A CORNER OF BRAZIL
Across the hills, and far away
Beyond their utmost purple rim.
TENNYSON: _The Day-Dream_.
It took some time to ferry our whole party across the Ireng, as there
were only three boats available—namely, two small dug-outs and a large
one, the latter specially made for us by the Mataruka people. The
crossing was an amusing performance to watch, and very picturesque the
dug-outs looked piled up with baggage and people. Meanwhile, my husband
and I rested in shade under some trees at the mouth of the Waikana creek,
which drains the Mataruka savannah and joins the Ireng through a narrow
rift between hills that completely conceal the plain from the river-side.
But, once through this gate, an extensive flat prairie lies before you;
and an hour’s march over it brings you to Mataruka village, at the foot
of the mountain of the same name, which we had first seen from the Karto
tableland, and which had been in view off and on ever since. Even at the
village you are only halfway across this admirable pasture-land, which is
flanked on the east by Mount Bulak-köyepin, a landmark conspicuous during
many days of our journey, and on the south by the hills that divide the
Ireng from the Kotinga watershed. A tropical sun blazed down out of a
cloudless sky, and I was extremely glad to avail myself of the hammock,
and to find that the men carried me very comfortably. They bore me along
faster than I could have walked.
Mataruka is a large Makusi village; and we found all its inhabitants
drawn up in two long lines, with their chief, Albert, at their head,
waiting to shake hands. I did wish that the fashion of shaking hands
had not spread to this far-away corner of Brazil, and I left the brunt
of it to my husband; but all the mothers brought their babies to me to
shake hands. They seem to regard it as a most important ceremony, and,
of course, we should have hated to hurt the feelings of this friendly,
pleasant people. Albert, a very stout and heavy personage, whom we did
not much like, wore a pink shirt and grey trousers, all much too small
for his portly figure. In expectation of his church bell and gramophone,
he had mustered his people from far and wide to meet us. He had also
caused a banaboo to be built for us, a very large, though unfinished
edifice, of which the greater part of the roof had been completed and
also the sides to windward—a fortunate circumstance, as the wind sweeps
ceaselessly over the Mataruka plain. We went into our house, followed by
the entire village; and Albert then brought up Joseph, our future guide,
a very shy Makusi cowboy. My husband asked him how many days the journey
to Roraima would take, and he answered by nervously reeling off all the
names of mountains and rivers we should pass. This certainly made it
sound a very long way indeed. Joseph we found to be a really good fellow,
and we became very fond of him before the end of our journey.
These preliminaries being over, “gramophone talked,” with great success,
and was duly handed over to Albert after he had been instructed how to
work it, together with his church bell. No sooner had that been done than
he proceeded to ring the bell as a summons to the villagers to come to
church. Albert, who has strong ecclesiastical leanings, has set apart
as a church in his village a very nice banaboo with a pointed apse
containing a picture of the Madonna and Child. Logs on the floor serve
as pews for the congregation, which trooped in dutifully at the sound of
the bell—men, women and children, dogs and poultry. Then began a sort of
religious service; for Albert conducts lengthy prayers and hymn-singing
every morning and afternoon. We could frequently catch the words “Ave
Maria” and “Spiritus Sanctus”; and, whenever the congregation fastened
upon any phrase or tune they knew, they all shouted lustily together.
Albert himself intones rather well, having been taught by an itinerant
Roman Catholic priest. On every day we spent in the village Matins and
Evensong were duly celebrated, while in the intervals the gramophone
proved a great success. There are several houses in Mataruka, and also
a corral for the cattle. At our request, a herd of about fifty head was
driven into the corral for our inspection; and the Makusis said there
were, in addition, plenty of wild cattle round about. Here we enjoyed a
plentiful supply of new milk, brought to us in large gourds, and on our
return journey a bullock was killed for our benefit.
The dogs of Mataruka were unfortunately even more insistent than those
we had hitherto had to endure. Nothing was safe from the miserable
starving brutes. They sprang upon the rough tables made of cross-wise
branches and snatched anything that was put down for a second. Poor
Haywood was almost beside himself, and was quite hurt with me for
collapsing with laughter as a dog swallowed three eggs and made off with
two fish that had been brought as a gift. The fish were certainly very
stale and the eggs probably likewise, so it was not a matter to grieve
over, as the loss of a precious ham at Chiung had been. We went to bed as
usual at dusk. The night was chilly, and the glory of the stars above the
wide plain was wonderful.
We were up again breakfasting on porridge and fresh milk by starlight
with a sinking Southern Cross before dawn of day (9th January). There
was, however, much delay in starting off, as we had an almost entirely
new set of carriers. The Mataruka folk appeared to regard our expedition
to Roraima in the light of a pleasure trip, and a large number of
women, and even one baby in arms, accompanied us on the march there and
back. I think they enjoyed the idea of a pilgrimage through the Arekuna
country under a safe escort. There is no love lost between Makusi and
Arekuna; the latter are stronger men and fiercer, but the former are
much more numerous. So, our camp-followers being many, the usual load
for a drogher, which is between fifty and sixty pounds, was considerably
reduced, and several men carried next to nothing. Our rate of travel was
thereby much accelerated, and everyone was extremely cheerful, regarding
the whole jaunt as great fun.
From Albert’s village our trail ascended between Mount Mataruka on our
right and Mount Kako on our left. The valley, up which we climbed, was
very hot, even at half-past seven in the morning, and we wound up it with
the sun at our backs towards an elusive pass over a succession of ridges,
each one pretending to be the real summit, and when we had surmounted
it, behold! there was yet another beyond. It was an exceedingly pretty
valley with long golden grass, dotted with picturesque shade trees; but
the Indians behind us set fire to the grass, and on our return it was a
blackened desolation. Indians always set fire to the prairies when they
travel, partly to keep the trails clear and make walking easier than
it would be in long grass, and incidentally to drive away snakes, but
partly out of merely childish pleasure in the blaze. It is very bad for
the country, as the soil after a burning tends to get washed off the
hills by the next heavy rain.
When, after climbing for an hour and a quarter, we really reached the
final ridge at a point 2,350 feet above sea-level, the view was glorious
and the air so keen and invigorating, so strong and beautiful, that
with each breath we seemed to be drinking health and energy. From this
pass the most striking feature of the landscape was Mount Chakbang, far
away to the west-north-west. It looks in shape somewhat like a clenched
fist, with one finger pointing up to the sky. This mountain is indeed a
surveyor’s friend, for it is visible and unmistakable from nearly every
elevated point in the country.
Joseph, our guide, a most picturesque bronze figure, with his scarlet
loin-cloth, his little quake containing a hammock and drinking gourd on
his back, and a pair of chickens on his arm to assist the commissariat,
was always close to my husband, telling him the names of all the hills
far and near, whenever we halted for observations. He was tall and very
lean and carried a knife in his hand, with which he would gesticulate
to himself as he walked, describing semicircles in the air with it, or
pointing away to distant hills, evidently reciting in his mind all the
different trails of the neighbourhood.
From the col between Mount Mataruka and Mount Kako, the trail taken
by Joseph descended slightly across an upland savannah and led us in
forty-five minutes to another col between the hills to the east of
Rera, a plain almost as large as that of Mataruka and exceedingly well
watered, draining into the Kotinga. Rera is Joseph’s home, and he pointed
out his house far away to the south of the golden savannah on a knoll,
where stood three banaboos with cattle grazing close by. No breath of
air stirred in the Rera plain, and I was glad of my hammock. Johnny and
Jack had evidently found my weight the day before more than they could
bear, and had each provided himself with a tin canister instead; but
I had two fresh volunteers, an old man, whose name did not transpire,
and his son, who called himself “Misterquick.” Mr. Quick is an Anglican
parson who used to visit the district. These two Makusis carried well;
but Indians dislike weights on their shoulders, as they are accustomed
to carrying on the back, and they often complained, “Mamma heavy.” I did
not, however, require them to carry me for long at a time, though the
hammock was very useful in enabling me to rest every now and then for ten
or fifteen minutes without delaying the line of march.
After skirting the Rera plain for some distance past the foot of Mount
Kurowya, we crossed a rather nasty little eta-swamp, and then turned
off at a right angle to ascend a pass between Mount Kumâraying and
Mount Sakmann—a steep and rocky track. Halfway up we stopped to take
lunch, where a delicious rippling brook crossed our path. Unfortunately,
there was little shade and no breeze, so it was very warm. We made an
excellent meal off our Puwa beefsteak, for meat keeps several days in
this atmosphere. We also took note of the extraordinary number of people
in our train; but, as only nineteen claimed rations, we realized that the
others had come independently for the sake of the journey. There were
some uncommonly good fellows amongst our men. Daniel, Joseph’s great
friend and ally, was a thoroughly hard-working boy. A younger Thomas
formed with Haywood our commissariat, and a very efficient one too.
Thomas carried the lunch-basket and all the materials and implements
immediately necessary for making and eating a meal, and he stuck firmly
to a position just behind Haywood, which meant that he was always well
to the front. Thomas also became a very handy man about camp, and learnt
with Indian deftness to manipulate our folding beds, chairs, and table.
In return for these services, he was admitted to mess with Haywood, who
took care that he should always have enough to eat, or rather that there
should be plenty, for an Indian has an infinite appetite and can never
have enough. Haywood observed to me once: “I does like to see Thomas eat.
He eat so diligent”; and it was an apt remark, for Thomas would squat
down to finish the remains in a saucepan with an air of rapt thought,
the complete concentration of a man who is faced with one of the great
tasks of life, and he would scour and scour again the inside of the pots
with his spoon, until no smallest speck of food could possibly be scraped
together, before he would consent to wash them. Thomas’s wife came too,
carrying a baby, as well as a quake with their hammocks and food. I was
rather anxious about that baby the first day, exposed to torrid sun with
nothing on its head; but it was perfectly well and cheerful the whole
time—a fine little boy. Johnny and Jack of Chiung were another pair of
stalwart friends. Jack wore a felt hat with a green ribbon run in and out
round the crown. It looked a very quaint apex to his brawny, bronze-red
figure. He was an exceptionally powerful fellow, whilst Johnny was a
dear old man to whom we became much attached. He would come holding out
his hand, saying “Mamma” in a most appealing way, to beg for a piece of
chocolate; and if I refused him a bit, he would sulk just like a spoiled
child, and pretend to be deaf when spoken to. Then the “Pirate,” as we
christened him on account of a red handkerchief he wore tied round his
head, his real name being Alexander, was a cheery personage, always to
the fore, despite the fact that he was very elderly; and he was closely
followed by his nimble, if likewise elderly, wife. The “Nut,” too, having
discarded necklaces and trousers, proved a useful retainer.
After our meal we started again up the hill. It certainly was a roasting
climb; but a delicious breeze met us on the top and fanned us as we went
down the other side. We descended into a small grass plain, at the end
of which we crossed a narrow strip of bush, where, as usual, a path
had recently been cleared for us; and then, following the bank of a
delightful jasper-bedded little stream with pretty cascades and crystal
clear water, we wound in and out between low hills in a narrow valley
until the trail again took us to a hill-top, whence we perceived that we
had come in a sweeping semicircle from Mataruka back to the Ireng, which
was again at our feet. At this point we were two and three-quarter hours’
march from the col between hills above the east end of the Rera plain,
say six miles by the trail in all its windings; but the distance back to
the col between Mount Mataruka and Mount Kako was only four miles in the
direct line of vision. Plainly, therefore, there must be some straighter,
if more arduous, path over this stretch of country; and, as a matter of
fact, the Arekunas who accompanied us on our return journey did make a
short-cut, which took them from the Paiwa valley to the saddle between
Mount Mataruka and Mount Kako without traversing the Rera plain. Their
path was, however, described by Joseph, with an expressive gesture,
as “Mountain-top, mountain-top, mountain-top.” We could now see the
savannah peaks above Enamung as well as those near Puwa, and it would
evidently be possible to reach Enamung from the Karto tableland by a
route far more direct than ours had been. Indeed, Joseph afterwards told
us of a trail leading from Karto village to Enamung in two stages. That
would undoubtedly be the best line for any future traveller bound for
Roraima, as the long détour through Chiung, Puwa, Mataruka, and Rera, is
thus avoided. Still, we did not object to the longer march. It was all
very delightful in the keen air and sunshine, and I realized with great
thankfulness that I was now hardening to the sun and felt extremely fit
and well.
From our hill-top we continued for some time along a ridge, descending
gradually at first, and then sharply, till after twenty-three minutes’
walk we forded a beautiful clear stream, almost at the level of the
Ireng, which it joined a short distance to our right. Then, on a low
knoll beyond, we stepped upon some stone slabs with curious markings on
them, and here Joseph said, “Makunaima pickaninny, he dead.” Makunaima is
the goddess whose tears, shed for the loss of her pickaninny, are said to
form Roraima’s waterfalls, and this we supposed to be the child’s burial
place. Then came another little flat meadow, a strip of woodland over
some undulating ground, and we again emerged into a large grassy plain in
the middle of which stands Paröwöpö village. I say “village,” but there
was only one banaboo and an open building, which the few women about the
place called “church,” but which contained no holy pictures nor any sign
of worship. Our whole party established ourselves in this “church”; and,
while we took tea, the women brought cassiri for our droghers. As each
fresh batch of men came in, the cassiri bowl was handed to Joseph to give
them at his good pleasure. After tea we had some difficulty in getting
our caravan to restart from Paröwöpö. They explained that Enamung was
“far far”; but, Joseph having prescribed Enamung as our destination for
the night, we would not listen, but pressed on.
Another hour and a quarter brought us to Enamung village. The trail,
after leaving the Paröwöpö plain, passed through the forest-belt which
fills the low saddle between the hills that separate the two savannahs.
The trail in this forest had been admirably cleaned and widened, and even
the leaves had been swept off the path. Towards sunset we emerged from
the bush into a lovely scene, open savannah, with a broad stream curving
through it in a semicircle. On our side of this stream the ground rose
and fell in pleasant undulations, whilst on the other side it rolled up
into high grassy peaks. We could hear a cataract roaring on the right,
where the river disappeared from view. This river, called the Wairann,
is a tributary of the Ireng, and we followed its course upstream for
several miles next day. The Enamung village consists of two houses and
a cattle-pen, perched up on a grassy knoll just above the right bank of
the Wairann. A more beautiful spot for a camp cannot be imagined. But
we had barely time to spread our tarpaulin over a wooden framework that
stood between the two banaboos before night closed in on us; and just as
dusk was falling some children drove up cattle into the pen. We counted
twelve head. They were a good, short-horned, straight-backed breed. This
was the last place at which we saw cattle on our outward journey. Of
course, the herds one sees at the various Makusi villages are only the
tame cattle; and we were told that a far larger number roam wild among
these uninhabited savannahs, and are shot by the Indians, when they have
a craving for fresh beef.
It grew very cold directly the sun had gone down, and the moon circled
with earth-shine was glorious, likewise the stars. Luckily there was no
wind, as our camp was most exposed. The Indians and Mr. Menzies all slept
inside the banaboos; but we were in the open, and, as we lay with all our
blankets over us, looking into the infinite depths of the starry skies,
the muffled roar of the distant cataract filling the air, four lines of
Matthew Arnold’s which have always haunted me and filled me with longing
since I was a child came into my mind:
In the moonlight the shepherds,
Soft lulled by the rills,
Lie wrapped in their blankets,
Asleep on the hills.
On the morrow we were up again by starlight and admired an exceptionally
bright Southern Cross. Then, after swallowing a large plateful of
porridge each, washed down with some coffee, we were off on the trail as
day dawned. From Enamung village a climb of twenty-three minutes took
us to the brow of a hill, whence we had a good view up the valley of
the Wairann and far beyond to Mount Weitipu, one of the giants standing
near Roraima. The path, however, dropped down again to the river, which
curved back to us, and we followed its right bank upstream for two hours
in a beautiful valley. On the left bank rose an almost perpendicular
grassy hill; but we wound alternately through meadows, strewn with big
black boulders, and through belts of woodland, where, as before, a
bridle track had been cleared for us. The river was roaring in cataracts
or meandering in still reaches beside us or racing round islands. It
contains a large volume of water.
Our caravan halted for “breakfast” unusually early, and we expostulated
with Joseph; but he waved his hand in the direction of our onward path,
which was now to leave the beautiful Wairann, and said, “Tuna (_i.e._,
_water_) far, far.” The Indians have a manner of saying “f-a-a-r-far” in
a faint voice that is wonderfully expressive of distance.
When the meal was over we resumed our march, and a five minutes’ climb
uphill, followed by a seventeen minutes’ march across a small plateau,
finally took us from the watershed of the Ireng to that of the Kotinga.
From the small plateau we again obtained a glorious view of Mount
Weitipu, rising high and blue above all intervening hills. The next hour
was spent in descending from the plateau, fording a little brook which
falls into the Karakanang, a tributary of the Kotinga, re-ascending on
to another and very stony tableland, to the south-east of which was the
Karakanang gorge, far below the level of our trail, and so reaching the
point where that river is forded by stepping-stones of red jasper just
above its leap from the plateau level into the gorge. The heat of the
sun, though intense at midday, was mitigated by a heavenly breeze that
fanned us steadily. Flights of locusts rose at our approach and flew
round us, hitting us all over. The Indians eagerly caught as many as
they could and ate them raw on the spot, regarding them, apparently, as
titbits.
The Karakanang is a most fascinating river, flowing crystal clear in a
succession of little vertical falls, or else sliding over long, smooth
slabs of jasper into limpid green pools. This is the regular formation of
river-beds in the upper Kotinga watershed. The colouring of that country
is exquisite: greeny-grey grass, red soil, and blue-green crystal-clear
water, flowing over coral-red jasper bottoms. When we had crossed
the Karakanang, the tableland widened into a fine grassy savannah,
surrounded by a stately amphitheatre of hills, and we marched over
easily-undulating ground for an hour and a half, crossing in that time no
less than six small streams, that flowed through gulleys in the plateau
to join the Karakanang. The course of these tiny cañons could be traced
afar off by the eta-palms growing in them. At last we came to a rift in
the tableland, where, beyond another small stream, there was a strip of
forest, through which, for the first time since leaving Karto tableland,
we found that no trail had been cleared for us—a plain hint that we were
now passing from the land of the Makusis into that of the Arekunas.
Moreover, the stream, where we reached it, ran in a deep pool, too deep
to ford; so, while Joseph and some of the men were felling a couple of
small trees for us to cross by, and clearing a path through the wood,
we sat down under a big tree, drank cold tea, which Haywood had handy,
and ate chocolate. Joseph’s arrangements being complete, we crossed the
pool on his makeshift bridge, and a few minutes’ walk brought us to the
other side of the bush. Thence our trail gradually sloped down over a
grassy savannah to meet the Warukma River, where it races down over a
jasper bed, glittering under the sun, from the heart of the mountain
amphitheatre that swept round in a majestic circle to our left.
We forded the Warukma and camped on the ledges of its left bank. These
torrents, when swollen by heavy rain, must be a splendid sight, but they
would then be very difficult to cross. A delicious current of icy-cold
water was flowing in the bed of the Warukma; but wide stretches of
jasper floor were uncovered and dry, and on one of these Joseph and
his men improvised for us a most ingenious tent. They placed one end
of a ridge-pole in the fork of a tree on the bank; the other end they
supported on cross-wise poles, whose bases they propped up with big
stones. They then stuck short uprights, on which to tie the tarpaulin,
in cracks of the ledge and buttressed them up with stones. It was very
picturesque. The ledge made us a beautiful, clean, level floor, and this
was, in fact, the nicest camp of our journey. We bathed in a natural
“porphyry font,” a few yards upstream from our tent. The water was
stone-cold and clear, and the pool very deep. Little fish, about the size
of a trout which would be thrown back as too small, and of a bright green
colour, with black “eyes” on them, came swimming up curiously to examine
us. We had a still, cloudless night; the moon was very bright, but not
large enough to dim the radiance of the stars.
We woke to find the weather deliciously cool and grey; and, after our
porridge and coffee, we started “under the opening eyelids of the
morn” to climb steadily until we reached the ridge of the mountain
amphitheatre. It was an hour’s ascent. At the top we found a fine,
grassy, high-level plateau, well watered, but almost treeless, which
it took us just half an hour to cross. The freshness of the grey
morning gave wings to our feet. We crossed a brook and a water-hole
on this plateau, for the country is wonderfully irrigated, and every
tableland seems provided with springs of clear water. At the far end
of the plateau, before descending, we had a superb view back to Mounts
Mataruka and Bulak-köyepin. Given favourable weather conditions, Roraima,
Kukenaam, Wei-assipu, Weitipu, and Muköripö can all be seen from the
trail itself at this point, which is 3,150 feet above sea-level; but on
our outward journey they were densely veiled in cloud. If you climb a
peak rising above the plateau a little to the east, Mount Chakbang also
comes into sight. It is a splendid observation-post for a surveyor, and
for that reason my husband labelled it “Landmark Peak.”
Our path now descended very gradually in the valley of a stream,
which rises on “Landmark Peak” and soon becomes a fine jasper-bedded
watercourse, the trail betaking itself to the river-bed, where the smooth
slabs made excellent going. This stream is called Aimaratökpai. It was
very nearly dry—a fortunate thing for us; but I should love to see these
rivers rushing down in spate over their smooth stone floors. The bed of
this particular stream had weathered to a slate-blue colour, but there
was a good deal of pink, disintegrated jasper sand lying on it. The
effect of the blue floor, with its pink streaks of sand and the grey
hills above it, was very lovely and curious.
Too soon the line suddenly decided to leave this friendly river-bed,
and we had to scramble up a steep bluff about sixty feet in height. An
Indian trail always makes a great point of doing the unexpected. We then
traversed a very switchback of a path, winding over hill-spurs, until
we gained the top of a steep slant into the valley of the Waraïna, a
confluent of the Kotinga. The view from this spot, before we descended,
was beautiful, and our whole company sat down to admire it. Indians love
to look out over a big stretch of country, and it is amusing to watch a
crowd of them pointing out to each other all the salient features and
tracing with finger-tips the directions of different trails over distant
hills. Their language seems onomatopœic, and at times one can gather the
gist of their conversation without understanding one word. It sounds
very much as though they spoke in tones, like the Chinese, but, much
more quietly. They are a curiously quiet people, the result, I suppose,
of living amid that big, silent Nature. We never heard them sing on the
line of march, or even when paddling, and they seldom raise their voices.
In camp, with thirty of them close by, they never disturbed us. If we
happened to wake in the night, only the flicker of the fires, which they
keep going throughout the dark hours, reminded us that they were near us;
and even in their villages they make little noise. A mere dozen blacks or
Chinese would give one a very different tale to tell.
A steep scramble downhill brought us to the side of a brook, which we
followed for a short distance, and which flows into the Waraïna. We
left the brook just before the watersmeet, and crossing in the fork
a little belt of land, where some fine cassava was growing, we forded
the Waraïna. Then a short walk took us to our breakfast camp on the
Opamapö, another confluent of the Waraïna. This is one of the prettiest
spots in the country; for here the Opamapö makes a vertical leap of some
sixty feet over a red jasper cliff into a clear, deep, jasper-ledged,
tree-girt pool. The crowning note of colour came from a purple-blossomed
tree projecting over the cliff-side. We sat on the tree-shaded ledges
above the fall, drawing water for our meal from a limpid, green pool,
and the stream beyond wound away fringed with eta-palm. Steep, green
hill-shoulders formed the far horizon.
[Illustration: WARATUK RAPIDS.]
[Illustration: OPAMAPÖ WATERFALL.
To face page 172.]
After an hour and a quarter’s rest, during which we ate cold chicken, one
of the four brought with us from Mataruka, and our men regaled themselves
with cassava and dried beef, we proceeded on our way, fording the
Opamapö. The weather was still delightfully grey and cool, and we met a
few light, passing showers—greetings from Roraima behind his cloud-wall.
We marched in a steadily widening valley for fifty minutes until we
reached the crest of a low ridge that forms the water-parting between
the streams that feed the Waraïna and the basin of the Kotinga itself.
The latter river, however, as had previously been the case with the
Ireng, remained invisible until we reached its edge. We were now in the
gently-sloping pasture-lands of a magnificent valley, beautifully watered
by numerous streams, whose course is marked in the lush grass by avenues
of eta-palms; but no human habitation or sign of cattle could anywhere be
seen. We put up a big deer, but it escaped us easily. There were signs
that a fire, probably lit by travelling Indians, had recently passed over
the place, the grass being very young and green, and the stems of the
palms blackened and scorched. On our right we now saw Mount Weitipu quite
clearly, with Mount Muköripö, an oddly-shaped rocky cone, close beside
him. The ground undulates gently, forming a plateau some three hundred
feet above both banks of the Kotinga, which flows in a narrow trench
below the spacious acclivities of the surrounding country.
At last from the edge of this plateau we saw at our feet the Kotinga
itself, with its turquoise-blue water, flowing through a valley of
brightest green, dotted with eta-palms. So attractive and refreshing
it looked that we little guessed the hidden plague awaiting us, until
Joseph said resignedly, pointing down to the river: “Kabouru plenty,
plenty.” We now descended quickly to the left bank of the river, crossing
the ravine of a boisterous little brook on the way. The river-bed is
here about 2,200 feet above sea-level; and the ford is not far below
the confluence of the Kwating from the north-west and the Pipi—another
blue jewel in a setting of eta-palms—from the north-east, to form the
Kotinga proper. It was by far the most serious obstacle of the kind that
we had to negotiate. The river at the ford is some two hundred feet
wide, and contains near the left bank an island of some size—the usual
camping-ground of Indians on their way over this trail—and near the right
bank another much smaller island. The ford runs diagonally across at the
brink of a small rapid over jasper rocks, water-worn and slippery, and
would doubtless be quite impassable when the river comes down in spate.
As it was, the water came well above my husband’s knees; and, the current
being strong, we had to plant our feet carefully at each step to avoid
an accident. We had by this time become quite accustomed to wading over
streams, and much enjoyed the delicious feeling of the stone-cold water
round our feet and legs. Our clothes and our canvas rubber-soled boots
dried very quickly in the sun after each such crossing. Joseph wanted us
to camp on the island near the left bank, but we did not like the look of
it. It was covered with dense bush, and the kabouru, from which pest we
had been happily free since crossing the Ireng, rose in their millions
to receive us. Besides, we felt that a ford, once begun, is better done
and finished with. It was great fun getting across. Joseph held my arm
firmly, and piloted me with much care and skill. The long file of our
Indians, men and women, gingerly picking their way along the brink of the
rapid, was a quaint sight.
[Illustration: FORDING THE KOTINGA RIVER.
To face page 174.]
On the right bank of the Kotinga, in the neighbourhood of the ford, there
was no “bush,” without which, of course, one cannot camp, as firewood
is essential, and the Indians must have trees on which to hang their
hammocks. So we moved on, the trail turning downstream to the left and
then up an eta-fringed brook. After a little while we forded this brook,
and, having crossed a low ridge, we made camp at 4.30 p.m. on the banks
of another stream in a clump of bush at its edge. Alas! there was no
escaping the kabouru! As soon as we had halted, they came about us in
swarms, and rendered life intolerable until dark, at 6.30 p.m., when they
all disappeared. The ups and downs of camp life are truly astonishing!
The night before, in the Warukma bed, we had had as perfect a site for
our camp as we could possibly desire, whilst the Kotinga valley camp
could not well have been more disagreeable. It was not a picturesque camp
either, for the surroundings had recently been scorched by fire. The
stream beside us was, however, pretty enough. It dropped in a cascade
into a steep gulley at our feet, there disappearing into a dense thicket.
But there was no level ground, so that we spent an uncomfortable night
with our beds at a slant. I would strongly advise future travellers by
this route to endeavour to ford the Kotinga early enough in the day to
permit of their camping for the night some way up the hills to the north
or south of the valley, at a distance from the river.
Next day (12th January) we were up, dressed, and packed before dawn,
to avoid the kabouru. It was a glorious, cool morning. A heavy dew
sparkled on the grass, and the air was keen and fresh. Our path continued
obstinately to the left, despite the fact that our goal lay behind
Weitipu on the right; and we passed over beautiful undulating meadows,
like English hayfields ready for the scythe, and then round hill-spurs,
until after one and three-quarter hours’ march we reached the valley
of the Chitu, a large confluent of the Kotinga, crossing on our way
frequent little brooks that tumbled down steep gulleys. Here the Indians
and Haywood killed a snake in the grass, and the latter said it was a
_labaria_ and poisonous; but is a snake ever killed which the people
concerned in the daring deed do not declare to be deadly?
We forded the northern fork of the Chitu close to the point where it
descends out of a steep line of hills, and up the steepest part of these
hills our trail then proceeded to climb. Pink soil showed through the
grass, which was now short and growing in tussocks, so that we knew
we were still on jasper formation. The hill ascended in a series of
terraces, the ascent between each being almost vertical; and on each
terrace we paused to drink in the wonderful beauty of the widening view,
for our hill-side commanded a great stretch of the Kotinga valley,
shut in far away by the mountain ranges we had crossed in the previous
forenoon. The sun filtered through the clouds enough to light up the
scene with the most extraordinary and exquisite colouring, the far hills
being a marvellous sapphire and the nearer country a brilliant emerald,
patched with purple cloud shadows. It reminded me dimly of old stained
glass and of the colouring of Rossetti’s pictures. We were climbing the
crest of the hill-ridge in the fork between the northern and southern
branches of the Chitu River, and one hour’s effort brought us to the
summit. We then had a view right back to “Landmark Peak,” while in front
of us stretched a tableland, over which the wind blew keen and cold,
for we were 4,500 feet above sea-level. Such a country! And there it
lies, all untouched and unknown, the great silence of solitude brooding
over it! Save for a handful of nomadic Indians scattered over the vast
prairies, never a man treads these lonely regions.
For the next hour and a half our path lay over charming upland savannah,
with here and there a strip of woodland, intersected by numerous brooks
hurrying down in cascades to meet the Chitu. We halted beside one of
these rivulets, crossing, as usual, just above a cascade that fell into
the customary deep green pool. We had to put our coats on directly we
stopped to rest, for the sky was overcast and a chilly but invigorating
wind was blowing. Anyone who filled these highland valleys with cattle
and built himself a jasper house amidst the life-giving breezes of the
hills would have his lot cast in a fair land. After luncheon we walked
on again, and were caught in one or two light showers of cold drizzle,
though not enough to soak our clothes. We descended slightly to cross the
southern fork of the Chitu, racing down to its valley. The ford is short,
but deep. Then we climbed to the head-waters of the Chitu close by. Here
is, we believe, the divide between the Amazon and the Orinoco; and, if
so, at this point we presumably crossed from Brazil into Venezuela.
These two republics, however, have not delimited the frontier in this
neighbourhood.
THE VENEZUELAN APPROACH TO RORAIMA