WILD RIVER SAFARI

Africa, the dark continent that has always intrigued man's imagination. Our expedition sets out to explore this unknown land and its people. How do they live? Will they survive or ultimately be destroyed by their own jungles? Our dugouts for the trip are handled by river men, paddlers practicing an art handed down from generation to generation. Along this one stretch of the river, there are over 600,000 flamingos. And it's a very lucky thing for the flamingo that me ladies changed her hat styles. Pink clouds in motion, one of the most breathtaking spectacles provided by nature. The coming of the dugouts is always a big event to the villages that border the river. This village has not had visitors for 3 months and our dugout flotilla carried news, gossip, and a store of new jokes. The girls were all out to make us welcome. After tying up, we unloaded our supplies of spear tips, cloth, ironware, and tobacco to trade. There must have been a Romeo or two among our paddlers, the only thing that could account for the excitement of the village bells. Since our plans were to take us deeper in the Congo beyond the grasslands and plateaus, our boats had first to be fire-hardened. The exterior is scorched by hot flames that weld the tough heavy ironwood, making it relatively waterproof. It's a long difficult process. Food is an ever-present problem along the river, and we gratefully replenished our supplies from the village. We pointed our dugouts up the mighty river to the country beyond the steaming forests. In the land of the Ubangi, the French government has outlawed the practice of lip splitting, and this is the last disfigured generation. When they die off, there will be no more. Notice the lips, the way they hang when the wooden discs have been removed. They were split in early childhood and a tiny disc inserted. This is the matriarch of the village. She's close to 80, and her word is law. Putting in and taking out the discs is a painless operation, and except for eating and sleeping, the discs remain in at all times. Within 20 or 30 years at the most, the disc-lipped women of the Ubangi will be a thing of history. Now we head a deep into the heart of the equatorial jungle to the home of the mysterious pygmy. Our party came upon a group of youngsters out on a field trip. Object? Birds and monkeys for the pot. You're on your own from the very beginning in the jungle. And despite the problems, mother keeps her charges surprisingly clean and healthy. Housework, too, must get done during the precious hours of daylight. Pygmy beauty parlor, specializing in the skin-close bar. Pygmy clambake. Only these aren't clams. They are kalama, the sweetest caterpillar in the jungle. You can eat them raw, but they're better roasted. The recipe is simple. Place your caterpillars in a basket. Add glowing coals. Shake gently. Shake until each little woolly cocoon is crisp like a cheese stick. Now you're ready to start munching. They don't get kalama very often, once or twice a year, so it's a great treat. Sweet, crisp, and oh so crunchy. The Pygmies have a few crude weapons, but do most of their hunting with nets. The nets are at least 60 ft long and from 3 to 4 ft wide. Each strand is about half the size of your little finger. Keeping them in constant repair is an unending task. That's the hunting horn. The trackers have spotted something. There is no need for orders. The number of blasts on the horn gives the location and everyone knows his part. This is number one priority, meat for the communal larder and there's work for everybody. It may take as long as 2 hours to surround the general area with nets, but working from all sides, the Pygmies keep their prey from breaking out. When the last net is swung into place, the head man enters the giant circle shouting, waving branches to drive the animal into the nets. This is a signal, the chase begins. Don't look so sad. They're not going to do anything to you. You're too little. There's the big boy. That's the one they're after. They've got to keep him moving. They may lose him if he lies quiet in the shadows. Boy, oh boy, are you going to taste good in the stew pot. Unlike the other tribes and peoples in equatorial Africa, the Pygmy has only a few dances which are used to express joy and sorrow. I'm believe that the pygmy is a dying race, and every year they retreat deeper and deeper into their forests, having less and less contact with the outside world. Exploring this vast area is a tremendous problem because modern man is not equipped physically or emotionally to undergo the constant danger of everyday life in this land of violence. Our river safari had uncovered a land of majestic beauty, of vibrant color, and great treasure. We came here to make a record of the strange, colorful peoples. Time is running out for them. The face of Equatorial Africa is changing. Tomorrow, they may be gone.