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

by J. W. Boddam-Whetham

We passed along the east side of Ibropu, then the ever-winding river turned south, and we saw a high table-mountain which we fancied must be Roraima, but the view was only for a moment, and then a veil of clouds concealed it. Afterwards we found out that the mountain we had seen was Marima, which is situated to the north-east of Roraima. We paddled along fine stretches of river, here getting a snipe, there a duck, and sometimes a curri-curri, and at last camped on the left bank. Before it was dark we heard the sound of a horn blown lustily from the river, and soon a woodskin appeared containing a man, woman, and child. It turned out that they lived near Roraima, and having heard from Captain David that we wanted a guide had hastened after us. The man’s name was Abraham, which was about the only common biblical name that we had not encountered among our various crews at some time or other. He declined to camp with us, but preferred going farther on, as he said that close by was the cave of a celebrated “water-māmā,” near whom it was dangerous to sleep.

The Indians firmly believe in the reality of these mermaids, or “water-māmās,” as they are called in Dutch Creole; and where they are supposed to have their caves or nests, there great danger awaits the traveller. Some are related to be extremely beautiful and possessing long golden hair—like the Lorelei—and whoever casts his eye on them is seized with madness, jumps into the deep water, and never returns. Others are hideous, snakes being twined about them, and with their long white talons they drag boats under the water and devour their occupants. On the Orinoco and Amazon similar creatures are supposed to exist, but these are capable of drawing their prey into their mouths at a distance of a hundred yards. In order to avoid such a calamity, the natives always blow a horn before entering a creek or lagoon in which one of these monsters may be living; if it happens to be there, it will immediately answer the horn and thus give warning to the intruder.

When we awoke in the morning it seemed as if the “water-māmā” had indeed bewitched us. The river, which on the previous night flowed quietly beneath the bank on which we were encamped, had disappeared. The woodskins were high and dry on a ledge of rocks that extended for some distance up and down the bed of the stream. There, on the other side of the rocky plateau we discovered the lost river, which had fallen three feet during the night, and had lost nearly the same volume of water that it had gained after the recent rains. About a mile farther on we found Abraham waiting anxiously for us, and glad that we had survived the perils of the night. On this day we caught some beautiful views of Roraima whenever the clouds lifted, and towards noon we left the Cako and turned into a broad creek on its right bank called the Aruparu. By so doing we feared—as eventually proved to be the case—that we should not reach Roraima from its western flank, but as our guide assured us that it was the only way he knew of, we thought it best to follow his advice.

The creek scenery was pretty, but monotonous; the clay banks were clothed with thick bush, with here and there masses of yellow blossoms and the pink tassels of the Brownea. There were also many shrubs known as the “witê,” whose long velvet pods contain beans covered with a very sweet but insipid pulp. A drawback in picking them was that every pull brought down showers of stinging ants, which, as well as parrots, are very fond of that fruit. Sometimes we passed an Indian banaboo that had lately been occupied, and at others the new jungle growth showed where a small village had once existed. At the mouths of the smaller streams, which flowed into the creek, there was generally a barricade of sticks and poles made by the natives for securing fish, but most of the streams were dry and the barricades of ancient date. In the mud and sand were endless tracks of tapirs and the “water-haas”—capybara—and occasionally a splash and rustle told where we had disturbed one of the latter, but we were seldom near enough for a shot.

Ducklars were very numerous, and as we turned each corner, there they would be sitting in rows on the branches of fallen trees awaiting our approach; then a dive and an ungainly flutter to start them, and away they would go to the next bend in the river. But after the Muscovy ducks the men looked with disdain on the fishy ducklar, and those that were shot that day remained uneaten. On many subsequent occasions they looked back with regret on the despised and wasted ducklars. Now and then we heard the “kwet-kwet” of the beautiful scarlet cotinga, and once the brilliant but harsh-voiced pompadour[88] flew across in front of us. Not seldom the narrowing stream was over-arched by the bending trees, and under their dark shadows the splendid blue morphos and still more lovely butterflies of a sparkling violet hue floated lazily. At one place where the forest seemed clearer we ascended the bank, and were gratified by the sight of a savanna, which with a diversity of wood and hill stretched off to some distant mountains.

Owing to the muddy nature of the banks and the thick bush, it was late that night before we could find a camping ground, but at last we came to a spot where some Indians had already erected their sheds. They were wild-looking creatures, hideously painted and stained, and the hair of the men was longer than that of the women. They were stalwart and tall, and had come from their homes in the savanna country to this fashionable watering-place for fishing and bathing. They shook their heads and groaned when they heard that we were going to Roraima, and recommended us to turn back and not act foolishly.

An amusing incident occurred here. Our primitive acquaintances kept us awake for some time with their monotonous sing-song talk, and shortly after I had dropped asleep McTurk awoke me with the intelligence that he was going to have his bath, as day was breaking. I got up at once, as it appeared to be getting light, and we bathed and dressed, and sat in our hammocks waiting coffee. After some time day did not appear to advance much, and to our astonishment we saw the moon slowly rising over the trees. In our anxiety to make an early start we had mistaken moonrise for daybreak, and had got up at about half-past twelve a.m.

Hitherto the creek had been free from all impediments and was deep enough to float large boats, but soon after we left our sleeping quarters the ominous stroke of an axe told us that Abraham was cutting a passage through a fallen tree. For the rest of the day our journey was like going in a canoe through a forest that had been cut down and left. Here, a great tree trunk permitted the passage of the woodskins underneath, but without their loads; there, an enormous limb necessitated the unloading and lifting over of the boats; in some places a sunken log had sufficient water flowing over it to float the woodskins, but only after their contents had been discharged; in others an opening had to be cut through tangled branches and stems. We were never in the boats for five minutes at a time; it was a perpetual jumping in and out, loading and unloading, lifting and hauling, pushing and carrying, cutting and squeezing. Frequently, the arch formed by the overhanging trunk seemed high enough to allow the woodskin and its contents to pass under, but when well in the centre a jam would occur, and we would find ourselves crouching in the bottom of the boat unable to move hand or foot, and water rapidly coming in over the sides. It was most amusing, and I never enjoyed a good laugh at McTurk’s expense without immediately finding myself in a similar position. The great strain on the woodskins caused two of them to split, and only by rapidly conducting them to shore did we save them from sinking. By filling the cracks with bark, linen, and paper, they were soon made serviceable again.

The windings of the creek were extraordinary; often after following a southerly direction for a mile or more, we would turn north for the same distance, and come out on the other side of the narrow promontory only a few yards from where we had started. The same thing would be repeated east and west, and the patient stream seemed never tired of twisting itself into a hundred folds and then untwisting.

Just before dark, we arrived at a place past which it would be impossible to proceed, and Abraham informed us that we had reached the end of the creek journey. So we landed and built our house.