In the Wilds of South America

by Leo E. Miller

Below São Feliz we found another small launch towing a batelão, which in the course of a day took us to a camp called Tabajara. We had not gone more than a few miles the next morning when further progress was again barred by rapids. After a short walk we crossed a branch of the river in small dugouts and then started on a two-mile portage through the flooded forest. Another launch was waiting below the rapids, but within twenty minutes after weighing anchor we again heard the roar of troubled waters ahead of us; the river raced between high, rock-strewn banks. In the distance we could see flecks of foam dotting the surface, while a cloud of mist hung over the river; but from beyond the veil that obstructed our further view came the ominous roar of a great cataract, growing in intensity as we drew near. The landing was about a hundred yards above the brink of the first fall, but the current proved to be too strong for the launch’s little engine, and we were in danger of being swept past; the moments that followed were exciting, but fortunately we managed to reach the bank. This same thing had occurred but a short time before, but the result had been disastrous; the boat was swept over the falls, and, of the thirty-one men aboard, twenty-seven were never seen again. The portage around these rapids, called São Vicente, was about a mile and a half in length and led over gently undulating country, all heavily forested. In many places the bed-rock had been uncovered by the torrential rains. This consisted of fine-grained, dark granite; usually there was a shallow layer of sand on the rock, with a thick covering of rich black mould. From the top of a high knoll we had a fairly good view of the falls and of the rapids below; after leaping over a twenty-foot ledge the river rushes through a narrow rock-filled gorge; enormous boulders tower out of the channel like so many black, unvanquished monarchs. Tongues of spray leap to a height of forty feet, and clouds of vapor rise in a constant stream. With the exception of the Salto Bello of the Rio Sacre and Utiarity Falls of the Papagaio, we had seen nothing to compare with São Vicente during our entire journey across Brazil.

That night we reached the first settlement, a small village named Doze de Novembro. We arrived tired and wet, for it had rained the greater part of the afternoon, but we congratulated ourselves upon having performed a remarkable day’s work.

The place was overrun with ants, not the comparatively harmless carregador ants, which are content to carry away your clothing piecemeal while you sleep, but with endless armies of the fierce black carnivorous species that prey upon every living being. These ants are one of the scourges of the tropics; whether in the fever-stricken Chocó on the west coast of Colombia, at the base of Duida on the Orinoco, or in the wilds of Matto Grosso, the ravaging hordes seemed always the same. One moment they hurry along in solid formations, the next side-lines have been thrown out in all directions, covering many square yards of ground. Not one leaf or crevice escapes the alert scouting-parties, which ascend even to the top of the tallest tree. When a victim is discovered the news in some mysterious way is flashed to the main column, and battalions of reinforcements immediately rush to the encounter, charging the prey and clinging with vise-like mandibles to any part of its body that offers a hold. Usually the approach of the devastating host is preceded by a swarm of panic-stricken insects, crawling, hopping, and flying in their endeavors to escape destruction; large, hairy tarantulas crawl to the tops of bushes and leap from leaf to leaf, only to be discovered and routed, until in despair they spring to the ground, which by this time is one surging mass of ants, where they are despatched in short order. I have seen scorpions and centipedes eight inches long suffer a similar fate; no living thing seems to escape the avalanche of destruction. Flocks of ant-birds usually follow in the wake of the army, feeding upon the ants and upon the insects that have been driven from their hiding-places. One of the questions that naturally arises in this connection is how the callow young of birds escape from the ants, as caged birds are not immune from their attacks, and dead or wounded birds placed near the army’s line of march are quickly discovered, torn to shreds, and carried away. While in British Guiana I had been watching the nest of an ant-wren containing two helpless young, placed in the crotch of a tree a few feet above the ground, for several days; one morning the whole region was swarming with ants and the nest was empty; however, not long after, and also on subsequent days, both parent birds were seen contentedly carrying food into a thicket fifty yards away. A casual search failed to reveal the new nest, but to my mind there was no doubt that the young birds had been removed upon the approach of danger; one of the adults was marked in a peculiar manner, so that there was no mistake in the identity of the pair. Doubtless this was an exceptional case, and in the vast majority of instances young birds perish in common with the other creatures which are overwhelmed by the ants.

On the day following our arrival at the little village we boarded a waiting launch sent from the Madeira to meet us—the Jayme, she was called—and started on the final stretch down the stream; within an hour we reached the boundary-line of Matto Grosso and entered the great state of Amazonas. The Gy-Paraná had assumed the proportions of a mighty river; it is doubtless one of the largest, if not the longest affluent of the Madeira, and frequently the distance between banks was not less than half a league. The water was yellow and there was little current; frequently we ran into drifts of floating trees, branches, and patches of grass that had been washed out of the flooded areas. There was no opening in the tall, tropical forest which stretched into the distance and disappeared in one long, unbroken vista of deepest green. Toward evening we reached the mouth of the Gy-Paraná and entered the vast, muddy expanse of the Madeira; we crossed to the other side and landed at a small port called Calama, the home of Senhor Asensi, owner of the rubber-camps we had passed on the last days of our journey down the river. Senhor Asensi very courteously placed his comfortable home at our disposal and suggested that we remain as his guests until we had in some measure recuperated from our rather trying experiences, and we were glad to accept his hospitality. Practically every member of the party had suffered from frequent and severe attacks of fever, although half a gram of quinine had been taken by each one daily, and some of the camaradas were so ill that they had to be carried ashore; the latter were sent to Manaos on the first available steamer for medical treatment. I was particularly eager to spend some time at Calama, as the locality appeared to offer unusual opportunities for zoological work. After a few days of thorough rest the Brazilian members of the party started up-river to Santo Antonio, for a tour of the Madeira-Mamoré railroad, while I remained to investigate the fauna of the region.

The country back of Calama is high and undulating, so that it remains untouched by the water that covers the lowlands during the wet season. A small space which had been cleared around the building was covered with a fine growth of grass and low bushes, and served as pasture for a few head of cattle; small birds, such as flycatchers, grass-finches, and tanagers teemed in the opening, and many thick-billed green parrots squawked in the tree-tops at the edge of the forest. A short distance below the landing there was an extensive swamp and many small brush-covered islands; masses of aquatic plants floated in the quiet, open pools, conspicuous among which was the beautiful Victoria regia, with leaves four feet in diameter. In the dense, tangled vegetation that grew out of the black depths of the murky swamp-water we found flocks of hoatzins, or lizard-birds, curious archaic creatures which retain some of the characteristics of their reptilian ancestors; they are about the size of a pheasant, of an olive color above and yellowish below; a high crest crowns the head, and they possess only a limited power of flight. It was the height of the nesting-season, and many of the fragile platforms of sticks contained two or three yellowish eggs, heavily spotted with reddish-brown; the wings of the young are provided with long, sharp claws which enable them to climb about over the branches like lizards; hence their name.

All travelling through the swamp had to be done in a canoe; and pushing the dugout through the almost solid mass of branches and creepers was a difficult task. Every twig seemed to swarm with small red ants, called fire-ants, on account of the intense burning sensation produced by their bites, and they were constantly dropping upon us in scores. Several times we blundered into maribundi nests, and in each instance the outraged wasps promptly retaliated. Large iguanas jumped out of the trees into the water with a loud splash as we passed underneath, and troops of woolly monkeys deserted the wild cashew-trees in which they fed and beat a hasty retreat. The swamp was full of life, but we rarely recovered anything we shot; the caymans and piranhas with which the water was infested usually snapped up our specimens before we could reach them. At night we set throw-lines and caught the great pacu, a fish of the piranha family; but unlike its bloodthirsty relative it prefers a vegetable diet. A pirarucú, six feet long and weighing two hundred and fifty pounds, was also taken; this is the largest fish that inhabits Amazonian waters; the scales are an inch and a half in diameter and of a silvery color, those of the latter half of the body being margined with deep scarlet. It is delicious, either fresh or salted.

The forest back of Calama contained about as much game as is ever found in one spot in South America. There were deer, agoutis, and peccaries, but it was impossible to penetrate far into the interior on account of the Parintintin Indians, who make this region their stronghold. These Indians have always maintained a hostile attitude toward the settlers. An attack was made on Calama one day at noon just as luncheon was being served; from out of the dead silence of midday there suddenly came a shower of arrows; this was promptly answered by rifle-shots from the house, and the Indians immediately fled. Thirty bamboo arrows were gathered up, many of them five feet tall, with barbs on each side of the head; some of the shafts were wrapped with hair and skin taken from the victims of previous raids.

The Parintintins are of medium stature and well built; they are frequently at war with their near neighbors, the Mundrucus; when hostilities are in progress, which is nearly always, the front of the head is shaven, leaving only a round spot of short hair no larger than a silver half-dollar in the centre; the hair on the back of the head remains long.

The Mundrucus have the curious custom of preserving the heads of the Parintintins slain in battle; one of these I subsequently saw, prepared somewhat in the same manner as those formerly so highly prized by the head-hunters of Ecuador. Apparently the head had been smoked, and the eyes had been replaced with balls of pitch; it was a weird trophy, suggestive of wild orgies and cannibalistic rites performed in the depths of the jungle by the light of flickering pitch-torches, and to the music of wailing reeds and deep-voiced tom-toms.

Captain Amilcar reached Calama about a week after our arrival. He had suffered a second accident, in which his canoe, all his personal effects, the instruments, and practically all of his scientific data had been lost. These incidents emphasize the uncertainty of travel and exploration on the great South American waterways, and the dangers to which every one is constantly subjected who ventures beyond the beaten paths of steamships and tourists’ routes.