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.