A “DACANA-BALLI”—STRANGE ROCKS—A ROOT PATH—INDIAN
SUPERSTITION—THE CRY OF A LOST SOUL—NEW CARRIERS—A FEATHERED
COSTUME—CURIOUS TREES—COCK OF THE ROCKS—CAMP ON THE LAMUNG—A
BOA-CONSTRICTOR—STENAPARU RIVER—THE CARIAPU—A BURNING TREE—THE
MAZARUNI—CAPTAIN DAVID—PICTURESQUE CAMP.
It was a dismal morning when McTurk set out on his tedious march; the
rain fell in torrents, and I congratulated myself on being under shelter,
and hoped that by the morrow the weather would have cleared. At intervals
during the day the rain ceased, and I was able to ramble about the
falls, where there were many botanical treasures in the various agaves,
yuccas, and ferns. Wherever a gleam of light shone across the forest
border, there the little sun-hairs—as the humming-birds are well named
by the Aztecs—darted among the blossoms, and often poised themselves for
a minute at a time close to my face, as if wondering to what class of
vegetable I belonged.
Under our house was a fine dacana-balli tree, whose large white blossoms
lay strewn on the ground, and weighted the green foliage like a
snow-fall; in the forks and on the branches were some orchids and pretty
pink and white euphorbias, and amongst these flowers, also, humming-birds
loved to revel. In the white sand were numerous tracks of wild animals
that daily came from the forest to drink, but none ever appeared when
I was on watch. Towards evening the atmosphere had cleared, so that I
anticipated fine weather, but one of the Indians said it would surely
rain again, as the toucans cried so loudly. The birds were weather-wise,
as in the night the rain recommenced, and when the carriers arrived next
day it was still pouring. There was no time to be lost, so after the men
had breakfasted we set off.
After crossing the river, the first part of our journey was to ascend
the slopes of the Seroun mountains. As soon as we joined the old path
above the creek, difficulties commenced. The narrow trail wound in and
out, and up and down, and over and under enormous masses of conglomerate
rock, whose smooth and shapely sides, rising perpendicularly for sixty or
seventy feet, were crowned by grasses and ferns. Under some of these were
flowers and green branches that had been offered to the rock spirits by
the superstitious natives; others, with their overhanging crags, formed
natural shelters which had served for a night’s resting-place to the less
timorous Indians. Between these boulders were deep pits, which were hard
to avoid, and into which a false step would have given a drop of thirty
or forty feet.
Over rocks and streams, and through quagmires, we made our varied way,
and at last caught sight of the Curipung River above Macrebah, far below
us. Soon after we reached the top of the hill range, having ascended
nearly one thousand feet. Here the path ran through a level forest, but,
instead of by boulders, the walking was henceforth made exceedingly
fatiguing by the countless roots which composed the track. No ground
was to be seen; it was simply a network of roots from which all earth
had been washed away, and which varied in size from a sharp thin blade
that cut like a knife, to a rounded, full-sized limb, over which you
slipped, with every probability of straining your ancle even if you did
not break your leg. I wore a pair of moderately-sized shooting boots, but
to my unaccustomed soles the proceeding was most painful; a pilgrimage on
peas to Rome would have been nothing in comparison. The resemblance to a
pilgrimage was rendered all the more striking by the perpetual tolling
of the bell-birds,[79] which in spite of the pouring rain uttered their
wonderful notes from every part of the forest. Sometimes the ringing
sounds produced by these birds resemble “quâ-ting,” at other times you
hear a drawling “kóng, kóng, kóng” at intervals, and then the full notes
“kóng-kày.” In each case, the last syllable is a note higher than the
first, and the tone is more that of an anvil when struck by a hammer than
that of a bell. The sounds are remarkably clear and resonant.
The campanero is pure white—strange colour for a tropical bird—and from
its forehead extends a long tube which it can inflate at pleasure,
and which is covered with small white, downy feathers. Its belfry is
generally the topmost dead bough of some lofty tree, and even if in spite
of its ventriloquial notes you have discovered its whereabouts, yet its
colour renders it extremely difficult to distinguish. Our Indians, and
others that we met, did not object to shoot one occasionally, but in
Brazil the campanero is greatly dreaded, as its toll is believed to be
the cry of a soul condemned to perpetual torments. The American poet
Whittier has made this belief the subject of one of his poems, entitled
THE CRY OF A LOST SOUL.
“In that black forest, where, when day is done,
With a serpent’s stillness glides the Amazon,
Darkly from sunset to the rising sun,
A cry as of the pained heart of the wood,
The long despairing moan of solitude,
And darkness and the absence of all good,
Startles the traveller with a sound so drear,
So full of hopeless agony and fear.
His heart stands still and listens with his ear;
The guide, as if he heard a dead-bell toll,
Starts, drops his oar against the gunwale’s thole,
Crosses himself and whispers ‘A lost soul!’
No, Señor, not a bird, I know it well,
It is the pained soul of some infidel,
Or cursed heretic that cries from hell.
Poor fool! with hope still mocking his despair,
He wanders shrieking on the midnight air,
For human pity and for Christian prayer.”
After six or seven hours of the weariest walking we arrived drenched
to the skin—by the way it does not take much to wet the Indians to the
skin—at our camp. There I found McTurk footsore, but energetic as usual,
and happy in the addition of a few more Indian carriers who were “on the
walk,” and willing to accompany us. The chief of the party was an old
fellow with streaming black hair and of fierce aspect. He did not know
his proper name, but produced a small package in the folds of which was
a card with “Isaac” written on it. As there was already one Isaac in our
party, we christened the new man “the Pirate.” Among his most cherished
treasures was a large parcel, which he opened with much ceremony. It
contained five or six other palm leaf packets, from the last of which
he drew a printed tract in the Acawai language, which he had obtained
from one of the missions near the coast. The tract was composed of a few
prayers and Bible extracts, which he requested McTurk to read aloud.
It was a curious scene; a few fires threw a glare over the dark forest
outside, and clustered round the shelter, under which we lay in our
hammocks, were the Indians listening with the deepest attention to the
reading, and now and then repeating to each other in a low tone some word
that was better understood than the rest.
The Pirate, although he could not read, knew many of the lines by heart,
and made an admirable clerk, although I much doubt whether his knowledge
was more than that of a parrot. Our friend lived on the Cako River, and
together with the rest of his party was on his way down the Mazaruni to
sell birds and hammocks. Thinking that on our arrival at the Cako the
assistance of these men in obtaining woodskins might be valuable, we
easily induced them by the promise of food and a few knives, &c., to
retrace their footsteps, and aid us in carrying our quakes.
When we started next morning it was still raining, but the ludicrous
appearance of the Pirate made us forget all discomfort. On his head,
shoulders, back, and perched all over his quake were a number of parrots;
we saw nothing of the man but his legs, he was literally clothed with
parrots. These birds were not in the least alarmed at the brown-skinned
Indians, but whenever McTurk or myself approached they uttered their
harsh cries, and whilst some in terror ran their claws deep into the poor
man’s flesh, others fluttered off into the bush and caused much loss of
time before being recaptured.
Our path differed but little from that of the preceding day; we hardly
ever touched the ground, but limped painfully over the matted roots. We
continually crossed small streams and creeks, whose water ran fresh and
sparkling over the stony beds, except when we were hot and thirsty, and
then it generally lay in tepid, stagnant pools among the rocky basins.
These Indian paths are not always easy to follow, so little do they vary
in appearance from the surrounding bush. The original picking out of such
a path must have been of considerable difficulty, as in the dense forest
there are few landmarks to steer by, nothing in fact but the sun. A track
once made, however, even by a single Indian, is easily recognized by the
sharp-eyed natives, to whom a broken twig, or a scratched root, tells
the story of a previous traveller. So exactly do they follow the narrow
trail—always in single file—that often for miles the very footsteps of
the explorer are trodden by his successors. I think paiworie has much to
do with the generally true direction of these paths, as if you were to
place a trough of that liquor on one side of a trackless forest twenty
miles in breadth, and an Indian on the other, the two would meet in a
very short space of time.
The vegetation which surrounded us was not of a very interesting nature,
as the soil was often poor and stony, and frequently covered with a
carpet of selaginella or other lycopods. A pretty little dark blue and
white gloxinia was very abundant, and in swampy places grew yellow
lilies and various cannas. The dakama trees strewed the ground in every
direction with their brown nuts, of the size of an orange, and having a
pink and white core. These are uneatable, and it was only occasionally
that we found the delicious Souari nuts, whose finely grained kernel
rivals the most delicate almond. Besides the buttressed forms of the
bombaceæ, there were strange-looking trees whose trunks were made up of a
number of thick stems joined together at a height of ten or twelve feet
from the ground. One that I measured had eight separate supports, and
above where they united the trunk had a circumference of over twenty-five
feet. We saw no game birds, although we sometimes heard the drumming of a
“pani”—curasson—or the shrill notes of a mâam. In addition to the tolling
of the bell-birds, we frequently recognized the harsh peacock cry of the
“cock of the rocks”—Pipra rupicola—and near one of their dancing places
we shot three specimens. The colour of the Guiana species in the male
differs from that of Ecuador and Peru in being much lighter; instead of
crimson it is a splendid orange on the body, and the wing feathers are
brown instead of black and silver grey. The short square tail is ringed
with reddish yellow, and the orange crescent-shaped feathers placed on
the head like a cocked hat are edged with black.
In Australia the bower-birds—Chlamydoderæ—build their galleries and
cabins, and in New Guinea the gardener-bird[80] not only builds a house
but also arranges pleasure-grounds around it, and here in Guiana the
“cock of the rocks” has his dancing place. The spot chosen is a mossy
level, which is cleared of stones and sticks, and surrounded by low
bushes. The assembled birds form a circle, and presently an old cock
walks into the ring and with spreading tail performs a series of steps,
which from the Indian account of them must vary from those of a stately
minuet to those of the “Perfect Cure.” When he is tired, he receives the
applause of the hen-birds and retires, another taking his place. Some
of their upward leaps are said to be astonishing, and are repeated in
rapid succession until the bird is exhausted. It is during these antics
that the natives shoot them or capture them alive, as so absorbed are
both the spectators and the performers that they pay no attention to the
stealthy approach of the Indian. In captivity these delicate birds soon
languish, and out of two that I sent home from Georgetown, one died on
the passage, and the other only lived about a month in spite of great
care and attention. The dancing grounds of the “cocks of the rock” are
unadorned with flowers, fruit or shells; as long as they are smooth and
free from stones, the birds are satisfied and apparently believe that
their own bright plumage is a sufficient ornamentation, and that they can
afford to turn their attention to the study of graceful accomplishments.
Also among the birds of Paradise, the beautiful plumaged species do not
construct bowers or gardens, a gift which is possessed only by their more
intellectual but less ornamental brethren.
We camped after our second day’s tramp near a stream called the Lamung,
and at once sent back to the old camp a sufficient number of men to
bring on the remaining quakes the following day. The good temper
and cheerfulness with which all the carriers, and especially the new
contingent, performed their double journeys was really remarkable; and,
though these forest journeys were to most a natural part of their lives,
yet we could not help feeling sorry for the great but unavoidable labour.
We remained in camp all next day, but sent forward a number of quakes,
the carriers returning, so that the entire number might be ready to
depart with all the remaining baggage when we again set out. Besides the
palm-leaf covering of each individual quake, those that were sent forward
or left behind were ranged by the side of the path on poles, and well
protected from the weather by broad leaves and branches. Naturally they
formed very conspicuous objects, and though they must continually have
been noticed by several parties of Indians that passed on their way to
the Curipung River, yet nothing was ever touched or in any way disturbed.
In one of our rambles around the camp we killed a beautifully marked
boa-constrictor, about nine feet in length and very thick. Another
disagreeable visitor we had was an enormous hairy monkey-spider (araña
monos) six inches long and with two formidable nippers like a bird’s
talons. On touching it with a stick it threw itself back into a fighting
attitude, clashed its nippers and twined its long legs about the wood in
its efforts to break it. We saw no wild beasts, but the Indians reported
having seen a large tiger,[81] which walked slowly along the path in
front of them, close to the camp, and disappeared in the bushes. One of
them had a gun, but he was too frightened to fire.
A circumstance, trivial in itself, here very nearly put an end to my
journey. Charlie, whose zeal had outrun his discretion, in drying
my boots had placed them so near the fire that they were roasted;
consequently when I put them on the following morning, they literally
came to pieces in my hands, and during the day the heel of one of them
dropped off. As I knew that without them it would be impossible for me
to reach Roraima, for with our limited luggage one pair of thin canvas
shoes was all I had besides, my future occupation whenever we arrived
at our camping ground was that of a cobbler. McTurk and Charlie first
of all cunningly re-attached the heel, and ever afterwards I managed by
the aid of string and bush-rope to keep the different parts together. So
carefully did I nurse and mend them, that they actually brought me back
to Macrebah, which was as far as necessary, but the anxiety caused by so
simple an accident can hardly be imagined.
During that day we shot a pani, for which we were duly thankful, as good
fresh meat had of late been very scarce. Game was not plentiful, and as
McTurk was extremely anxious to complete the expedition as quickly as
possible—as the men were paid by the day—we wasted but little time in
looking for it. In many parts the bush growth was ill adapted for game of
any sort, and in the likely places, though we heard panis and duraquaras,
yet we could not get a shot at them. Seldom had the truth of the old
proverb “a bird in the hand, &c.,” been more forcibly presented to us.
We passed through one very pretty silvan scene, where the path came
out on to an open mossy glade surrounded by a perfect circle of grand
old trees, whose grey buttressed trunks contrasted vividly with the
green-robed stems of the slender plants in the background. In other lands
it might have been a temple grove dedicated to the old Druid worship,
and Hellenic belief would have peopled it with Dryads and Oreads, but to
the Indian mind no dancing fay or wood-nymph would step from the opening
trees, and only the terrible Didi could inhabit the mysterious circle.
Soon afterwards we crossed the Stenaparu River, and then commenced a very
steep ascent, which we climbed by the aid of rocks and roots.
When we reached the summit we were at an elevation of 2,600 feet above
the sea, and the forest plateau extended for miles before us. The
fatiguing ascent had made us very thirsty, and from passing Indians
we heard that we should not find water for a long time. The sight of
several “swizzle-stick” trees added to our thirst, and recalled the iced
pepper-punches and cooling drinks of Georgetown. At length, after passing
a branch path on our right which led to Camarang, on the Upper Mazaruni,
we arrived at the brink of a great precipice. At first it was difficult
to imagine how we were to descend, but by following a zig-zag trail, and
aided by bushes and stony juttings, we gained a ravine about 700 feet
below, through which flowed a delicious stream. From here the path ran
along the mountain side, and though we should have been glad to halt, the
absence of water prevented our doing so. At length we saw a few Manicole
palms, a sure sign of the vicinity of water, and in a few minutes we
found a small rivulet, where we erected our house.
The night was wet and stormy, and when we started next morning in the
rain, one of the Indians who was lame and feverish had to be left
behind, with the understanding that he was to overtake us with the
rest of the party, who had gone back for the extra quakes. On this day
the path gave signs of being almost untravelled, and in many places we
had to search diligently before we could pick up the lost thread. By
continually bending a twig here and slashing a branch there, we left sure
indications of our line of travel for those who were behind, but in order
that all should overtake us, we shortened our arduous day’s march over
hill and creek, and camped near a stream called Cariapu, _i.e._, mora.
From the father of an Indian family encamped near, we found that we had
followed an unused trail, but that by retracing our steps for a short
distance we should be able with his assistance to strike the new path,
which would bring us to the Mazaruni by the middle of the next day. Our
party was now at three different points, but as our new friends had of
course established themselves beside us, we formed a small though very
picturesque camp, under the fine moras from which the stream took its
name.
As the rain never ceased to pour, one of the men thought he would improve
the occasion by setting fire to a gigantic mora, whose trunk was hollow
throughout. From the inclination of the tree, we thought that in the
event of its falling the direction would be away from the camp. Still, as
it looked dangerous, McTurk gave orders that the fire which, apparently,
grew less and less, should not be relighted, and after our usual game
of euchre we stretched ourselves in our hammocks quite ready for a good
night’s rest. Before midnight there was a cry that the tree was falling,
and springing up we found that the draught had so fanned the flames that
the entire tree was ablaze, sheets of fire and smoke rushing from all
the apertures, and from the very summit. It was a magnificent sight, but
from that moment sleep was banished, as had the mora fallen towards us,
we should inevitably have been crushed. As the rain fell in torrents we
could not change our shelter, so we had to pass the rest of the night
staring at the burning tree, and ready at a moment’s notice to rush to a
place of safety.
Dawn found us still watching, but the mora had not fallen, and as
far as we know never did fall; still it had caused us to pass a very
uncomfortable night. When we departed the rain ceased, but the dripping
bushes supplied us with abundant moisture, and we soon forgot that the
storm was over. The new path was but little better than the old one, and
was very intricate, now crossing swamps, or running over steep hills, and
now making us wade through creeks, or traverse a slippery bog for fifty
or sixty yards.
Snakes were plentiful, but two duraquaras were the only birds we
obtained. Owing to our anxiety to reach the big river, this last day’s
journey, although the shortest, seemed longer than any previous one,
but at length we arrived at a dry creek called the Asimaparu, and after
following its muddy bed for a short time we again found ourselves on
the banks of the Mazaruni. We had left it flowing east, at an elevation
of less than 200 feet above the sea; here it was flowing north, at an
elevation of 1,300 feet. On the high bank we made a clearing, cut down
the trees that intercepted our view of the river, and built the usual
shed. Before night the Pirate, Lanceman, Mazaruni, and the rest of the
Indians had all arrived with the baggage, and the tired party enjoyed a
well-earned rest.
The next day our original crew, with the exception of the six best
men, set off on their return journey to Macrebah on their way home,
accompanied by the other Indians, with the exception of Lanceman,
Mazaruni, and two Arecunas, who remained with us. In order to send news
of our progress to our friends at Georgetown, McTurk loaded an empty
cartridge shell with the letter he had written, the novel envelope
ensuring its arrival in a clean and dry state, if ever it reached its
destination. The Pirate went away in a canoe to obtain woodskins for us
from the Indians who live near the mouth of the Cako, from which we were
only a few hours distant; but long before he returned our arrival had
been discovered by natives whilst passing up and down the river, and we
soon received a number of visitors.
When the Pirate returned, he brought with him the chief inhabitant of
that part of the river. He called himself Captain David, and having
once been to the coast, understood yes and no, wore a shirt and an old
black hat, had only two wives, and considered himself a white man. He
graciously accepted a cigarette, and after critically examining our
baggage promised to send woodskins on the following day to take us to
the Cako, from which river we had determined to find our way across
country to Roraima. He himself had never been to Roraima, and thought we
were insane for wishing to go there, but said that perhaps he might find
somebody who could guide us. Owing to the influx of visitors, who as a
matter of course established themselves in close proximity to us, our
narrow camping limits were inconveniently crowded. But want of space was
atoned for by the picturesque scene, which, when darkness fell, was very
curious. Our own white-roofed habitation overlooked the silent river,
and behind it were slung the twenty red[82] hammocks of the Indians,
some under palm-leaf shelters, some covered with broad uranias, and
others merely suspended from tree to tree. Here and there little fires
were scattered about—as Indians are particularly fond of sleeping close
to or over a fire—and from one nook a burning lump of the hyawa[83]
resin sent up a fragrant smoke. Through the dark background of trees the
fire-beetles flitted, and the occasional nocturnal forest-sounds only
rendered the silence more complete. Once a loud rustling overhead brought
some of the Indians to their feet, but it was only caused by a species of
the harmless lemur, and the camp was soon wrapped in sleep.