THE ASCENT TO THE HIGHLAND SAVANNAHS
I will make a palace, fit for you and me
Of green days in forests.
R. L. STEVENSON: _Romance_.
In the long, straight reach of the Potaro, immediately above Kaietuk,
there are several rapids; and the dangerous proximity of the
Kaietuk abyss itself makes this stretch of the river an undesirable
starting-point for an upstream journey. Mr. Menzies told us a harrowing
tale of a bushman who years ago, wishing to cross from the right to the
left bank of the Potaro in this reach, made a raft to ferry himself and
his kit over the river. When out in midstream, he found to his horror
that his punt-pole would not touch bottom, and the raft began to drift
in the direction of the waterfall. The man did not hesitate long, but,
abandoning all his belongings, threw himself into the river and, being
a strong swimmer, successfully reached the bank. So, in order to avoid
all such dangers, the landing-stage for the Upper Potaro has been placed
a couple of miles above Kaietuk, at a point about thirty-five minutes’
walk from Sprostons’ rest-house. For the most part, the trail to this
landing-place traverses the rocky Kaietuk savannah, the only patch
of ground clear of forest on our whole journey from the coast to the
highlands; but for the last fifteen minutes it goes through forest and
involves a troublesome scramble over tangled tree-roots, resembling piles
of giant “spillikens.” The path emerges on the left bank of the Potaro
at a point where there is a small inlet, and where all view of Kaietuk
and its surroundings has already been lost. Here were two boats, one
being a second “parson’s boat,” and the other belonging to Mr. Menzies.
Mr. Menzies’ boat is thirty feet in length, built of silver-balli wood,
very handy and buoyant. It came up from Georgetown in sections, and was
screwed together by Mr. Menzies with the help of two men in this little
cove, where it is safely moored even in flood-time. The “parson’s boat,”
on the other hand, came up whole, and was many days in transit from
Tukeit. What a job hoisting it to Amen Point must have been!
We put six Indians into the “parson’s boat”; the remaining eight, with
Mr. Menzies, Haywood, ourselves, and all our baggage, embarked in the
other. A tarpaulin shelter was stretched amidships over a frame of bent
boughs, to which a hammock was slung for me. Mr. Menzies steered, and
had four paddlers with him in the stern, while Haywood was bowman with
four more; and so we started off upstream on the afternoon of the 26th
December, 1915.
The Potaro above Kaietuk is as calm and peaceful as below Tukeit.
Its reflections are so wonderful that it is hard to distinguish the
waterline, where the foliage of the banks ends and its mirrored
reflection begins, while the deep blue of the tropical sky shines yet
brighter up from the river’s heart than from overhead. Primeval forest
is unbroken on both banks, save occasionally where patches of secondary
jungle and “congo-pump” suggest that in bygone days there were Indian
settlements on the banks, now abandoned, probably for _kenaima_ reasons.
Whenever a chief dies in an Indian village, the people are apt to
attribute any subsequent run of bad luck to his _kenaima_, or spirit, and
they migrate from the place. Indeed, a village is nearly always deserted
for a short time after the death of any important villager. There are
also whole districts besides the Kaietuk country into which Indians will
not go for fear of _kenaima_.
We did not get far that day, as the men, who had been droghing our stores
from Tukeit to the landing on the Upper Potaro, complained of fatigue. So
we made an early camp on the river-bank at a place where the forest was
“clean,” as the bushmen express it—that is, without choking undergrowth.
Very soon we were most comfortably established. A tarpaulin stretched
over a framework makes a nice roof; and we also had tarpaulins hung on
the two sides for the sake of privacy, and another spread as a floor to
keep our feet dry. It is not the custom in this country to use tents,
so we had not brought ours. But this was a mistake, for a tent can be
rigged up as easily as a tarpaulin, and it would have ensured greater
comfort and privacy. Moreover, on the open savannahs a tent is needed as
a protection against wind and rain. Haywood built himself a camp-fire,
placing a stick horizontally on two forked uprights and slinging pots on
it above the flames, just as the bushman does in Canada and probably all
the world over. Our fire and those of the Indians lit up the damp forest
glade and made it look quite friendly, but an hour after dusk torrents of
rain fell, which speedily extinguished the warm glow.
Next morning we paddled steadily upstream, halting only for an hour and a
half at noon, when we lunched. It was a very restful day. No rain fell,
but the sky was overcast until 3 p.m. Then the sun broke through the
clouds and lit up the river with its perfect reflections most prettily.
We passed the mouths of several creeks emptying into the Potaro, the
largest being the Amamuri, the Seebu, and the Ichirak, and from our
boat we could at times see the mountains in which are the sources of
the Ichirak and the Arnik creeks. Above the mouth of the Ichirak the
Potaro becomes very winding, and there is a place where two reaches are
parallel, flowing in opposite directions, so that Indians travelling in
woodskins make a portage over the neck of the bend. We noticed frequent
maipuri tracks on both banks as well as on spits of sand, where the
animals come down to water; and occasionally the river-edge turns to
eta-swamp, where muscovy duck are said to abide. We also saw several
divers, some beautiful white cranes, and a pair of otters, so much
interested in us that they kept bobbing up close to the boat, trying to
get a better view. The trees on the Upper Potaro are magnificent, and the
forest looks friendly; whereas the dense, suffocating, tropical jungles
of the lowlands give a horrible impression of hostile, evil Nature.
This night we camped at the mouth of the Arnik on a small island round
which the creek flows into the Potaro. The ground is slightly rising and
makes a picturesque and comfortable camping-place, with a view straight
down the main river. As usual, rain poured down all night long, making us
thankful that our tarpaulins were waterproof.
Next morning, after paddling an hour and a half, we reached the
watersmeet of the Potaro and the Chenapowu creek. This is the limit of
navigation, for the Chenapowu is blocked by _tacoubas_ and cataracts,
and the Potaro itself, a short distance above Chenapowu, is impeded by
serious rapids. The river being low had been favourable for our upstream
journey, and we covered the thirty miles from Kaietuk to Chenapowu in ten
and a half hours’ actual paddling. River travel is, of course, always
governed by the state of the river; and Mr. Menzies told us that once
in time of abnormally high flood he made the whole journey downstream
from Chenapowu to Kangaruma, a distance of fifty miles, between sunrise
and sunset. We, on our way back, there being then about three feet more
water in the river than on our way up, paddled from Chenapowu to Kaietuk
in six and a half hours; but we were far indeed from approaching Mr.
Menzies’ record. At Chenapowu several trails from the highlands converge,
and it was here that an old Swedish gentleman, Dr. Carl Bovallius, some
years ago made a settlement which he called Holmia. He cleared a hundred
acres of land and built himself a house, admirably situated on a knoll
overlooking the watersmeet of the Potaro and Chenapowu, furnished his
home with every comfort, and began a trade in balata with the Indians of
the neighbourhood. Mr. Menzies did the transport work for him, and by his
direction explored the forest trails to find a short-cut to the highland
savannahs. It was thus that he found “Menzies’ Line,” which balata-laden
Indians could travel in two days, and which is certainly a capital path
from the Potaro to the highlands. We ourselves travelled over it. Its
length was estimated by Dr. Bovallius’ foreman to be thirty-two miles;
but, as the track is now interrupted by fallen trees, it must be somewhat
longer, for détours have to be made to avoid all the bigger obstacles.
It is unfortunate that Dr. Bovallius did not come here as a younger man.
He was over seventy years of age when he began his enterprise; and,
though he lived to be seventy-eight, yet time was lacking for him to
establish his work on firm foundations. When he died, the Indians carried
off everything that could possibly be removed, and his entire clearing
is now covered by secondary growth and the horrible “congo-pump,” which,
bearing a ghastly resemblance to rubber, grows habitually wherever a
clearing in the primeval forest has once been, and mocks at abandoned
human endeavour. We could, however, still see traces of the roads and
bridges which Dr. Bovallius had made, and a small corrugated-iron
powder-store remains in good repair. Of the house at Holmia nothing is
left save the four main posts and a few panes of glass scattered on the
ground.
We approached Chenapowu in some anxiety, for at this point we were to
leave the waterways and begin our long march overland; and it was here
that Mr. Menzies had instructed the Makusis of the highlands to meet
us as baggage-carriers. He fully believed that the Makusis understood
and meant to execute his instructions, until, just before we got there,
Johnny of Puwa observed casually that his people “Chenapowu side no
come.” Unfortunately, on arrival, we found that Johnny had spoken but
too truly, for at Chenapowu we found no one but John Williams, a tall
Patamona, attired only in loin-cloth, knife, and belt, who, with his wife
and children, was the sole inhabitant of Holmia. He came down to our boat
and insisted on shaking hands with us, saying very firmly and politely,
“How do you do?” but he equally firmly said, “Me no carry load.” In these
depressing circumstances the only thing to be done was to camp for the
time being on the site of Dr. Bovallius’ house. We never discovered why
the Makusis had failed us; for, when we eventually reached the highlands,
they were all eagerly awaiting us and most anxious to be of use; but
it did not seem to have occurred to them that their services would be
needed in the forest. Of course, explanations with a people whose best
interpreters understand only a bare dozen words of the English language
and can speak but half as many are apt to miscarry. Anyway, the Makusis
were not there, and we were faced by a forest trek of thirty odd miles,
with carriers insufficient to make the attempt. It was a difficult and
unpleasant position.
As soon as the boats had been unloaded, and camp made at Holmia, we sent
off two Indians, Robert and Hubbard by name, to Arnik village, which in
Dr. Bovallius’ time was some two and a half hours’ walk from Holmia, and
whence he supplied himself with ground provisions. We instructed these
men to make great haste, and to induce as many as possible of the men
of Arnik to return with them at once, bringing cassava for the forest
journey, and we hoped to make an early start next day. Our stores were
packed in the powder-house, and we sat down to await the arrival of the
Arnik people with what patience we could muster, by the help of Sir
George Trevelyan’s _Life and Letters of Lord Macaulay_. Our camp, shut
in by congo-pump and dense secondary growth, was most unattractive.
There were no mosquitoes—indeed, we never saw mosquitoes after Rockstone
during our whole journey. But other horrible insects, such as cow-flies,
sand-flies, and ticks, made life a burden. The day dragged wearily by
and night fell with the usual heavy rain, but without any sign of the
Arnik people or of our messengers. Early next morning Mr. and Mrs. John
Williams called with their two children. Mrs. Williams wore a bead apron
and had tattoo marks on her face and body. They asked for sugar; but
John had been so little helpful that we did not feel in the mood to be
very generous with that precious commodity, and consequently only gave
a teaspoonful to each child, whereupon the family, apparently offended,
disappeared into the forest and we saw them no more. All day we waited
for the men of Arnik to arrive, but no one appeared; and when, as
daylight died, heavy rain again began to fall, and we had finally to give
up all hope of starting next morning, we felt thoroughly depressed and
miserable. Before going to bed it was decided that at dawn Mr. Menzies
should make a start, with all our Indians and as many loads as they could
carry; take them to Akrabanna creek, where the trail to Arnik branches
off from “Menzies’ Line”; should there deposit the loads at the junction
of the trails, send the Indians back to us to be ready for further
service, and himself go on to Arnik to ascertain the position. The inroad
being made on our food-supplies, without our getting any nearer to the
savannah plenty, was beginning to cause us great anxiety.
Next morning Mr. Menzies set off early, as arranged, with all the
Indians, leaving Haywood as our only camp attendant. Haywood’s optimism
and cheerfulness were unfailing, but even Macaulay failed to cheer
_us_ as the long hours crawled by. Heavy rain fell at intervals, and,
imprisoned by sodden forest on all sides, the position was certainly not
enlivening. During some hours we hoped that Mr. Menzies might return,
having met the men of Arnik in the way; but we were disappointed, and
The weary day dragged to its rest
Lingering like an unloved guest.
Late in the afternoon nine of the Indians returned with a note from
Mr. Menzies which informed us that Arnik village had been shifted to a
considerable distance from its former site, but that he was going thither
with one man, leaving two to guard the loads, and sending the others
back to us. He suggested that we should move to Akrabanna next day,
with as much of the baggage as the nine men could carry, and meet him
there. This not very cheery epistle still comforted us much, because it
accounted for Amik’s delay, and our spirits also rose at the prospect
of moving on. After an early supper we had gone to bed with a bright
camp-fire to cheer us, when we heard a shout, and then beheld the joyful
sight of Mr. Menzies with a lamp, followed by Robert and Hubbard and a
line of seven men and three women. As they filed past our tarpaulin, the
firelight gleaming upon their naked brown bodies, I could have cried for
joy. Mr. Menzies had met the men of Arnik on the trail before he reached
the site of their new village; and it appeared that Robert and Hubbard
had got there on the night of the day they left us, but had found all the
men away hunting. A day had been spent in palaver and in making cassava
for the journey, and therefore not until the morning of the third day did
such hunters as had returned set out with our messengers for Holmia. With
anxiety much relieved, we calmed our emotions and went to sleep. Heavy
rain fell all night.
We struck camp early in the morning of the 31st December, 1915, and a
walk of twenty minutes up the left bank of the Chenapowu creek brought
us to the point where the Tumong trail branches off to the west. All
previous travellers to Mount Roraima, _via_ the Potaro, had gone by the
Tumong trail; and, according to their accounts, it is by no means a good
one. But we continued along the Chenapowu, and after another fifteen
minutes forded the Wong creek, its tributary, while a further quarter
of an hour brought us to the point where the Chenapowu creek itself is
spanned by two _tacoubas_, for crossing at low water and at high water
respectively. The silver-sand bottoms of these creeks contrast prettily
with the deep amber bush water. Thence an ascent over a couple of low
hillocks brought us after a walk of one hour and seventeen minutes from
Holmia to a clearing on a bracken-covered sand-hill above the right bank
of the Akrabanna creek, where there had once been a Patamona village, and
where now the line to Arnik branches off eastwards from our trail. The
Akrabanna falls into the Chenapowu, which latter creek, though invisible
in the dense forest, continued on our right hand, until we saw it again
five hours’ march farther on at its watersmeet with the Sirani-baru creek.
It was delightful to be up and doing, and we enjoyed our walk to
Akrabanna very much. On Mr. Menzies’ recommendation, we had equipped
ourselves with rubber sole canvas boots, and we found them most
comfortable and practicable. Our feet were always getting wet, since
we had constantly to wade across streams, but canvas dries quickly
without getting stiff, and the rubber sole is a great safeguard against
slipping. Moreover, it is possible to feel through it the nature of the
ground underfoot, and whether it is likely to bear one or not. Forest
trails are a mass of tangled roots covered by deceptive layers of fallen
leaves, and one must, therefore, concentrate one’s attention upon one’s
feet. To glance up even for half a minute, without first standing still,
invariably results in a stumble or in goring the feet upon some spiky
stump; but the path is springy underfoot, and it is possible to walk
long hours without fatigue. Nevertheless, the monotony of forest trek
is extreme. Generally you cannot see twenty yards in front of you.
Indians walk so silently that sometimes the long file of carriers appears
noiselessly and suddenly at one’s side, when one had perhaps believed
them to be some distance behind. They do not speak on the line of march,
and they move their feet very carefully, seldom cutting them. We soon
became quite adept ourselves at walking quickly without stumbling, and
at clambering over the fallen trees that barred our progress every few
yards. It would not, I think, be possible for a woman to negotiate
these trails in a skirt, for not only would it hamper her greatly in
surmounting the continual obstacles, but it would at once become sodden
with water from the dripping trees and bushes, and from the perpetual
fording of streams, when water often rises nearly to the knees. I wore
knickerbockers and puttees, and found myself able to move very quickly
and easily.
We lunched at Akrabanna and considered the situation, which was not
particularly reassuring. We could reckon on but seven carriers from
Arnik, for the three women had only come sightseeing and were about
to return to their homes, each one having an infant with her. They
were neat, squat little people, attired only in the bead _queyu_, or
apron, and carrying their children on the hip. We had, therefore, only
twenty-one carriers all told, and of these the nine Demerara River men
were totally inefficient. Not a cheerful outlook! So we reluctantly
resolved that it would not be advisable to travel that day beyond the
Akrabanna camping-ground, some thirty minutes farther on, where we would
open all the boxes containing stores and pack the contents in quakes,
thus appreciably lightening the loads. Having come to this decision,
we descended to the Akrabanna creek, which is wide and crossed by a
primitive bridge in the shape of an enormous tree lying athwart the
stream. This _tacouba_ was rather slippery, but rubber soles steadied
our feet, and we crossed it and many others without mishap. After that,
we ascended some distance up a sharp incline and chose a very nice
camping-ground. We found a level floor for our tarpaulin, while the steep
slope below promised good drainage. The trees around were magnificent,
and the rare sunshine made all look charming. Bell-birds, giving thanks
for the fine weather, sounded their musical “ding-dong” everywhere.
After establishing ourselves with all our comforts about us and a good
fire burning, we wandered downhill to look at the rest of the camp,
which was made some distance below us. We saw the seven men of Arnik
busily engaged on making quakes out of split palm-stalks, having already
thatched themselves a little palm-leaf _banaboo_. They were fine,
strongly-built fellows, destitute of clothing save a loin-cloth, but
their skins are so nice and red that their whole effect is eminently in
keeping with their surroundings. They have also a fine native dignity
about them. On they went with their quake-making, cooking, etc.,
without troubling themselves at all about us as we stood watching their
extraordinarily dexterous fingers, and they talked, cracked jokes, and
told stories among themselves like a gay dinner-party at some club. No
word of English could they speak, save their names, which were Samuel,
George, Austin, William, etc. Our “civilized” Indians were mostly
lounging in hammocks. This sort of droghing was not what they liked at
all. After surveying the loads, we realized that some stuff must be left
behind, and we decided to leave to their fate our two side-tarpaulins, in
future using our carpet as a wind-break or screen when needed, and also
to desert a couple of tins of salt which we carried as barter. Money was
no more use once the Potaro-Konawaruk Road was behind us. Then we dined
under our tarpaulin, that good fellow Haywood making nothing of running
up and down the hill between us and his “kitchen” with the viands.
We had for supper soup, rice, and potatoes, with fried sausage, tea,
bread and jam. Our bread lasted very well in a tin till we were on the
savannahs and could obtain cassava. We went to sleep with a bright fire
burning, and very snug in our blankets. There was tremendous rainfall as
usual all night.
New Year’s Day also began with rain; and, after some delay in
redistributing loads, we set off, following two of our men, appropriately
named Moses and Aaron, through the wilderness, whilst Mr. Menzies came
behind with the rest. From the Akrabanna to the Sirani-baru our trail
crossed no water at all, save two small brooks, both of which are within
half an hour’s walk of the watersmeet of the Chenapowu and Sirani-baru.
The path runs for two and a quarter hours’ march dead level along a
plateau, sometimes narrowing to a ridge, which, we assumed, must divide
the valley of the Chenapowu on the west from that of the Akrabanna on
the east. At the northern end of this plateau there is a stiff climb of
1,200 feet by terraced ascents from the Akrabanna, taking one hour and
forty-six minutes, while at the southern end there is an easy descent of
800 feet, which lasts sixty-five minutes. The trail was very indistinct,
and once or twice we lost it for a few minutes; for Indians are content
to mark trails by merely breaking an occasional twig, and it is extremely
easy to stray from the right line—in fact, one is bound to do so, unless
an Indian guide is immediately ahead. We marched, of course, always
in single file, one behind the other, looking warily at our feet and
requiring all our energies for laborious scrambles over huge fallen trees
and their ramification of branches. It was but rarely that anyone spoke,
and our party of twenty-five souls scarcely broke the oppressive weight
of silence that broods over the sombre forest depths, though sometimes
birds, alarmed by the sight of us, sent shrill cries of warning through
the tree-tops. In one place we crossed a deep fissure in the ground,
resembling that of which I have spoken near the Kaietuk rest-house. No
rain fell in the afternoon, but the dripping forest kept us very wet.
Our progress was slow on account of our lagging droghers, and we had to
halt at the first of the two brooks between Akrabanna and Sirani-baru.
The place looked an unpromising camping-ground; but it is wonderful how
quickly the most desolate glade of rain-soaked forest assumes a snug and
comfortable air when man has pitched his bivouac there. On this occasion,
the ground being utterly sodden, we placed our spare tarpaulin on the
ground, and caused the Indians to build us a side-screen of palm-leaves.
Our excellent roof tarpaulin (twenty feet by fourteen feet) was soon
spread; then our two camp-beds with their equipment of blankets, blue
pillows, and mosquito-nets, our table and three chairs, lunch-basket with
cups, spoons, plates, knives, etc., and my husband’s prismatic compass,
boiling-point thermometer, and aneroid barometer, all combined to make
the place look quite civilized and home-like. Mr. Menzies had a smaller
tarpaulin, under which he slung his hammock and sheltered the baggage,
whilst the Indians speedily rigged themselves up leaf-thatched _benabs_.
Then, with a dozen fires burning all around, the whole aspect of the
place changed in a twinkling.
Soon after we had made camp a few cheery sunbeams found their way
down to us. In the forest sunlight falls like a most precious but
sparingly-scattered largesse. Haywood provided us for supper with an
excellent creole soup, piping hot, made of onions, potatoes, and salt
pork. It was very welcome in the chilly damp, and we did it ample
justice. Of course, there was a downpour all night.
There was also rain at dawn of the following morning, and showers
alternated with sunshine during the whole day. We soon found ourselves
at the edge of the Sirani-baru, within a few yards of its confluence
with the Chenapowu creek. This is halfway-house between Holmia and the
highland savannahs. We crossed the creek by means of a huge _tacouba_,
and the trail ascended sharply on the other side. Ten minutes later
Thomas shot a marm, and announced triumphantly, “Marmu for Mamma.” The
Indians always called me “Mamma” and my husband “Pappa.” We plucked the
bird on the spot, and then continued our march. When the Sirani-baru has
been crossed, a very short ascent of 200 feet again takes the trail on to
a level plateau, which continues until the path drops slightly to recross
the Sirani-baru near its head after close upon three hours’ march, and
that was all we achieved during the day owing to our laggard droghers. We
were, in effect, making our way round the spur of Mount Kowatipu, which
stood at our right hand; but nothing could be seen of the mountain, and
the only object of interest during the day’s march was a deep excavation
at the side of the trail. It may possibly have been made for gold, but it
might equally well be natural.
Our Demerara River men were now very sulky, but the Arnik boys were
as good as gold, and appeared to enjoy life. We took much interest in
watching them. Primitive man is wonderfully neat and dexterous. He seems
to be able to fashion a leaf or a twig to his will, be it spoon or basket
or house that he wants; and it is touching to see him hold a palm-leaf
carefully over his head to serve as an umbrella, or pick a large leaf
to squat upon; for his primitive mamma has evidently taught him not to
sit on damp ground. When missionaries or traders introduce clothes, the
Indians soon suffer in health; for it never occurs to them to take their
garments off, and they wear their sodden raiment day and night till they
die of pneumonia. You cannot keep dry in the bush; and, as an American
once observed to Mr. Menzies, while prospecting for gold with him in the
forest: “In this place your shirt is sopping wet in two seconds, and
three months won’t dry it.” Rain fell heavily all the time while camp
was being made, and also most of the evening and night.
Next day we started in a downpour, and were instantly soaked to the
skin. A climb of twenty-four minutes brought us on to the crest of the
divide which, sloping down from Mount Kowatipu, forms at this point the
water-parting between the Essequebo and the Amazon, 2,520 feet above
sea-level. Here on a hill-saddle is a little swamp, out of which two
tiny streams trickle in opposite directions, thus marking the divide.
Thereafter the trail runs almost level for one hour twelve minutes to
the point where the path over Nose Mountain from Arnik comes in from
the east. After that you descend for twenty-six minutes and cross on
stepping-stones the Huri creek (2,090 feet above sea-level), a tributary
of the Yawong, which falls into the Kowa, and so feeds the Ireng and
the Amazon. Next follows a steady and at times a steep ascent along
undulating hill-ridges, narrowing in places to a knife-edge, until
after one and three-quarter hours’ march from Huri creek the trail
emerges from the forest into the Baramaku savannah at a height of 2,680
feet above sea-level. The character of the forest towards the end was
quite different, and we had to push our way through tall bamboo grass
and among thickets of small trees before we at last came out into the
sunshine of lovely Baramaku-toy. “Toy” means “savannah” or open country
in the language of the local Indians. I wonder if anyone can imagine the
ecstasy it was to us rain-sodden, half-drowned rats who had not seen
clear sky for seven long days to find ourselves out of the dark, gloomy
twilight of the forest, standing in the scented flower-starred grass,
able to look over long views of distant tiers of hills into the fading
blue distance, whilst glowing sunshine warmed us through, and the most
delicious, cool and fragrant breezes blew in our faces. Welcome seemed to
smile from every blade of grass in that enchanting little place.
[Illustration: BARAMAKU SAVANNAH.
To face page 113.]
The whole march through the forest between Holmia and Baramaku-toy can
be done, and was done by us on our return journey, in fourteen hours and
twenty-six minutes. My husband estimated our average rate of progress
at two and a half miles an hour; and the length of the trail in all its
windings would therefore be some thirty-six miles. On the outward journey
this march through the forest occupied sixteen and a half hours, and
was spread over four tedious days, because of the inefficiency of our
Demerara River droghers. The gradients of the route are shown in the
diagram (p. 237), drawn by my husband.
At Baramaku-toy our forest trek ended, and we never again spent a whole
day in the forest during the remainder of our journey to Roraima,
although frequently we passed through belts of woodland fringing a river
course between one savannah and the next. The British Guiana jungle
is certainly a place where you cannot see the wood for the trees. The
effort of getting along quickly without catching your feet absorbs
the attention, and I am afraid that I have laid much emphasis on the
damp and gloom. Nevertheless, the magnificence of some of the forest
giants induced us often to stand still and marvel. The mora-trees, in
particular, grew to a great height, and their trunks, when a few feet
from the ground, spread out ribs of twisted wood like bastions all
round them. When they lie fallen, you are astonished to see how short a
depth the foundations of the monster penetrated into the soil. We saw
no orchids in flower in the forest, but orchidaceous parasites grow
everywhere on bush and stone, and send out fibres to suck moisture from
the earth. Even those perched on the tops of mighty trees, more than a
hundred feet above the ground, drop down these little, thirsty, fibrous
mouths. Occasionally we noticed brilliant blossoms lying at our feet,
fallen from some creeper, stretching itself in light and air over the
tree-tops; and at one point we picked up and enjoyed some delicious
_suwarri_ nuts. But, taken as a whole, primeval tropical forest is a
hostile thing. It can harbour no fairies, though there might be demons
and goblins. To be alone even for a minute in the jungle is alarming, for
such is the profound silence all around that one has a terrifying sense
of being inimically watched by unseen things, and I can imagine nothing
worse than to be lost in the bush.
THE HIGHLAND SAVANNAHS OF BRITISH GUIANA