above the bamboos, high above even those arboreal towers of Pisa, the
cocoanut palms, rose the majestic silk-cotton trees, bare of leaves at
this season, with great branches shooting out at breathless heights.
Like strange gourd-like fruit, three sizes of nests hung pendant from
these lofty boughs: short, scattered purses of yellow orioles, colonied
clusters of the long pouches of yellow-backed _bunyahs_, and, finally,
the great, graceful, woven trumpets of the giant black caciques, rarely
beautiful, and, like the trees, scarce enough to catch and hold the eye.
The groves of cocoanut palms, like a hundred enormous green rockets ever
bursting in mid-air, checkered the sunlight, which sifted through and
was made rosy by a host of lotus blooms beneath. Then the scene changed
in a few yards, and low, untropical shrubs filled the background, while
at our feet rose rank upon rank of cat-tails, and we might be passing
across the Jersey meadows.
Each little station was the focus of a world of its own. Coolies and
blacks excitedly hustled to place on board their contribution to the
world's commerce:--tomatoes no larger than cherries, in beautifully
woven baskets; a crate of chickens or young turkeys; a live sheep
protesting and entangled in the spokes of an old-fashioned bicycle; a
box of fish, flashing silver and old rose. Some had only a single bundle
of fodder to offer. At one station, quaintly named De Kinderen, a
clear-faced coolie boy pushed a small bunch of plantains into the
freight van, then sat on the steps. As the train started to move he
settled himself as if for a long ride, and for a second or two closed
his eyes. Then he opened them, climbed down, and swung off into the last
bit of clearing. His face was sober, not a-smile at a thoughtless lark.
I looked at his little back as he trudged toward his home, and wondered
what desire for travel, for a glimpse of the world, was back of it all.
And I wished that I could have asked him about it and taken him with me.
This little narrow-gauge link with the outside world perhaps scatters
heartaches as well as shekels along its right of way.
I was watching a flock of giant _anis_, which bubbled cheerfully on
their slow flight across the fields, when a wide expanse of water
blocked our way, and we drew up at the bank of the Berbice River.
In the course of five days at New Amsterdam we achieved our object. We
found hoatzins, their nests, eggs, and young, and perpetuated in
photographs their wonderful habits handed down through all the ages
past, from the time when reptiles were the dominant beings, and birds
and mammals crept about, understudying their role to come, as yet
uncertain of themselves and their heritage. When we needed it the sun
broke through the rain and shone brightly; when our lenses were ready,
the baby hoatzins ran the gamut of their achievements. They crept on all
fours, they climbed with fingers and toes, they dived headlong, and swam
as skilfully as any Hesperornis of old. This was, and I think always
will be, to me, the most wonderful sight in the world. To see a tiny
living bird duplicate within a few minutes the processes which, evolved
slowly through uncounted years, have at last culminated in the world of
birds as we find it today--this is impressive beyond words. No poem, no
picture, no terrible danger, no sight of men killed or injured has ever
affected me as profoundly as this.
Thus the primary object of the trip was accomplished. But that is a poor
expedition indeed which does not yield another hundred per cent. in
oblique values, of things seen out of the corner of one's eyes.
If one is an official or an accredited visitor to Berbice, the Colony
House is placed at one's service. I am sure that it is quite the ugliest
of all colony houses, and surrounded by what I am equally sure is one of
the most beautiful of tropical gardens. If Berbice held no other
attraction it would be worth visiting to see this garden. The first
floor of Colony House is offices, the second is the Supreme Court, and
when I peeped in I saw there were three occupants--a great yellow cat
curled up in the judge's chair, and two huge toads solemnly regarding
each other from the witness-box and the aisle.
Three stories in Guiana constitute a skyscraper, and that night I slept
on a level with the palm fronds. It was a house of a thousand sounds.
During the day hosts of carpenters tore off uncountable shingles
devastated by white ants. Two antithetical black maids attended noisily
but skilfully to all my wants. At night, cats and frogs divided the
vocal watches, and a patient dog never tired of rolling the garbage-can
downstairs past the Supreme Court to the first floor. I thought of this
at first as some strange canine rite, a thing which Alice could have
explained with ease, or which to Seumas and to Slith would have appeared
reasonable and fitting. I used to wait for it before I went to sleep,
knowing that comparative silence would follow. I discovered later that
this intelligent dog had learned that, by nudging the can off the top
step, the cover would become dislodged at about the level of the Supreme
Court, and from there to the government offices he could spend a night
of gastronomic joy, gradually descending to the level of the entrance.
A kind planter put me up at the club, the usual colonial institution
where one may play bridge or billiards, drink swizzles, or read war
telegrams "delayed in transit." These were the usual things to do, daily
duties, timed almost regularly by the kiskadees' frantic farewell to the
day or the dodging of the first vampire among the electric-light bulbs.
But in this exciting country, with hoatzins asleep within a half-mile,
I could not bring my mind to any of these things, and wandered about,
idly turning the leaves of dull periodicals, looking at cases of cues
and the unfinished records of past billiard tournaments, yellowed with
age. The steward approached timidly.
"Would the sahib like to see the library?"
Yes, the sahib decidedly would. We climbed the stairs, creaking as if
they complained at the unaccustomed weight of footsteps, to the upper
room of the club. It was large, barn-like in its vacantness, with a few
little tables, each surrounded by a group of chairs, like chickens
crowded about a hen. The walls were lined with books and there was an
atmosphere about the room which took hold of me at once. I could not
identify it with any previous experience, certainly not with the
libraries of Georgetown in which I had spent days. This was something
subtle, something which had to discover itself. The steward led me
proudly about, making it plain that his affection was here rather than
with the mixing of swizzles below. No, he had never read any of them,
but he would feel honored if I found any pleasure in them and would
condescend to borrow one. He seemed rather emphatic on this point; he
especially desired that I take one to Colony House. Then he left me.
The books were without a speck of dust, each volume in its place and
aligned with precision. Little by little, as I made my round, nibbling
at a book here and there, the secret of the place came to me: it was a
library of the past, a dead library. There seemed something uncanny,
something unreal about it. Here were hundreds of books, there tables and
chairs, but no one ever used them. Yet it was in the center of a large
town just above the most frequented gathering-place. More than this the
library itself was obsolete. No volume had been added for many years.
Most of them were old, old tomes, richly bound in leather and tree calf.
Nearly all were strange to me--little-known histories and charmingly
naive "Conversations" and memoirs of generations ago. They were
delicately, gracefully worded, many of them; one could feel the lace and
velvet of the sleeve which had touched them; the subtle musty odors of
the yellowed page and crumbling leather seemed tinged with faint,
strange perfumes. It was astounding and very affecting, and my interest
increased with every minute.
The evening chorus of the tropical night had commenced outside, and a
glance out of the window showed a network of motionless fronds dimly
outlined against the rose-colored clouds over the waters of the Berbice.
Below I heard the soft click of billiard balls. Then I returned to the
books. Their rich bindings were falling apart, musty, worm-eaten, many
held together only by a string. It was as if I had entered the richly
filled library of some old manor-house which had been sealed up for
two-score years, and yet kept lovingly dusted. It was this sense of
constant care which served to emphasize the weird isolation, the uncanny
desolation.
I glanced at _Lives of the Lindsays_, by Lord Lindsay, a work of
sixty-five years ago, unknown to me, quaint and delightful. This rubbed
covers with Lockhart's _Life of Scott_. On another shelf I recall _The
Colloquies of Edward Osborne, Citizen and Clothmaker of London_, which
held me until I knew that the Colony House dog would get all of my
dinner if I did not start homewards. The next volume to this was a
friend, Thier's _The Consulate and the Empire_. Then I walked past
stacks of old-fashioned novels, nearly all in three volumes. Their names
were strange, and I suppose they would prove deadly reading to our
generation; but I am sure that in their day they fascinated many eyes
reading by the flickering light of tapers and rushes. And even now they
stood bravely alongside Dickens and Scott.
Finally I reached up to the highest row and chose one of a series of
heavy tomes whose titles had completely fallen away with age and
climate. I untied the binding string, opened at random and read thus:--
"It is vain, then, any longer to insist on variations of organic
structure being the result of habits or circumstances. Nothing has been
elongated, shortened or modified, either by external causes or internal
volition; all that has been changed has been changed suddenly, and has
left nothing but wrecks behind it, to advertise us of its former
existence."
Thus wrote the Baron Cuvier many years ago. And this brought me back to
reality, and my study of those living fossils now asleep in the
neighboring _bunduri_ thorn bushes, whose nestlings so completely
refute the good baron's thesis.
As I reached the door I selected a volume at random to take back to
Colony House. I put out the lights and turned a moment to look about.
The platinum wires still glowed dully, and weak moonlight now filled the
room with a silver grayness. I wondered whether, in the magic of some of
these tropical nights, when the last ball had been pocketed and the last
swizzle drunk belowstairs, some of the book-lovers of olden times, who
had read these volumes and turned down the creased pages, did not return
and again laugh and cry over them. There was no inharmonious note: no
thrilling short stories, no gaudy chromatic bindings, no slangy terse
titles, no magazines or newspapers. Such gentlefolk as came could have
sat there and listened to the crickets and the occasional cry of a
distant heron and have been untroubled by the consciousness of any
passage of time.
I learned that this Library Club had been the oldest in the West Indies,
founded about three quarters of a century ago. It had long ceased to
exist, and no one ever disturbed the quietness of the gradual
dissolution of this admirable collection of old works. I walked slowly
back, thinking of the strange contrast between what I had seen and the
unlovely, commercialized buildings along the street. I was startled from
my reverie by the challenge of the sentry, and for a moment could not
think what to answer. I had well-nigh forgotten my own personality in
the vividness of the stately early Victorian atmosphere.
Long after the Colony House dog had noisily announced the beginning of
his nocturnal feast, I lay behind my net poring over the _Memoirs of the
Lady Hester Stanhope, as related by herself in conversations with her
physician, comprising her opinions and anecdotes of some most remarkable
persons_, and I came to the conclusion that by far the most remarkable
of them all was Lady Hester herself.
Berbice, we were told by residents elsewhere, was behind the times. I
found it up to date, colonially speaking, and, indeed, possessing
certain ideas and ideals which might advantageously be dispersed
throughout the colony. But New Amsterdam, with all its commercial
hardness of outline and sordid back streets, flashed out in strangely
atavistic touches now and then; a sort of quintessence of
out-of-dateness which no inhabitant suspected, and which was incapable
of legislative change. First, there were hoatzins, hinting of aeons of
years ago; then, the library, which preserved so perfectly the
atmosphere of our great grandparents. And now, as I left the compound of
Colony House in the early morning, I watched with fascination a coolie
woman bearing a great bundle of loosely bound fagots on her head. As she
walked, they kept dropping out, and instead of leaning down or squatting
and so endangering the equilibrium of all the rest, she simply shifted
her weight to one foot, and felt about with the other. When it
encountered the fallen stick, the big toe uncannily separated and curled
about it, and she instantly bent her knee, passed up the stick to her
hand and thence to the bundle again. It surpassed anything I had ever
seen among savages--the hand-like mobility of that coolie woman's toes.
And I thought that, if she was a woman of Simla or of the Western Ghats,
then my belief in the Siwalik origin of mankind was irrevocable!
It seemed as if I could not escape from the spell of the past. I walked
down to a dilapidated stelling to photograph a mob of vultures, and
there found a small circle of fisherfolk cleaning their catch. They were
wild-looking negroes and coolies, half-naked, and grunting with the
exertion of their work. A glance at the fish again drove me from Berbice
into ages long gone by. Armored catfish they were, reminiscent of the
piscine glories of Devonian times--uncouth creatures, with outrageously
long feelers and tentacles, misplaced fins, and mostly ensconced in bony
armor, sculptured and embossed with designs in low relief. I watched
with half-closed eyes the fretted shadows of the palms playing over the
glistening black bodies of the men, and the spell of the strange fish
seemed to shift the whole scene centuries, tens of centuries, backward.
The fish, attractive in the thought suggested by their ancient armor,
were quite unlovely in their present surroundings. Piles of them were
lying about in the hot sun, under a humming mass of flies, awaiting
their unhurried transit to the general market. When the fishermen had
collected a quantity of heads, apparently the chief portions considered
inedible, these were scraped off the stelling to the mud beneath. At
this there arose a monstrous hissing and a whistle of wings, and a cloud
of black vultures descended with a rush and roar from surrounding roofs
and trees.
While watching and photographing them, I saw an antithesis of bird-life
such as I had never imagined. The score of vultures fought and tore and
slid about in the black noisome mud exposed by the low tide. Sometimes
they were almost back downward--fairly slithering through the muck to
seize some shred of fish, hissing venomously; and at last spreading
filthy, mud-dripping pinions to flap heavily away a few paces. In
disgust at the sight and sound and odor, I started to turn back, when in
the air just above the fighting mass, within reach of the flying mud,
poised a hummingbird, clean and fresh as a rain-washed blossom. With cap
of gold and gorget of copper, this smallest, most ethereal, and
daintiest of birds hung balanced just above the most offensive of avian
sights. My day threatened to be one of emotion instead of science.
Berbice vouchsafed one more surprise, a memory from the past which
appeared and vanished in an instant. One of the most delightful of men
was taking me out to where the hoatzins lived. We went in his car,
which, and I use his own simile, was as truly a relic as anything I have
mentioned. I have been in one-horse shays. I have ridden for miles in a
Calcutta gharry. I was now in a one-cylinder knockabout which in every
way lived up to its name. It was only after a considerable time that I
felt assured that the mud-guards and wheels were not on the point of
leaving us. When I had also become accustomed to the clatter and bang of
loose machinery I was once more able to look around. I had become fairly
familiar with the various racial types of Guiana, and with some accuracy
I could distinguish the more apparent strains. Halfway through the town
we passed three girls, one a coolie, the second dominantly negroid,
while the third showed the delicate profile, the subtle color, the
unmistakable physiognomy of a Syrian. She might have posed for the
finest of the sculptures on a Babylonian wall. I turned in astonishment
to my host, who explained that years ago some Syrian peddlers had come
this way, remained, prospered, and sent for their wives. Now their
children had affiliated with the other varied types--affiliated in
language and ideas perhaps, but not, in one case at least, at the
expense of purity of facial lineament of race.
As I have said, success with the hoatzins came swiftly and completely.
We had discovered a few nests with young birds of just the right age and
in positions which left nothing to be desired. Yet when a jovial Scotch
manager came with news that one of his coolies knew of colonies of
hundreds of breeding _anaquas_, we decided to take the whole of the
proverbial cake instead of being satisfied with our generous slice. So
we made all preparations and left Colony House early one morning.
To be equal to the occasion we went in full force, with two servants, an
Indian and a black, and an automobile full of duffle, guns, nets to
catch the young birds, glasses, notebooks, game-bags, and ropes. As
usual it poured in torrents at daybreak but cleared somewhat as we
started. A reckless Creole driver hurled our tiny Ford through deep
puddles and around corners, and we rocked and skidded and splashed, and
were forever just grazing coolies and their carts.
A land of a thousand surprises! We stopped a moment at the lunatic
asylum to borrow an ax, and it was presently brought to us by a
smiling, kindly old coolie inmate, who kept murmuring Hindustani to
himself. As we drove on, a gigantic black man appeared on the ridgepole
of the highest building and, stark naked, rushed aimlessly back and
forth, stamping gleefully on the corrugated iron, and chanting as he
stamped. We gazed on the axe and for once did not chide the driver in
his reckless progress.
With relief we reached the bridge, where our Scotch friend had kindly
provided mule, rope, boat, and coolies. We waited for a while, but as
the downpour showed no signs of abating, we started on one of the
wildest, weirdest journeys I have ever taken. The trench was narrow and
deep, the boat was overladen, the banks were erratic, the mule was
fractious, and the coolies were extremely unskilful. For the first
half-mile the trench was crowded with great dreadnaughts of iron
cane-boats, wholly irresponsible in position and movements. In places
our speed caused a troubling of the water far ahead, and this now and
again swung a cane-barge directly across our path. Again and again the
stern of our boat would develop a sentient mind of its own and swirl
ahead. Then followed a chorus of yells at the mule-boy, and a nervous
half-rising in the boat, and a still more terrible silence, broken at
last by a crash--hollow and echoing if we struck a cane-barge,
splintering if against a log or stump. The boat would tip, several
gallons of water pour in, and then there became audible our minute and
detailed opinions of coolies and mules in general and ours in
particular.
Of course every one who came between our mule and the bank had to flee,
or else was scraped into the trench by the rope; and we left in our wake
knots of discomfited coolie women who had been washing themselves or
their clothes and who had to escape at the last moment. Calves were a
source of intense excitement, and their gambols and intricate
manipulations of our rope would have been highly amusing if the result
of each encounter had not been mixed up so acutely with our own fate. I
sat crouched down, a water-soaked mound of misery. Miserable, for I was
still partly dry, having on the only raincoat, for the purpose of
protecting our precious camera. Water ran up hill that morning, seeking
out crevices and buttonholes by which to penetrate to my person and to
the leather-covered box which was so precious.
Things went better after we made the discovery that we were progressing
bow-hindmost. And all the time the rain poured down, and coolie women
and girls plodded drearily by to work. We landed finally and, in despair
of photography, I cached the camera beneath a slanting tree. Then we
began a tramp through all the mud in the world. There is only one place
where the mud is deeper and more sticky than by a sugar-plantation
trench, and that is on the dividing dikes of a Chinese rice-field. We
slipped and slid, and when our shoes became too heavy to lift, we
dabbled them in the trench and washed them. In brief intervals of less
heavy rain we watched passing herons and hawks, while giant _anis_
bubbled and grunted in surprise at our procession.
At last the never-to-be-forgotten hoarse gutturals of hoatzins came to
our ears, and dimly through the rain we saw one small branchful of four
birds, hunched up with drenched plumage. Two others were posed as
rain-worshipers--rufous wings widespread, heads stretched out, welcoming
the sheets of water which poured over them. Their wild crests, though
sodden and glued together, were still erect, dripping and swaying. We
encircled the clump of trees and found deep canals and trenches on all
sides. We shot one bird, which, true to its reptilian nature, spread
both wings, locked its flight feathers among the twists of a liana
tangle, and there hung suspended out of reach.
A strange coolie now appeared out of the mist and promised many, many,
many _anaquas_ "not too far" beyond. We shook the wet from our
hat-brims, squeezed it from our shoes, and plodded on. The cane-fields
seemed never-ending, always separated by lily-covered trenches. Then
came half-swampy expanses with scattered trees. Careful search revealed
another half-dozen hoatzins, sheltered among the dense foliage of the
tallest tree. No nests were visible, and the rain was so heavy that we
could not look upward. In the midst of the vague expanse of this dreary
world a rootie spine-tail perched in a tree and sang three notes. We
shot him because we could think of no other way at that moment of
relieving our feelings. Then we had a reaction, almost hysterical, and
the coolies murmured, "_Padliadme_" (madmen), and we laughed loudly
again and again and started homeward. We chaffed the coolies until they
were embarrassed; we slid into the deepest holes we could find. We made
set speeches on the dampness of sugar-plantations, on tropical weather,
and especially on the veracity of the indentured inhabitants of India.
It was all as good-natured as it sounded, for, after all, had we not
already found the birds themselves and obtained our notes and
photographs?
Then we discussed the psychology of rain and of getting wet, and I
arrived at the following conclusions, which are true ones. Once drenched
to the skin in the tropics, all discomfort is gone. One simply squidges
around in the blissful knowledge that all the mud and water in the world
can now arouse no feeling of discomfort. One has simply been translated
to a new world of elements, a new cosmos of sensation. And as with most
such transmigrations, it is only the shifting which is disagreeable. As
long as a shred of clothing is dry, we think of it and worry about it,
and endeavor to keep it dry, and shrink from the clammy touch of partly
sodden foot-wear. Once we slip into a trench, the rain becomes only a
pleasant tapping on one's shoulders, a rhythmical, liquid vibration.
With all fear eliminated, water and mud become no more unpleasant than
air and earth. So our plantation expedition, like Gaul, may be divided
into three parts: first, a thrilling, dangerous, expectant phase; a
brief second period of thoroughly disappointing revelation; third, a
jolly, unscientific, and wholly hilarious finale. These are the trips
which no explorer or traveler mentions, because there are no tangible
returns. But it is seldom that any expedition, however barren of direct
results, cannot be made to yield some viewpoint of interest.
* * * * *