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Jangali Redux: The Fruit Doesn’t Fall Far From the Tree Edition
Last year, on the thirteenth anniversary of my Dad’s death, I posted the story of Jangali 1947, the annual cattle-tax roundup conducted by the newly-assigned colonial officers in the Nigerian bush. Having arrived in Nigeria several months previous and been assigned the task, Dad didn’t waste any time imprinting the process with his own unique signature. As Sir Brian Sharwood Smith put it, in his memoir of his time in Nigeria, But Always as Friends–Northern Nigeria and the Cameroons 1921-1957 (emphasis mine):
The man I chose [to supervise the Sokoto Survey] was a newly joined officer named David Muffett. David was a very large man with an original turn of mind and an inexhaustible fund of energy. He had already achieved prominence by applying a novel technique to the lengthy and exhausting business of supervising the wet season cattle count on which the jangali tax was based. By long established tradition this annual contest between the District Heads, who assessed and collected the tax, helped on occasion by the [District Officer], and the nomad cattle owners, who sought to evade it, had acquired many of the characteristics of an international sporting event. There were rules and a ritual. If the District Head ran his quarry to earth, the Fulani paid up with good grace; if the Fulani contrived to spirit away a few hundred head undetected, there were no hard words. The odds on the whole were pretty evenly balanced, for to counterbalance the mobility of the mounted NA officials, there were large tracts of uninhabited bush in which the cattle could be concealed, and the control of the Fulani over their herds verged on the uncanny. But when David Muffett started chasing cattle across country in his Land Rover, a type of vehicle then barely known in Nigeria, the purists raised their eyebrows. And many herds crossed over into Niger Province where they felt that they would be accorded more gentlemanly treatment.
LOL.
I’ve spent the last two days fixing up the leaks in my perimeter high-tensile fence. It’s hard work, rendered doable by a couple of things: First, Mr. She and I had, over the decades, accumulated all the necessary (sometimes expensive) tools,; and second, by the Polaris Ranger ATV we acquired about 15 years ago. It’s much more nimble than the tractor and perfect for toting around the tools and materials necessary for most farm projects. So, yesterday morning, off I went.
I was dismayed to discover, up the hill, that one of the wires was not only down, but that it was broken. So I began to research the appropriate action.
And while I know that many use YouTube as a recreational resource, to find the latest fashions, to keep up on politics, to find the best way to repair a hangnail, or to find the bit of music that best reflects your current emotional state, I tend to use it for things like this:
As it turned out, and after a conversation with the very helpful young man at Tractor Supply, I didn’t use this method, preferring rather to use gritted crimp sleeves. Although I did add an extra tensioner (shades of the Medieval trebuchet) and triple-crimp the splice.
Once I’d sorted all that out, and re-tensioned the 12-gauge galvanized steel wire all around, I spent another day repairing and augmenting the barbed wire at the lowest level of my eight-wire fence.
Let me be clear: Barbed wire and I do not get along. It’s nasty, sharp, inflexible, and awful to work with. In order not to end up looking like an extra in a slasher movie, it’s necessary to wear tough leather gloves, which impede motor control and render one clumsy and incompetent. The “stretcher” tool is an instrument of the devil and is not set up for left-handed people, especially of the girl persuasion, to use easily. Mine looks vaguely like this one:
But, as they say, “She persisted.” And She prevailed. I do know the old saw about how, “if there aren’t photos, it didn’t happen,” but I can only thank the good Lord above that there are no photos of this contortional endeavor.
And when I was done, I let the sheep out of the barn, where they’ve been confined for the last week, because I had grown sick of them escaping and meandering onto the road.
“Job well done,” I thought. On to relaxation and the next project (turning a 36″ slab door into a Dutch door).
Not. So. Fast.
About ten minutes after I let the wretched creatures out, I noticed that half-a-dozen or so had escaped into the next-door low-lying field. I was livid. So, into the trusty Polaris I got and drove down my own field to see where the leak was.
As it turned out, it was at one of the (I think) weak spots of a high-tensile fence system, one of the intermediate “dropper” posts between the main wooden posts. These dropper posts (which do not extend to the ground) are plastic or wood (wood is slightly better, IMHO), and they exist to space out the wires. Each of the dropper posts has shallow grooves in it, placed every inch or so, into which the wires are supposed to sit, and then the wire “keepers” are supposed to hold them there. But they don’t, and it’s easy for the wires to slip up and down the dropper posts.
All the sheep had to do, was get their heads under the barbed wire and push upwards, at which point the wire escaped its groove, and slid up the dropper post, thus providing enough room underneath for the sheep to crawl out.
Well. This rendered me, in the hierarchy of British security level annoyance, A Bit Cross.
So, this time I got in my car (not the Polaris, which was on the other side of the gate) and drove down the road to meet the miscreants, who were, by this time, wending their way up to meet me. “Look, Mom! We did it! We figured out the puzzle. Aren’t you proud of us?”
And that was when (I now realize) genetics took over.
And I turned my 2020 Nissan Rogue Sport (AWD) into the field, and started after them.
Beeping the horn. Leaning out the window. Shouting bloody murder. Swearing like a …. well …. I’m not sure. Kudos, though, to my Dad, Mr. She, the British Colonial Service, and the United States Marine Corps.
And the sheep took off. And went back. Through the gap they’d made, and that I’d discovered.
And, I thought, as I often do:
Thanks, Dad.
Then I turned my attention to solving the problem. Which I may (or may not) have done, by taking an extra dropper post, cutting it in half, and drilling holes through it into which I have run the keeper wires. My hope is that these mini-dropper posts for the lower wires will hold things in place better (the sheep can’t move them up the dropper post simply by pushing upward), and perhaps it will mitigate the problem. (I added special juju to this solution by using (what else) baler twine to rope my modified dropper to the original dropper post):
So far, I’m a couple of hours in, and the sheep are still all in (my) field.
Fingers crossed.
What have you been up to today?
Published in General
They electrified a fence line down home to contain a rather cantankerous bull. (Note: he was rather cantankerous for a bull. Bulls are not known for being particularly placid even when they are in a good mood.) This bull had a ring through his nose, and a short length of chain with a ring on the loose end to aid in human/bull negotiations. The ring would drag along the ground when he was grazing and get in his way, but he would give hs head a flip, and the chain would move out of the way. He was used to doing this every few steps. Then one day he was grazing near the newly electrified fence, flipped his chain out of his way, and caught the hot wire. The chain proceeded to wrap around the wire, transfixing the bull until the current could be cut and his predicament remedied.
They could have just left the power off at that point, because that bull never got within five feet of that fence ever again.
Most folks don’t think of Cole Porter (Cole Porter!) as a “country and western” composer. But he was responsible for one of my all-time favorites:
Shouldn’t the tags include juju?
Yep. And now they, and it, does/du.
Cole Porter hated that song. I love it, however. I once attended a funeral for a Franciscan nun. The burial was on the grounds of the farm where several of them lived and worked. They lowered her casket, a simple pine box befitting a Franciscan, into the ground as her sisters sang “Don’t Fence Me In,” which was her favorite song as well. Then the men in attendance filled in the grave while the children jumped up and down in it to pack down the dirt. Then there was a picnic. It was the best funeral I ever attended.
I love this site. For comments like this.
I wrote a post inspired by ‘Don’t Fence Me In’
Freedom and the American Character
Thanks for the link. You ask questions which are even more relevant today than they were at the time.
Eighteen hours in, and all’s well. If I were to be honest though, I’d have to note a certain peevishness in the flock’s attitude towards me this morning.
I think you’re just projecting. But you should probably take precautions. Especially if one is named Shaun.
LOL.
“Things can get out of control very quickly.”
Indeed.
All vehicular actions taken and language used are USMC approved!
Outstanding comment, and thanks!