THROUGH THE COASTAL WILDERNESS WITH INDIANS AND CANOE.
The most interesting observation we made on the launch trip from Hoorie
Creek down the Barama River, was of a flocking of more than two hundred
big green Cassiques[150] the birds of the liquid cow-bell notes, which
passed low overhead with a roar of cackling voices, and a loud whistling
of wings, bound for some safe roosting place—still another species to
exhibit this common roosting habit.
We found Farnum’s deserted, the family having gone down to Georgetown,
so we took possession of the empty house; swinging our hammocks on the
porch and watching the sun sink over the river, with the dark forest
beyond, growing ever darker. As we had been told that there were no
mosquitoes, we had not hung our hammock nets, and the droning hum of
these miserable pests kept us awake for hours. From across the river came
the discontinuous, labored puffs of an overloaded freight train pulling
up a grade. Now and then the wheels would slip and four or five chugs
would come in quick succession. One could imagine the heavy trail of
smoke and sparks, the shining rails and the long line of heavy, slowly
moving cars—then the sound ceased, and far down the river another frog
took up the chugging. Now and then the voice of a red “baboon” came to
our ears; and continually the mosquitoes “zooned” and on the floor below
our hammocks the dog whined unceasingly as he scratched his bête rouge.
When we opened our eyes, lightning bugs of several candle-power flashed
above us in the thatch of the porch, and by their light we could see big
tarantulas dragging their prey here and there, seeming ready to drop with
fatigue at any moment. All the sounds of the wilderness are lulling, save
that of mosquitoes when one is netless. Many times that night we wished
ourselves back in the boat.
We had heard that there was a coast-wise way of returning to Georgetown;
threading little-known rivers and creeks in a small canoe. The idea of
exploring those charming little creeks at which all through the journey
we had looked with longing, was fascinating to us, and we owe this
realization of our dreams to Mrs. Wilshire, who planned the trip and gave
it to us as a surprise. This proved to be the most wonderful canoe voyage
which any of us had ever taken. For five days we were paddled, portaged,
towed and pushed through a wonderland abounding in rarely beautiful
birds, butterflies and orchids. We slept at night under our tiny
tarpaulin, or invaded, and were made welcome at little isolated Indian
missions. Our pen falters at the thought of attempting to give any idea
of the wonders of that trip, but day by day we set down our impressions
as best we could and here are some of them.
It was almost noon on the 16th of March before we had our men, luggage
and canoe in readiness to start. Pushing off we said good-by to the rest
of the party; including Crandall and his precious cargo of Red-backed
Cassiques and other live birds. They were to return via Morawhanna and
the “Mazaruni” direct to Georgetown.
We secured a little canoe, or ballyhoo, about fifteen feet long, with
a tarpaulin stretched over the centre. In the bow were four Indian
paddlers, two men and two boys, while in the stern as steersman and
paddler was a splendidly built Carib Indian, Marciano, chief of the
Hoorie woodmen.
[Illustration: FIG. 89. BARAMA RIVER FROM FARNUM’S HOUSE.]
Amidships was piled our luggage and we distributed ourselves over and
around the clothing bags and larder boxes. Mr. and Mrs. Wilshire and we
two composed the list of passengers, and the unceasing pleasure of those
five days was a good test of mutual congeniality and adaptability to
“bush-travel.”
The stroke adopted by our Indians was a peculiar one, which we were
to hear all day and often throughout the night, for these men of the
wilderness, short and stocky in build, seemed tireless, and hour after
hour they would keep hard at work, sometimes for as much as thirty-six
hours at a stretch, with only a brief nap or two.
The Indian paddle rhythm set by little Pedro, the younger boy in the bow,
accentuated every other stroke, the tempo of the strokes becoming more
and more rapid, until, when further speed was impossible, one stroke was
suddenly omitted, and the gap thus formed marked the new slow tempo,
which in turn, in the course of fifteen to twenty strokes of the paddle,
would work up to a climax and the former rhythm begin again. All kept
perfect time, the new change not being inaugurated on any exact stroke,
but the others seeming to know instinctively when it would come. Whether
they were eating, talking or looking behind them it was the same, all
changed as one man.
Two or three hours after starting, we made a landing in order that the
Indians could cook their breakfast, invariably composed of a combination
of pork, dried fish, rice and cassava. This menu was varied only when
one or more of the ingredients happened not to be procurable. Sometimes
for many days the Guiana Indians worked hard upon nothing but cassava.
The jungle was thick about the little clearing which they made for a
fire, and word passed rapidly along the lines of parasol ants that
manna was available in the form of rice and bread crumbs. A few minutes
after a bit of food was thrown down it would mysteriously take legs to
itself and begin to walk away, the motor power being myriads of these
interesting insects. Big-headed soldiers patrolled all along the winding
trail of foragers, troubling no one unless they were disturbed or the
workers attacked. Several species of orchids, Brassias and others unknown
to us, were in blossom all about us.
On we went again, becoming more and more delighted with our method of
travel. There was no puffing, smelly kerosene engine, no clatter of many
tongues; and we were close to the water with nothing overhead between us
and the sky, or the overhanging branches. The typical river birds paid
little attention to our silent craft; and we were able to watch Giant
Kingfishers,[67] Guiana Cormorants,[47] Snake-birds,[48] Parrakeets and
Swallows at close range.
In sheltered places along the bank our canoe pushed through unbroken
masses of the floating rosettes of leaves, known as the Shell Flower
(_Pistia stratiodes_). The leaves are shell-shaped, thick, strongly
ribbed and light velvety green in color, covered with a coat of short,
dense hairs which repel the water so that when pushed beneath the surface
the plant bobs up as dry as before. Thousands of these little plants
become detached from their sheltered bays and are carried out to sea
where they decay and disappear. Small Water Hyacinths were less common.
The river was full from recent rains in the interior, and in some
places for several hundred yards the surface was thickly covered with
innumerable small yellow blossoms splashed with scarlet at their hearts,
while every now and then a large purple pea-blossom would be seen. These
had doubtless fallen from the tree-tops where the river was narrower and
the vines and branches overhung the stream. Many insects were carried
down afloat on the blossoms and now and then a great hairy tarantula
would appear, with each of his eight feet in a blossom, trying to keep
his balance until he could reach solid ground again.
[Illustration: FIG. 90. SCENE ON THE BARRABARRA.]
Agami Herons,[39] beautiful in their plumage of glossy green, chestnut
and blue, were standing here and there in the shallows snatching the
insects from the petals as they floated past.
At four o’clock in the afternoon we left the Barramanni River which had
averaged about two hundred feet in width, and entered the charming
little Biara, which was only about sixty feet from shore to shore. Here
the vegetation was very dense, water lilies in hundreds with curious,
serrated leaves and a profusion of the sweetest of flowers. We were
paddling through literally a river of water-lilies. Clavillina blooms
hung low over our faces; wild cocoa pods showed rich brown among the
foliage. Mucka-mucka with its great heart-shaped leaves was everywhere,
a plant which on a later trip was to interest us as forming the food of
the Hoatzin. The air was filled with the sweet penetrating calls of the
Goldbirds[115] and Woodhewers and now and then the puppy-like yaps of
Toucans.[81] Pendent nests were numerous, built so far out over the water
that we could touch them as we passed, thus safe from marauding monkey
and opossum.
The stream was dotted with islets, varying from a few inches to as many
yards in circumference, crowded with ferns and graceful sedges, all
perfectly reflected in the mirror-like water. One such islet of the
smallest size was crowned with a single-petalled, white calla lily,
surrounded by a host of tiny purple orchid blossoms; a square foot of
perfect beauty and perfume set in the ebony water. Seldom were we out
of sight of flowering orchid, vine, bush or tree. Orchids were in the
ascendant and our tarpaulin brushed against long Golden Showers, graceful
shoots of Cattleyas and curious green Spider Orchids.
There seems to be no autumn in this land, and death comes only to single
leaves, while the variegated scarlet and yellow hues of new sprouting
foliage made brilliant every bend of the stream. The Moriche or Eta Palm
is dominant here and the vegetation of these lesser streams is dense and
bushy,—intimate and delightful, rather than grand and awe-inspiring as
along the forest rim of the Barama.
Toucans and Ant-birds darted across the water ahead of us; tree-ferns
stretched out their graceful fronds and sifted their pollen down upon
us. The bird songs of this region are not long and elaborate, but there
was no dearth of most delightful, liquid phrases, usually loud and
penetrating. Six songs, all wholly unlike one another, reached us that
day, all unknown, mysterious. We steered close to the bank and picked a
wild cocoa pod but found it unripe and the beans had only a raw aroma.
Two long-snouted weevils crawled from the heart of the pod, one of the
myriad hidden forms of life of this wonderland.
[Illustration: FIG. 91. WAKE OF A MANATEE SWIMMING UP RIVER.]
Now and then we passed a little open grassy savanna where the water was
no longer brown, but a clear black from the steeping of the decaying
vegetation.
In many places the water leaves showed where manatees had been browsing,
and occasionally we caught sight of the huge ungainly creatures, as they
swam slowly up stream or nosed the vegetation along the bank.
All this and much else we passed in an hour, and at five o’clock entered
a third stream—the Barrabarra. The whole country hereabouts is swampy, so
when at dark we stopped for our evening meal we did not land but rested
quietly among the lily pads. The Indians ate, as they did everything
else, silently, with only now and then some low guttural ejaculation.
[Illustration: FIG. 92. MANATEE BROWSING CLOSE TO THE BANK.]
We flashed our powerful electric light upon the lily pads and found that
the water was full of active life. Scores of little fishes were resting
motionless in the thin film of water covering the lily leaves, some with
the basal half of the body and two lines up and down from the eyes,
black. Marciano called them _Salaver_. In addition to other very slender
fish, there were numbers of little fresh-water prawns shooting about
among the maze of fanwort beneath the pads. The glint of strange shapes
came to us—tiny Cyclops and others which the human eye was powerless to
name without a microscope. We sat in the darkness listening to the sounds
of the swampy jungle. Not a mosquito hummed, and the frogs eclipsed all
other, lesser noises, calling in basso and treble, with tinkling bells
and a clear ringing chime like the æolian singing of a telegraph wire.
Marciano climbed back to his seat in the stern, gave an order and the
paddles pushed sluggishly through the pads, carrying fear and tumult
to thousands of little aquatic lives. The next four hours we shall
never forget as long as we live. On and on we went through the pitchy
darkness, guided solely by the light of the little bow lantern. The bush
ropes ahead stood out in sharp silhouette like giant serpents coiled in
mid-air across our path. The night seemed to press in on our tiny atom of
life. The shadows of the waving arms of the paddlers were thrown on the
foliage behind the boat, looking like some huge spider-like thing forever
following it. The sheets and drops of water thrown up by the Indians
gleamed like molten silver.
The open savannas increased in size and extended farther on each side
than the shaft of electric light could carry. Great tufts of pampas
grass towered high above our heads, drooping gracefully outward in all
directions. The channel narrowed and the lily blossoms increased until
the water was thickly studded with them. Their odor hung heavy on the
air and when one of the blossoms itself was smelled, the perfume was as
sweet and as overpowering as chloroform. During the day they had been all
but odorless. For miles we pushed through the tangle of water plants;
in places the men having to drag and push the boat over the reeds and
grasses, crushing scores of spider lilies with the keel. This is the
back-water divide between the rivers which flow northward into the Waini
and those which flow to the south. During the dry season this route
becomes impassable.
[Illustration: FIG. 93. MANATEE TAKING IN AIR AND ABOUT TO DIVE.]
Later we came to open pond-like spaces and here we found another species
of water lily with a smaller flower and a smooth-edged leaf with maroon
colored under side. Owls, large moths and bats occasionally flitted
across the field of light.
It was half-past ten at night when Marciano told us that we were turning
into the Morooka River. We were to follow this river down to the very
sea, but here it was barely distinguishable as a narrow channel through
the grass and reeds. Another hour passed and several dark forms loomed up
in the dim light of our lantern, and when we reached them we found that
they were boats tied to a rough sort of landing.
We climbed out and stumbled sleepily about, getting the cramped feeling
out of our bodies. Then when the Indians had tied up the boat and slung
our hammock bags over their backs, we followed them up the long avenue of
lofty cocoanut palms which stretched down to the water’s edge. We felt
our way slowly in the darkness, walking stiffly and uncertainly after the
cramped position in which we had been compelled to sit for so many hours.
At last Marciano held high his lantern and we saw towering before us
a huge white cross. Instinctively we all paused reverently. Whatever
one’s faith may be, it is impossible to come thus upon the symbol of a
great and ancient church, standing in the midst of a vast and primeval
wilderness, without a feeling of awe and reverence. There in the teeming
ceaseless life of the wilderness was the mystery of creation: and there
stood the white cross, a symbol of man’s attempt to solve the tremendous
problem of creation and immortality.
[Illustration: FIG. 94. A VISTA OF THE BIARA.]
The light revealed a crude little church with an adjoining building
standing behind the cross. To this other building the Indians led us.
We knocked gently, then harder, then pounded. No response! Half a dozen
dogs gathered and howled mournfully. At last finding a side door ajar,
we entered a spacious room, part dining-room, part school-room, with
a loom and a half-finished Indian hammock in one corner. We called
and shouted, we pounded on the floor and walls, and at last from the
distance—upstairs—came an answering roar. Down to us came the jolliest
priest we ever hope to meet. Two strange men and women had invaded his
castle at midnight, routing him out of well-earned rest, and yet his
welcome was as warm as though we were expected friends. Our jovial host
furnished us with lights, and gave us permission to sling our hammocks
from the rafters of the great school-room. About one o’clock in the
morning we rolled into our swinging couches completely tired out. But
sleep was not to be had at once. An ominous gritting squeak was heard,
then another, and our faces were softly fanned by invisible wings.
“Vampires!” came the exclamation from the furthermost hammock. “Never
mind them,” answered a sleepy voice from Mr. Wilshire’s hammock; “doctors
say bleeding is healthful!” The scientist echoed his sentiments but in
vain. We had to dive down into the clothing bags and pull out the hammock
nets. Now these articles are somewhat difficult to adjust under the best
of conditions and this night they were perversity itself.
We found that in the packing at Hoorie, the nets had become mixed and
two were of an unknown pattern, with apparently no entrance hole except
at the ends. A hammock net is shaped like a buttoned up coat with the
hammock running through the sleeve portions. It is an acrobatic feat not
soon to be forgotten, when one is dead tired and in the dark, and has to
enter his net by climbing up to the end of the hammock rope and sliding
down through a small, long shute of netting! It was two in the morning
before we were settled, and as we finally dropped asleep a score of
fierce little demon faces were squeaking and gibbering at us.
At six o’clock the following morning we were awakened by a dozen little
naked Indian boys flitting silently about, peering at us like tiny copper
elves, or like human incarnations of the bats which had hovered about us
during the night. Going outdoors in the dusk we heard a perfect medley of
bird notes, Wrens, Thrushes, Tanagers, Seedeaters, all giving voice at
once, while from the farther end of the cocoanut walk came a chorus from
a colony of Yellow-backed Cassiques.[151] We saw the mission cat teasing
something and took from her a tiny oppossum with fur of richest brown,
and no larger than a mouse. The little creature was unhurt, but played
’possum until it recovered from its fear when it made itself at home in a
small suitcase.
[Illustration: FIG. 95. FATHER GILLETT AND HIS INDIAN BOYS.]
When our jolly priest appeared to wish us good-morning, the little
Indian lads bowed their bronze figures reverently and kissed his hand.
Some of them busied themselves weaving a hammock, while others set the
table and later served us at breakfast. Our priest was like the genial
monk of a mediæval story. He was delightful with his tribe of small
Indian boys, ordering them about in a great voice but with his eyes
beaming with affection for them. “Man alive!” he would shout, “bring the
finger-bowls!” And to our amazement, the wee naked valet not only knew
what finger-bowls were, but actually produced them, passing them around
the table with colossal dignity.
“That man’s a linguist,” the Father added; “he speaks English, Spanish
and several Indian dialects.”
The good Father’s heart was overflowing with kindness toward every living
thing. He could not even bear to see his cat waiting hungrily for her
breakfast, but ordered his small butler at once to give her some milk.
We wondered why the Father’s Indian boys had such straight, slim,
well-proportioned figures, instead of the unwieldy “cassava-stomachs” so
characteristic of the little savage Indians. With a twinkle in his eye
the Father told us that his first step in converting the small Indian
lad to Christianity was a huge dose of castor oil; then regular hours
and regular meals of nourishing food, instead of allowing them to munch
cassava all day. Then one might proceed by teaching them the doctrine,
and always a useful trade, while after that was achieved there was plenty
of time for a more literary education, if the individual warranted it.
He had reason to be proud of his method, for in all our travels we never
met a missionary whose works “spoke louder” than those of Father Gillett;
for the most successful and worthy Indians in the colony had been trained
by him. Some of them had become excellent engineers, others priests and
still others had learned good trades.
After breakfast the Father took us through the chapel, followed by his
dusky little tribe, all crossing themselves piously before the altar. He
showed us with pride the decorations of the altar and the ceiling, all
the work of himself and his little Indians. The ceiling represented the
dome of heaven, bright blue, and dotted with a multitude of white stars.
[Illustration: FIG. 96. TROPICAL LUXURIANCE.]
When we called our little Pedro, the youngest of our Indian paddlers, to
tell Marciano that we were ready, Father Gillett’s eyes filled with tears
and he said, “Is your name Pedro? I lost a lovely Pedro. He died of fever
last Easter. I did not know I could miss him so much. He used to talk to
me. He was not like other Indian boys. He loved to talk.” Then turning to
us he added simply, “It is a lonely life sometimes, you know.”
We were told that white women had never before passed through that part
of British Guiana. So unexpectedly did we arrive at midnight, and so
early did we depart next morning that perhaps our visit seems as unreal
to the good Father as it sometimes does to us—like a very vivid dream
which we can never forget. He loaded us with gifts of cocoanuts and fruit
and in the fresh coolness of early morning we again set forth on our
journey.
Just as we were paddling away, the Father ordered all his small boys into
the water for their regular morning swim. Head first they went, splashing
about as gayly as a school of strange copper-colored fish.
We found as we went on that the Marooka changed rapidly in character.
It was no wider but the water lilies and pampas grass disappeared and a
softer, finer grass covered the marsh, dotted with a host of purple and
yellow flowers rising from some aquatic plant. Isolated trees became more
numerous, and great Woodpeckers, resembling our splendid Ivory-bills,
looped here and there. Swallow-tailed Kites[58] dipped and soared and
Kiskadees[101] shrieked near the occasional huts of the Indians.
At noon we lunched on erbswurst and jam at a Protestant
Mission—Warramuri—where a small colony of Red-backed Cassiques were
established. A school of about fifty Indian children were studying and
reciting at the top of their lungs.
[Illustration: FIG. 97. CAPYBARA ON THE BANK OF A STREAM. (Photo by
Bingham.)]
We left in an hour and from here on the Marooka widened and consequently
lost somewhat in interest. The low elevation on which the English Mission
is built is composed wholly of fine white sand, and beyond this mangroves
began to appear and the foliage became less diversified.
We landed for an hour at a small cocoanut plantation and found a most
ingenious method of improving time and space until the main crops should
yield. Rice was planted in long narrow trenches which are flooded twice
a day. Between these trenches the young cocoanut palms are placed, and
in the spaces separating the palms, cassava and coffee are grown, while
between them in turn and around the edge of the trenches were plantain
and tania. The catch crops are thus made to pay for the price of the
land and labor. Land—virgin forest—can be empoldered and ditched for $35
an acre. The first year’s two rice crops will repay this and continue
to do so for five years, when the cocoanuts will yield a regular income
for fifty or sixty years. This, at least, is the calculation of the
agriculturist.
Deer, peccaries and capybara are found on this little clearing, and we
saw several of the latter animals running about among the underbrush
on the bank. Mealy Amazon Parrots[63] were nesting in an inaccessible
stub. Ant-birds of several species were by far the most abundant birds.
Everywhere the undergrowth was flaming with sharp-pointed scarlet
blossoms on long stalks which a native called Wild Plantains.
Below the plantation, mangroves composed the only vegetation visible
along the banks of the river, and before long our canoe began to rise
and fall with the swell of the sea. For days the smell of the damp
tropical marshes had filled the air, and now we sniffed eagerly at the
invigorating salt breeze. We lowered the tarpaulin, tied everything fast
and prepared bailers under the direction of Marciano.
At last, rounding a curve of the river we came in sight of the sea—a vast
stretch of turbulent brown water. A Cocoi Heron[31] and an American
Egret[32] flew away with protesting croaks, and we began to pitch and
toss as we turned south, beyond the outermost sprawling mangrove roots.
We had been warned on no account to make this part of the trip with other
than full-blooded Indian paddlers, and when we saw the need for steady,
skilful work, we were indeed glad that we had Marciano and his good
crew. The waves were too muddy to break, but they rolled high over the
low rail of our canoe and we were soon soaked through and had to bail
steadily to keep the frail craft from filling. In the midst of all the
excitement three splendid Flamingos[42] flew overhead, one close behind
the other, necks and legs extended to the full. We watched them until
our eyes ached, and then a dash of several quarts of salt, muddy water
in our faces, brought us suddenly back to grim reality. After we had
paddled three or four miles, we entered the broad mouth of the Pomeroon,
turned close in along shore and finding a sheltered bight, waited for
the turning of the tide and to give our Indians a much-needed rest. The
heavily laden canoe had given them a hard paddle against wind and tide,
and we were to travel onward throughout all the night.
As dusk settled down a Frigate-bird[49] swooped past, followed by a large
flock of several hundred Boat-billed Herons[37] croaking like their
relatives the Night Herons, and on their way doubtless from some roosting
place to their nocturnal feeding grounds; for as they reached the water
they scattered, some going up the river, others along the shore.
From the east, straight across the whole width of the Pomeroon came
another great flocking, a host of Mealy Amazon Parrots[63] flying as
usual two and two close together—by hundreds and by thousands. They
turned south along our bank and flew inland, and were joined, almost over
the spot where our canoe was moored, by another great multitude of their
kind, coming steadily down the coast. At the very lowest estimate there
were eight or ten thousand parrots. Once and only once we saw a solitary
individual unaccompanied by a mate. While still in view he attempted
to attach himself to a pair of birds, whereupon both dashed at the
unfortunate intruder and drove him headlong out of sight below the level
of the branches. It is indeed a serious thing to lose one’s mate if one
is a parrot! To be a widow or a widower is to be an outcast.
At ten minutes past six the parrots vanished in the dusk and true to
its name a “six o’clock bee,” a species of large cicada, sent out its
shrill whistle from the mangrove to which our canoe was tied. Here for
the first time since we left Farnum’s we encountered mosquitoes and sand
flies, but oil of tar did much to discourage them. It is a curious fact
that although the prevailing wind blows in the direction from which we
had come, yet these troublesome insects are said never to pass beyond the
line of the Pomeroon’s mouth.
After an hour of paddling we stopped for a supply of water at a tiny
Portuguese store built on piles, and going by the name of Poc-a-poo.
It was a weird little place with rows of tiny shelves on which were
bottles of lemon soda which was remarkably good, and an assortment of
ribbons, knives and paddles for trade with the Indians. We purchased
some well-made Carib Indian baskets and, stumbling over a caged Guan[6]
or Maroodie as they called it, ordered it sent to Georgetown, where it
appeared the following week and is now a contented inmate of the New York
Zoölogical Park.
At nine o’clock we started on our all-night paddle up the Pomeroon. Like
most tropical nights near the sea the air was chilly. We rolled up in our
blankets, and anointed our faces with the tar oil. The scientist chose as
his night’s couch one of the long sloping side seats. The slope was only
a fraction of a degree, but gravity and drowsiness would invariably cause
the downfall of the occupant of the seat, much to the disturbance of the
canoe’s equilibrium.
[Illustration: FIG. 98. SOUTH AMERICAN THATCHED HOUSE, AND NESTS OF GREEN
CASSIQUES. (Photo by Bingham.)]
As we lay and listened to the strange rhythm of the paddles, and
watched the brown current swash past the side of the boat, we thought
of all the exciting scenes this river and this coast had witnessed:—the
ill-fated search for El Dorado by Sir Walter Raleigh; then the capture
and recapture of the colony no less than three times by Dutch and
British. Later came a period of great prosperity when hundreds of sugar
plantations yielded great profits to their owners and the social life was
as gay as that of our old Virginia. Then followed the ruin of the sugar
industry, bands of run-away slaves taking to the wilderness; and now
to-day, the chimneys of the old mills are often the only marks of former
civilization which the jungle has not obliterated.
We skirted the mangroves for hours and saw nothing but an endless
succession of those weird stilted plants, while scores of four-eyed fish
skipped and slithered over the mud, or dashed across our bow, attracted
by the glow of our lantern. In the electric light they looked pale and
ghostly against the black mud.
At midnight we passed a light which showed the location of Marlborough
Police Station. Two hours later we heard weird music from a tom-tom and a
four-toned fife or flute. Crude as it was, it had a wild melody and the
syncopated, or “rag,” time was perfect. We could see the hut near the
water and hear the shouts of the dancers as we passed down the centre
of the river. We were hailed by a canoe of half-drunken negroes who put
off and wished to accompany us up the river. Marciano gave a low command
and one of the Indians muffled the lantern; then all swung together in a
new rhythm—the full-speed paddle-rhythm of the Caribs—and we fairly flew
through the water. After every five minutes spurt our crew rested for
a few seconds to locate our unwelcome pursuers. At first they cursed
us and paddled furiously, but their tipsy efforts were no match for our
lithe red-men and the negroes soon dropped out of sight and hearing.
There was no moon but throughout all the night whenever we awoke, the
southern cross gleamed brilliantly down at us, and almost in the zenith
Orion stood ever poised in his gigantic stride. As usual frogs and toads
furnished most of the nocturnal music, and we spent an hour or more in
classifying the various utterances. Among them was the Telegraph Toad
who spoke in a regular make-and-break Morse code, sending his wireless
messages to his mate. Another, heard more rarely, was what we called
the Wing-beat Frog. This species gave out a muffled throbbing roar like
the hurried wing-beats of a Swan in full flight. It would last for five
seconds, to be answered instantly by another across the river.
From the wonderland of the narrow Biara, we had come out upon the
boundless expanse of the ocean, passing thence to this splendid river
a half mile across. But we had far from finished the experiences and
variety of this ever-to-be remembered trip.
At daybreak we pushed through a tangled mass of lilies and water
hyacinths into a tiny caño or creek, and in a soft rain, while the tired
Indians slept beneath protecting palm leaves, we cooked erbswurst and
cocoa. The morning chorus was infinitely sweet, from flocks of invisible
songsters, a trembling descending chord of three notes, rising at the end
in a plaintive, questioning way.
At eight o’clock we went on again, the Indians apparently perfectly
rested after their two hours’ sleep. The Pomeroon narrowed to about a
hundred yards, mangroves disappeared and mucka-mucka with its oblong,
pineapple-like fruit, took their place. Flowers were abundant,—white
convolvulus; wild sorrel, pink with deep carollas; large yellow blossoms
with scarlet hearts, and many other varieties. Four-eyed fish were
still common and Great Rufous Cuckoos,[77] Lesser Kiskadees[103] and
Swallow-tailed Kites[58] were building nests.
[Illustration: FIG. 99. MILES OF LILIES.]
At Pickersgill Police Station we stopped for lunch. These posts are the
sole representatives of law and order in the wilderness, and here the
semi-military organization of negro police have their quarters. Most
of them are men of unusually large size, and in disposition they are
pleasant and obliging. They never failed to do their best to make us
comfortable. The duty of these men is varied. Besides being responsible
for the good conduct of the inhabitants of their districts, they keep
account of shipments and all passing boats and passengers, and stand
ready to run down, or rather paddle down, fugitives from justice. At each
post are little rooms reserved for travellers, and here any strangers
with proper credentials are at liberty to swing their hammocks and make
themselves at home. The sergeant had just trapped a half dozen pretty
blue and yellow Violet Euphonia Tanagers[140] in a mango tree near the
station. The usual colony of Yellow-backed Cassiques[151] was deserted
at the time of our visit, but had been occupied twice during the last
year. Lying half in the water in front of the house was an anaconda
fifteen feet long which had just been shot. We purchased thirty bananas
for fourpence, and with fried bananas and bacon, the unfailing and never
cloying erbswurst, jam, educator crackers and lime squash, we had a meal
fit for the gods.
At this point we left the Pomeroon and turned up the Harlipiaka for
two hours, then into the last real river of our trip, the Tapakuma.
This river was only about seventy-five feet wide and with vegetation
neither grand nor very luxuriant, principally eta palms and mucka-mucka.
Wild cocoa and clavillina blossoms were everywhere and numerous Lesser
Kiskadees[103] were building. Many small, deserted estates appeared
as the river grew narrower, and morpho butterflies and Silver-beak
Tanagers[146] haunted the half-overgrown ruins. Catching sight of a snake
on an overhanging branch, we persuaded Marciano to steer close to it, but
as we reached out to seize it, our Indian’s fears overcame him and he
swung out quickly, the serpent making its escape into the water. It was
a harmless species about five feet long, and yellow-brown in color. With
the exception of the dead anaconda, it was the only snake we had seen on
our trip. When we commented on this, Marciano relieved his feelings in
two words, “Me glad!”
It was dead high tide, although the water was fresh—backed up by the salt
tide farther down. The surface seemed to be covered with rubbish, and
at first glance it looked as unsavoury as the water in a New York ferry
slip! But when we examined it, the flotsam proved to be composed of a
host of various nuts and seeds, many of which were beginning to send out
roots and leaflets. They were of all shapes and sizes—from large flat
disk-like pods and round vegetable-ivory nuts, to smaller ones covered
with corrugated husks, fluted or polished like metal.
The river became still more narrow, and twisted and turned to every
point of the compass. Flowers were abundant and we noted at least twenty
species with large and conspicuous blooms. A blue-bell blossom was
especially characteristic of the Tapakuma, growing up from the water six
to thirty inches. There were few lilies and the predominating tree was
one with sensitive foliage, which went to sleep in the late afternoon.
Several species of orchids in full flower were common, and from one
branch we pulled into the canoe a string of a dozen plants of a most
fragrant white orchid—_Epidendrum nocturnum_. The whole region was very
different from that of the Biara but no less interesting.
Just before sunset we came to the fairyland of Tapakuma Lake. We had
zigzagged through many miles of tortuous channels, with copper-colored
Indian hunters passing us now and then, silently in their small canoes.
At last we came to a portage—a gentle slope up which our canoe was
dragged, over the divide and into the great grassy expanse of water
savanna, in the centre of which is the dark deep lake.
We walked a few yards into the woods to see some “falls” which turned out
to be only a moderately foamy rapid, and on the way we disturbed a large
troop of monkeys which limbed off slowly through the branches; and then
hurried back to our boat, for we were still far from Anna Regina, where
we planned to spend the night.
On and on we went, the darkness settling quickly down. A new Castanet
Frog raised its voice. This was really remarkable—a syncopated Oriental
rhythm, clicking musically, and held by one frog for only a minute or two
when another instantly took up the little tune. This shifting of place,
the music sounding first here, then farther on, made it seem as if some
invisible dancer were swiftly whirling over the reeds and tules. One
could hear the clicking of the castanets and the tinkling of anklets, and
the thought was made more vivid as a bejewelled coolie woman passed us in
a long narrow dug-out, paddled swiftly by her husband.
The water was very high and a wide new channel among the grasses so
confused Marciano that we paddled for an hour before we realized that
we were lost. We changed direction and guided ourselves by the stars,
passing some dense grass through which we had to push laboriously. At
last Marciano sent a clear, penetrating call through the night and the
coolie answered, far ahead and to the left. We called twice after that
and then came into a canal, and soon were alongside two canoes blocked by
a lock. We would have as soon expected to find a motor car here in the
wilderness as a canal lock, but nevertheless there _was_ a canal lock
with no one to operate it. By our combined efforts we opened it, passed
through and found ourselves surrounded by miles of sugar-cane fields. We
had entered the back door, as it were, of the great sugar plantation of
Anna Regina, one of the few which are still in operation. We were on the
home stretch and the Indian boys towed us the remaining distance, running
at full speed, tumbling head over heels into the water; and forgetting
for once their usual Indian stolidness, they giggled and chattered as if
they were out for a lark, instead of having paddled a heavily laden canoe
on thirty-six hour stretches!
[Illustration: FIG. 100. THE ROAD TO SUDDIE.]
At midnight we reached the end of the canal, and a hundred yards up a
road we found the Anna Regina police station. The guard turned out,
cleared away the judge’s bench and witness box in the courtroom and laid
blankets for us on the benches, as there were no rafters for our hammock
ropes. Our Indians would not come near the dreaded prison house, but left
our baggage at the entrance. They said good-by as they were to start back
at once. We had grown to have a real affection for these simple men and
boys, and found them the best of travelling companions, silent, courteous
and wonderful workers. May the time come when Marciano will again pilot
us through that beautiful region to which no pen or camera can do the
slightest justice!
The following morning after a walk through the neighboring coolie village
of Henrietta, where we purchased some Yellow-bellied Callistes[142] and
other birds, we secured a carriage, with a horse and a mule as motor
power, and drove to Suddie, taking the steamer thence down the Essequibo
River to Georgetown.