A CORNER OF BRAZIL
CHAPTER VIII
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.
Waratuk Rapids.
Opamapö Waterfall.
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.
Fording the Kotinga River.
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.