Yellow Lissochilus (ground orchid)

      Here and there, some turtledoves could be heard warbling as we went. They must have been astonished to see human beings. Surely what keeps them living in such a wilderness are the ears of maize and guinea corn still growing in the abandoned fields. Squawking he-parrots flit from tree to tree. Bands of monkeys roam, out for what they can get, but one does not see what they can take. There are many flowers on the paths and, among the flowers, many orchids. One of them, small and beautiful, provides a carpet for a big clearing in the forest; another, the lissochilos, is yellow and grows among various kinds of grass in a place where it can catch the full warmth of the sun. Yet another variety, which is really marvelous, can be seen in a stretch of forest, covering a large old tree which has fallen across the path and which provides a place for it to grow. Further along, on the edge of the forest, one can find enormous flowers with a very strong scent, and whose calyx is more than twenty centimeters in length. They hang from a kind of creeper and form a lovely bouquet. Its name is gardenia, but only insects seem to appreciate it, if one can conclude from the hundreds that swarm on it with delight.

      We reached Mafisi, a village whose inhabitants are all Digo. What delightful people! At least here we experienced a hospitality that comes from the heart, and really it put us at our ease. Night fell, we enjoyed the customary evening chatter, we went to bed, we closed our eyes . . . then a cry, coming from Mgr. de Courmont’s tent, frightened us all. It was a surprise attack; we got ready to fight.

      We started running, and by the light of the brands which had been given out to everyone, we saw the scurrying battalions of those fat black ants called Siafu. They are here, they are there, and they are everywhere; really, it was an invasion. But then the porters who had run up were themselves invaded. They were jumping about in the grass, holding their torches in their hands. They cried out, they rubbed the various parts of their bodies, they threw their clothes away, they rolled about on the ground, they twisted this way and that, they ranted and raved, they burst into laughter; it was a fascinating night-time show.

      But while you watch and enjoy the scene, you suddenly feel yourself nipped, and put your hand to the place, then it happens elsewhere, and then yet again elsewhere; you yourself have been invaded and before you can sort yourself out, you find that these devilish creatures are on your legs, your chest, your arms, your beard, your hair. You feel you are going crazy.

      I must tell you that these African ants outdo every living creature in ferocity. Their role in the order of things is to remove the remains of dead animals from the ground; however, if a living creature gets in the way of this work, its existence is at an end—insects, lizards, birds, even snakes are surrounded, attacked and destroyed.

      As with many other similar insects, these ants exist in two forms: one, the smaller, is never larger than 0.008 of a meter. It has a regular appearance and is not really a great nuisance. The other species is twice as big, with a big head, in proportion to its size, has a dangerous pair of pincers, and can be diabolically malicious. The first is the male ant, the second the female, which, because of its warlike attitudes, naturalists call “the amazon.”

      Among these amazons, a community of ants chooses one who is the object of very special care, being stuffed with food, and so becoming huge, often as large as a man’s little finger, and incapable of moving. Her only occupation is to produce new ants, and she fulfills this duty conscientiously, without stopping; there is always a baby ant coming out of her, to be immediately snatched up and put in its place by an old midwife ant. Really, ants are manufactured. One day, knocking down an old wall, I came across a Siafu queen-mother, and as I had scores to settle, I was bold enough to put her in a flask of alcohol. And so I can give you an exact portrait of her, of an ordinary “amazon” and of a mere male.

      Often enough, in damp places, I have met a tribe of these ants, scattered here and there, moving ahead in dispersed order, looking for its everyday nourishment, busy with this and that. But also, for reasons which they themselves know—perhaps they want to start a new colony—they often gather together, organize themselves into military-style columns, and march ahead. Really, you should see them then! Their determination to march in order produces a small corridor, flanked by two ramparts of neat sand. This hollow road is only followed by the males, those inoffensive creatures: on each side the amazons crowd together, with their thick heads in the air, and their pincers set wide open, threatening and terrifying, ready to protect the others, and reminding me of the “archway of swords” which the Freemasons make with swords crossed over the heads of their dear members. Moreover, in the world of ants, perhaps they are, as it were, female freemasons, if only because they are not at all frank and they do not do any building. Whatever the case is, they follow their path, and if they enter a house because it lies on their route, or some animal remains attract them—provided that one leaves them to carry on—they will all do so, leaving no trace except their little track.

      But if one should start to annoy them, to crush them, to push them about, their column will scatter straightaway, and they will attack you with the same determination that David showed against Goliath. Without delay, they put their pincers to work on your arms, your clothes, your skin, and you can see the little creature twisting around to give ever more effective pinches, clinging on for dear life, killing itself by a surfeit of rage. I have never seen