_HOSPITALITY OF THE JUNGLE FOLK_
In pidgin English we made the men understand that we wanted six of
them to go up the river with us, some to help us hunt, some to build a
"logie" for Lewis and myself.
They agreed to go, but when we suggested that we start right away,
they declined. We must wait another day. They could not set out
without a supply of cassava, which is to them what our bread is to us,
the staff of life. And they declared it too late to venture into the
jungle, so we had to arrange to stay with them over night.
This interested me, as the night trip was not to my liking and I
wanted to see Indian life at close range. Among the Indians was one
called "Abraham," who had been with Lewis on his previous trip. He was
an honest chap, faithful and a hard worker and fond of Lewis because
of his name. It seems that on his prospecting trip Lewis liked this
chap and asked him his name. Alas, he had none. Indians are given
names by their medicine men, called "Peiman," or by the chief of the
colony, at birth, providing their parents can pay enough in Indian
trade goods. When Abraham was born his parents had nothing to give, so
he went without a name. This is considered a calamity among the
Indians, as a nameless one is quite liable, so they believe, to meet
up with all of the misfortunes possible to befall a human being. Lewis
liked him so well that he at once assumed the role of a "Peiman" and
solemnly bestowed upon him the name of "Abraham." For this Abraham
would do anything for Lewis.
There was another Indian who interested us. He had but one eye, but
was almost a giant in build. He always had a jolly grin and as we
liked him and found him to be nameless, I gravely assured him that I
could bestow names. He begged me to do so.
"Gi' me call by," he said.
"You shall henceforth be called by 'Lewis,'" I said, with a dramatic
gesture, winking at Lewis, who grinned at the joke.
Soon I had taught him just how to speak the word "Lewis" and he was a
very proud Indian.
Each "house" consisted of only a reed and palm-leaf roof supported on
poles, there being no sides to any of them. The supply of household
goods was pitifully small indeed. There were plenty of weapons, a few
cassava-making implements, a rare metal dish or tin can and hammocks
everywhere. The Indian women sit in these hammocks doing their weaving
or bead work by day and all sleep in them by night. There was a fire
at each hut, made of logs which were arranged like the spokes of a
wheel, the inner ends, or "hub" being the fire. As the ends would burn
away the logs would be pushed in toward the center and new ones added
as the old ones burned up. These fires supplied plenty of heat for
cooking and enough warmth for the night chill and they were never
allowed to go out. In some places a village is not moved for a year or
two, depending upon whether there is a death there, and a fire once
started burns steadily on that spot all of the time.
[Illustration: THEY SEEMED GLAD TO POSE FOR US]
[Illustration: JUNGLE HUNTSMEN]
We were tired and wet. We needed food and rest and told Abraham this,
whereupon he promptly gave up his house to Lewis and myself and took
his wife and flock of children over to the communal house with the
conical roof.
We livened up the fire and decided to remove our wet clothes and dry
them. We had just about as much privacy as a goldfish, and the
villagers flocked about us in great excitement as we proceeded to
strip off our outer garments.
We stripped down to our flannel underwear and decided to sit about our
roaring fire and get dry while our clothes dried. But the natives
eagerly asked the privilege of taking our clothes and drying them for
us. There seemed no way out of it and I wondered if I was going to be
left to travel through the jungle in nothing but underwear. But I
should not have feared. They were honest enough. They merely wished to
borrow our clothes to strut about in for a while. One big chap had my
hat cocked on his head at the "tough guy" angle as if he had worn one
all his life. Two giggling young women divided my big boots, each
wearing one, and marched proudly about, the thong ties dragging. An
old man put on my coat. But the trousers were too wet, so they
escaped. Next morning they were returned, well dried and nothing
whatever missing from the pockets.
I sat in a hammock, slung close to the fire, drying my wet socks and
the legs of my underclothes, watching the women prepare a meal of
eggs, venison, labbas and cassiri for us, and grinned at the picture
we must have made.
"Not quite up to the etiquette of polite society at home," I said to
Lewis.
"But we are overdressed, even now," he answered, "according to the
style down here."
The houses are called "benabs." Abraham said he would bring the food
over to our benab. This he did. It was smoking hot, heaped up in one
big wooden dish, and with it a calabash, or gourd, of cassiri. This
was a bright pink liquid, most sickening in appearance. The Indians
all drank out of the same big gourd and seemed to enjoy it.
Lewis took a taste.
"Great," he said.
I didn't like his expression when he said it, but was determined to
try anything once, so I tasted it.
"U-r-r-r-gh!"
Dud. Lewis had his back to me. I could see that he was shaking with
laughter.
"For two cents I'd pour this pink slop down your neck!" I gasped.
The Indians looked on and grinned. I did not wish to be impolite, so I
said, "Yaa! Cassiri too much humbug Yankee man's stomach!" and I
hugged my stomach as if in pain and smiled to assure them of good
feeling. They merely laughed.
This drink tasted like sour milk, long overripe strawberries, vinegar,
pepper, sour yeast, cassava meal and whatever else they might have had
left over to dump into it. But the venison was delicious and the
labba, which is a sort of pig about the size of a rabbit, was as good
meat as I ever tasted. The cassava is not bad at all and so we managed
to make out a very good meal. But if I had taken a big swallow of that
pink cassiri I am sure my stomach would have burned up or exploded.
It came time for us to get some sleep if ever we were to turn in.
While we were fairly dry, there was a dampness in the air and we had
only our underclothes. But the headman of the village brought out
three strips of cotton cloth he had been hoarding in an old canister,
another loaned a frayed old shirt he had got in some trade, another
contributed a pair of red cotton trousers. My shirt and tunic were dry
and with these, divided between Lewis and me, we turned in to our
hammocks. We tried a fire of glowing coals under our hammocks as did
some of the Indians, but the smoke was too much for us and we had to
move the fire. Besides, I didn't want to have any more snake dreams
and fall out in a bed of hot coals.
I lay there listening to the jungle noises and trying to guess what
sort of beast, bird or reptile was making them, when it came time for
the Indians to turn in. Just as the village became quiet and the
babies stopped squalling and the kids stopped chattering, there came a
native song.
"This is a great time to start singing!" I grumbled to Lewis.
"Go to sleep and don't mind it," he advised.
"I can't sleep until he stops that fool song," I insisted.
"Ha-ha," laughed Lewis, "you've got some fine little wait coming." He
covered himself in his hammock and proceeded to sleep. I didn't
understand what he meant at the time, but I learned, for I waited and
waited for the singer to stop. But when he got tired, another singer
took it up and then another and another.
They keep that song going _all night_ every night of their lives.
There was nothing for me to do but to remain in my hammock and listen
to that terrible singing. The voices were not so bad, nor were they
harsh, but there didn't seem to be much melody in what they sang and
after you have heard the same gibberish sung over and over and over
for about a million times (so it seemed to me) you certainly get good
and tired of it.
It was no effort on my part to learn the song. I got so that I knew
just what the next line would be and I found myself muttering it
along with whichever Indian happened to be taking his "spell" at
singing it.
"What does it mean?" I asked many. But the best answer I could get was
that it was a "sort of song to keep danger away at night."
It also kept sleep away from me for several hours, although I finally
did get to sleep in spite of it and did not awaken until daylight had
come and the singing had ceased. I always wished that I could get a
translation of the song, but I will repeat it as it sounded:
"_Ip phoo ke na, pagee ko, ip phoo ke na;
Waku beku yean gee ma ta ne ke, ip phoo ke na pegge ko.
Ip phoo ke na, ip phoo ke na pagee ko,
Ip phoo ke na, ip phoo ke na pagge ko,
Ip phoo ke na, ip phoo ke na._"
These Indians seemed the most restless people on earth. Before I fell
asleep I watched them in the big communal hut which was within twenty
feet of me. I learned afterwards that when going on a long trip they
sit up most of the night and stuff themselves with food. They seemed
to be eating all night here, and drinking that pink cassiri. They
would wander about inside their shelter, sit in a hammock eating, walk
over to the calabash and drink the cassiri and back to the hammock
again.
"If that's the life of a British Guiana Indian, then I'm glad that I
am not one of them. None of this free and untrammeled child-of-nature
life for me," I told Lewis afterward.
"Wonder what they would say if they saw so many of our people back
home sitting up until nearly daylight having banquets, dancing the
fox-trot and one-step and hesitation and opening wine and smoking and
having a regular night of it," was his quiet comment.
It was good food for thought. The more I figured it out, the more I
wondered just where the line between "civilization" and "barbarity"
was drawn. I am sure that they did not injure their health as much
with their cassava cakes and fruits, eaten during the night, as so
many of our so-called "sports" do with their all night dancing and
drinking and smoking and eating of lobster a la king and other fancy
and expensive foods.
Some of them were drinking a black liquid from a gourd. This was
"piwarree."
"Don't drink it," warned Lewis.
"Thanks for the tip, old man," I answered, "but there aren't enough
diamonds in South America to get me to touch it."
It was the most vile looking liquid I ever saw, yet the Indians seemed
to enjoy it and it did not appear to intoxicate them, although there
was probably alcohol in it, as it was made by a fermenting process. I
had seen a number of women who wore a peculiar tattoo mark on their
foreheads. I had thought it merely some sort of barbaric adornment,
but it seems this was their "trade mark." It indicated that they were
piwarree makers. These women, to make this drink, sit in a circle
about a fire where cassava cakes are allowed to bake until they are
burned through quite crisp and black. Each woman chews this burned
bread until it is soft and pulpy with her saliva. This she strains
through her teeth into a vessel in the center. When the vessel is full
the contents are thrown into a large wooden trough and boiling water
poured over it. It is allowed to ferment. When quite sour and black it
is ready for drinking.