Roraima and British Guiana, With a Glance at Bermuda, the West Indies, and the Spanish Main

by J. W. Boddam-Whetham

In two hours after we left we arrived at the Curipung River, in whose broad mouth the water had shrunk to one narrow channel, just deep enough to admit our boats. Just above, however, it widened out into a stream of about fifty yards in width, and on its left bank we camped. On the other side of this creek, and bordering the Mazaruni, was a large stretch of white sand, and on its edge a number of Indians, who had come down on a fish-poisoning excursion, were encamped. Above all other localities, an Indian is fond of an open, sandy beach whereon to pass the night. In the ground he sticks a few poles from which to suspend his hammock, and if the weather is rainy, a few palm leaves form a sufficient shelter. There in the open, away from the dark, shadowy forest, he feels secure from the stealthy approach of the dreaded “kanaima;”[71] the magic rattle of the “peaiman”[72] has less terror for him when unaccompanied by the weird rustling of the waving branches; and there even the wild hooting of the “didi”[73] is bereft of that intensity with which it pierces the gloomy depths of the surrounding woodland. It is strange that the superstitious fear of these Indians, who are bred in the forest and hills, should be chiefly based on natural forms and sounds. Certain rocks they will never point at with a finger, although your attention may be drawn to them by an inclination of the head. Some rocks they will not even look at, and others again they beat with green boughs. Common bird-cries become spirit-voices. Any place that is difficult of access, or little known, is invariably tenanted by huge snakes or horrible four-footed animals. Otters are transformed into mermaids, and water-tigers inhabit the deep pools and caves of their rivers. Yet with all their superstition, I doubt whether any of them would object to set out on a journey on a Friday, or whether any would place faith in “lucky numbers,” and I am sure none would refuse to join a dinner party of thirteen.

We passed a whole day at our camp on the Curipung, and completed as many “quakes” as we could out of the material, in all numbering forty-two, each capable of holding about fifty-five or sixty pounds. Here we shot a “great mâam,”[74] whose flesh proved superior to anything we had tasted. The anatomy of this bird is peculiar, as it may be said to be nearly all breast; the flesh before cooking is of a light green, and when cooked is white and delicate. In size it is about the same as a pheasant, and its shrill plaintive whistle, which gradually increases in volume, is a never-failing forest-sound both night and morning. There is another but smaller bird of the same species. We also bagged two or three “duraquauras”[75]—partridges—which were almost as good on the table as the “mâam.” The notes of this bird, from which it takes its name, are usually the first heard in the morning and frequently before dawn.

In spite of repeated assurances from Lanceman that he and his Indians would be ready to accompany us early on the following morning, they failed to appear at the appointed time. Some of the natives from the sandbank encampment were willing to join us, so we accepted their services and loaded one of their woodskins, so as to lighten our own boats, and then started. Soon after we left the river widened considerably, but became so shallow that for over an hour we had to walk and drag the boats, and even the woodskin. Then it became deeper, and maintained an average breadth of sixty or seventy yards. The banks were thickly clothed with a jungle growth, above which locust and cork-trees reared themselves. Here and there a great Brownea,[76] with brilliant red flowers or fiery legumes, stretched out, Briareus-like, a hundred arms wreathed with deeply cut arums and parasitical plants, and over the water drooped the feathery foliage of an amherstiæ, with beautiful rose-tinged flowers having long crimson stamens. Sport was easier to be obtained here than on the large river, and we had plenty of amusement spearing rays and shooting sun-bitterns, hanuras,[77] white egrets, and sometimes a beautiful Quaak heron.[78] The latter is a very graceful bird with plumy crest, and curly neck and breast feathers of a lovely lavender colour. Nothing was wasted, for most of our civilized Indians found no flesh amiss, and apparently enjoyed the leg of a heron as much as they did the breast of a mâam. But two of our Acawais would not eat the delicious pacu, although they did not refuse the ray, or the electric-eel. In North America, too, the Comanche Indians will not eat fish that have scales, but are fond of those that have none.

The different tribes of Guiana have various ideas regarding what food is fit and what food is unfit to be eaten. For instance, the Caribs will not touch large fish, nor will they eat pork. The Macusi consider the flesh of cattle unclean, but do not object to that of peccary and wild boar. The Warraees think roast dog a great delicacy, therein resembling the Cheyennes of North America. On this river we missed the little silver fish running swiftly over the top of the water, the bats that flew out of every dead tree near the water’s edge as we passed, and even the bumble bees that had been our constant companions on the Mazaruni. But their place was supplied by sociable king-fishers, many of which kept in our society for hours, awaiting our approach on some bare bough, and then skimming over the water just ahead of us. Ducklars, too, and curri-curris stood less on ceremony, and scarcely waited for an invitation to dinner. We stopped for breakfast near a village—two houses—where fifteen or twenty people assembled to look at us. A successful wild-pig hunt had just provided them with a quantity of meat, a small portion of which we wished to purchase. They, however, declined to part with any of it, unless we gave in return a much larger supply of salt than we could afford; so we had to go without it. “Gentle hospitality,” quoth the Sanscrit sage, “dwelleth not in palaces. Rather seeking, shall ye find her in the tent of the desert.” Before we left, a woodskin, containing Lanceman and six other Indians caught us up, and we proceeded together.

The river scenery was now more picturesque, and mountain forms, with outlines ever changing as we moved, gathered round us. Our course was so winding that sometimes the same mountain appeared on one side of us and sometimes on the other. Towards evening we obtained a very pretty view. Beyond where the river narrowed a little, two mountains stood almost together, the nearer—Wattaparu—flat-topped, and with bare, perpendicular walls, loomed up grandly and in striking contrast with the other—Aricanna—whose rounded base was crowned with a curious pinnacle, the whole being thickly wooded from top to bottom. The one was all shining silver-grey, the other of a rich purple bloom. But with the mountains had come the rain, and it was as much as we could do by perpetual bailing to keep the boats above water. At length we camped on a sandbank, and for the first time since we left Georgetown built a house.

As we might now expect constant rains, in all our future camps the building of a shelter was our first care. The huts were necessarily substantial, in order to sustain the weight of our hammocks. Four stout forked poles were worked into the ground, and formed the corner posts; these were connected by strong poles, and in the centre of the narrower ends of the parallelogram two more thick forked poles were erected high enough for the tarpaulins, which were thrown over the connecting beam to form a sloping ceiling. All the fastenings were made with bush-rope, which was as pliable as cord. Rafters placed across the connecting side-beams formed a dry platform in wet weather for the “quakes,” guns, &c. After a little practice, it was astonishing how quickly the shelter was set up. In spite of our house the night was not a pleasant one, as owing to our exposed situation the rain beat in terribly through the open sides. It passed though, and before daybreak the tarpaulins were down and the boats reloaded. The course of the river was more tortuous than on the preceding day, and it seemed as if we should never reach the other side of Wattaparu, so frequently did we pass and repass it. In some places fallen trees obstructed our passage, and these had to be cut away; and in others enormous boulders, formed of coarse conglomerate and diorite rising from the bed of the river, gave us but scanty space to squeeze through.

At last we reached a mountain triangle. In front was Wairinu, a splendid table-mountain with bold perpendicular wall, and castellated like some gigantic fortification of the most perfect stone masonry. On our left was Pacaru, surmounted by a high cone and with massive slabs of rock jutting out from its side. On the right rose Wuruima with its outline similar to Pacaru. Everywhere there was a beautiful blending of rock and forest, the rocks varying from red overhanging buttresses to grey perpendicular heights, furred at intervals with shrubs, and the forest which covered every available spot with dark green foliage was brightened in places with a few patches of colour, and the lighter tints of palm and wild plantain leaves.

On reaching the Seroun creek, near which the Indian path leads across the country, we found the water too shallow for an ascent, so crossing to the right bank of the Curipung, we camped on some high ground below the falls of Macrebah. Nowhere had we found so picturesque a camping ground. Under the trees was a broad beach of the whitest sand, at whose foot ran the dark river, foam-flecked from the beautiful falls over which the water rushed in three successive cataracts, flanked and broken by enormous boulders. Mountains surrounded the little valley through which the river flowed, and their wonderful precipices and curious forms were a never failing source of attraction. As this was the terminus of our river travel in boats, we soon set to work filling and weighing the “quakes;” the weight assigned to each man being forty-five pounds of provisions, which together with his own bundle and a few et ceteras altogether amounted to about sixty pounds, no inconsiderable weight to carry, when the temperature and the difficulties of the route are considered.