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.