then you come to expect it and more or less to look for it when vou break or pitch camp, or go out after lions or other big game. “It was so with Gojo. He gradually hap- pened, and then — there he was. Minister without portfolio; servant without wages: iollower without orders. “Only there were a dozen of him! Either he had begun life early and worked hard, and they were his eleven sons; or else they were just a bunch of brothers, sons, and nephews, “I'’know 1 used torefer to the gang mentally as ‘Messrs. Gojo and Sons’; sometimes as ‘Gojo Brothers, Sons and Co’; sometimes, when I was a bit sun-dazed, as ‘Gojo, Gojo, Gojo, Gojo, Gojo and Gojo.” When I couldn’t hit off the eleven before the ‘and,’ I just -dis- missed them as ‘Gojo Un-Ltd.’ ““And they were stout lads. Whether they were an outcast family of Gourages from the highlands south of Addis Ababa, I don't know; but, for pluck and endurance, they might have been Zulus. Broad-chested, up- standing, straight-eyed men who ought to- have been in the King's African Rifles or trained as gun-boys, instead of being just naked shenzis. “And in an evil moment, annoyed because a fellow white man threw his weight about, swaggered and boasted, I sent my personal Abyssinian boy for Gojo, knowing that he and his Eleven would be squatting round their fire, gorging the meat I had shot that day. “Gojo stalked up to where I was sitting in front of my host’s posh tent — the fellow had actually got a dhurrie and a folding table with a cloth on it —and I told Gojo to run out and fetch me a dozen of ale.