_A FIRE BOAT AND A NATIVE WEDDING_
There was no speeding up against the current, although the light canoe
made better progress than our heavy boats. And then I heard a sound
that made me think I was back home. It was the "put--put--put" of a
gasoline motor. I was amazed.
"Fire boat," grunted one of the black men.
I hailed it. A Dutchman answered and came over to us. It was an
ordinary native boat to which he had attached one of those portable
motors which may be put on any boat. He was going upstream and gladly
took us in tow, much to my delight. Otherwise I would not have reached
camp until daylight, and the tropical nights (as I afterward learned)
are not the sort of nights for anyone, especially a white man, to be
out in, because of the terrible dampness and mists as well as insect
pests.
As we chugged along upriver, my three blacks sitting back and grinning
at their luck because they would be paid just the same for the trip
although they escaped all of the hard work, there suddenly came across
the black water the most weird sounds imaginable.
There were shrieks and falsetto laughter, squeaks and tinkles and
shrill pipings and heavy stamping. I couldn't imagine what it all
meant.
"Wedding celebration," said the Dutchman. "Let's put in and see the
fun."
I stared at the black bank of the river whence came the weird sounds,
but could see nothing. Finally, as my eyes became accustomed, I caught
faint glimmers of light that seemed far inland, miles and miles, I
thought. In reality the natives were no more than a quarter of a mile
inland, or perhaps less. We found a landing place and, guided by the
fearful din and the flickering lights, made our way through the jungle
to the higher, dry ground beyond. I had all sorts of visions of great
snakes dropping on me and wild jungle beasts grabbing at my heels,
but nothing worse than giant mosquitoes came near.
We came to the opening and a group of huts. In front of one hut was an
improvised porch or platform. The boards were rough, uneven and
loosely laid across supports. At one end sat a wrinkled and grizzled
old man playing a squeaky fiddle. Beside him squatted two younger
natives playing flutes. Another pounded upon the platform with a
cocoanut shell, beating time.
We were welcomed with nods and smiles, but the natives could not pause
in their festival to do more. They were dancing on that platform.
Overalls and frayed shirts and rough brogans made up the evening dress
of most of the Bovianders, but the women were decked out in gaudy
skirts and waists. Up and down and back and forth over the boards,
pouncing and scraping and stamping their feet, they danced and
laughed.
Tallow candles, oil lanterns and here and there kerosene lamps were
affixed to hut poles or trees, and by this light the dancers cast
amazing shadows over everything, shadows that moved and swayed and
intertwined in a most awesome manner.
And everyone was talking and laughing at the same time. Every fourth
word was understandable but there were many dialects and vernaculars.
There were cocoanuts to eat and a peculiar sort of cake or bread. We
watched the merrymaking for quite a while. The newly weds were cheered
by means of peculiar calls when they danced together. I suppose those
brown children of the jungle danced all night. We finally grew weary
of it all and set out for camp.