This short-circuit, however, misses some interesting country. At Bartika, thirty miles below Rockstone, the commingled Cuyuni and Mazaruni Rivers flow into the Essequebo, and very beautiful is the watersmeet of the three stately streams. On one hand, the shining waters of the Cuyuni invite one, as the morning mists roll away, to follow its gleaming track to Venezuela; whilst, on the other, Mazaruni, “black water,” as its Indian name implies, though flecked with spume from its dread cataracts, has lured on many a diamond-seeker to the very shadow of Roraima’s unscalable precipices.
Amid the mingling Mazaruni and Cuyuni, with a clear view down to the Essequebo, lies Kyk-over-all, a tiny island, where the earliest Dutch settlers lived in a fort, whose picturesque ruins still remain. These hardy pioneers established themselves here as early as the opening years of the seventeenth century, and traded with the Indians chiefly in anatto dye. To “see over all” was indeed a necessity for that tiny handful of white men, whose sole connection with Europe, civilization, and succour was but one solitary ship in a year! The Dutch also established a settlement at Kartabo, a bamboo-crowned point on the nearest mainland, about half a mile away, whence a speedy flight to the fort could be made in case of danger descried. Kartabo Point lies exactly between Mazaruni and Cuyuni, and here the New York Zoological Society hopes to establish a permanent research station under Dr. William Beebe, who considers the neighbourhood a paradise from the naturalist’s point of view.
Within sight, a few miles downstream, His Majesty’s Penal Settlement affords to the convicts all that Nature can offer to cheer their toil! There is naturally no stone in the silted mud flat on which lies the inhabited part of British Guiana; but the excellent granite of which the hills near the Settlement are composed forms the quarry whence all the stone used on the coast has been obtained. Convict labour has also built a dry-dock adjacent to the prison.
I have never been beyond Kartabo on the Mazaruni, but I remember a delightful expedition up the Cuyuni to Matope. We started from the Penal Settlement in the delicious freshness of the early morning, and were carried by the big prison launch to the foot of the Camaria rapids, where there is a road-portage of three miles. “Jack” and “Jill,” two panting Ford lorries, conveyed us with many bumps and jerks over the uneven, hilly road. A prison gang was out “improving” the road-surface by shovelling loose sand into the ruts. Their work looked very nice, and certainly had not exhausted or overheated the dusky road-menders; but poor “Jack” and “Jill” found sand-filled ruts more than they could bear and constantly stuck fast, whilst their boiling radiators protested noisily with spurts of angry steam, and “all man” found assisting them out again distinctly more strenuous than road-mending. Next I have memories of a long, lazy afternoon, when, embarked once more, we puffed and panted slowly upstream from Camaria, or else drifted in lazy silence on the bosom of the big sleepy river, whilst our out-board motor refused to function. The delightful blue hills on each bank of the Cuyuni seemed shouldering each other aside to catch a glimpse of the unaccustomed life; and the exquisite peace made me wish “ever to seem falling asleep in a half-dream,” until the diabolical spitting and puffing reasserted itself and restored me to reality again.
We managed to reach Matope before dusk in spite of many breakdowns. Here, amid tree-crowned rocks, the river swirls down in fifteen separate cataracts; and, in the days of Wenamu and Pigeon Island gold booms, Matope rest-house, post office, and bond-store were established on the two most accessible islets, and a launch service plied thither. We were joyously greeted by the black officer in charge of the station, who proudly displayed to us the attractions of his lonely little domain and ferried us in the gathering dusk—for twilight is, alas! unknown in the tropics—across to the rest-house island, a most enchanting spot. Here, after the bustle of disembarkation and the long, hot day, a bathe in the cool, soft river water, like cream to the skin, was delightful indeed, though it had to be accompanied by a furious splashing to frighten the pirai, an unpleasant flesh-eating fish that nips off the fingers and toes of the unwary ere they know it. Then, lulled by the musical roar of the cataracts, we slept soundly until, at 3 a.m., the “howling baboons” howled. To anyone who has never heard these creatures it is perhaps impossible to convey any idea of this marvellous sound. The South American baboons have howling bones in their throats, and at a distance of some miles their “howl” sounds merely like a storm-wind soughing through distant tree-tops; but, when they are close at hand, the whole air is alive with the din, so that you cannot tell from which direction it proceeds. Every nerve in your body tingles, and there is a curious fascination in the great volume of sound, which used to remind me dimly of the boom of the big temple-bell through the cryptomeria groves of far-distant Japan.
Near Matope, on a hill-shoulder on the right bank of the river, stand the ruins of the house in which the government gold officer of the district used to live in the days of the big gold rushes. He must have had a charming abode. We explored remains of a lovely garden terraced in the hill-side. Beautiful clumps of feathery bamboo framed delicious views of sky, river, and forest, adream in the golden sunlight; whilst bougainvillea, oleander, and petrea made the foreground a riot of colour. But Nature in tropical climates pursues her task of blotting out the works of man with surprising swiftness. The house, a wooden structure of the usual Creole type, had fallen to pieces inside under the influence of wood-ants, and its three stories were filled with a glorious alamander-bush, thrusting its golden blossoms everywhere, filling all the deserted space, and forcing its way out over the roof.
Doubtless one day in the far-distant future these lovely reaches of river will be colonized. Plantations of limes, coffee, and rubber will replace the all-enveloping forests, and managers’ houses will crown the little hills. Although so close to the equator, the sun in British Guiana has little of its eastern fierceness and the climate is wonderfully healthy, if elementary principles of hygiene and sanitation are observed. Once away from the mosquito-ridden coastal swamps, our experience has always been that we can expose and exert ourselves in a way that would be impossible in the East, and I believe that on these inviting hills white men, with wives and children, could live in health and comfort. Communications are needed; motor-roads to run through the forest connecting the settler with civilization and his neighbours. One pioneer, Mr. G. B. Withers, has cleared and planted with rubber the hills on the Mazaruni opposite the Penal Settlement, and has constructed a motor-road through the forest to connect his estate with the Agatash Lime Plantation on the Essequebo above Bartika. No metalling was necessary, since the forest floor, once cleared of stumps, makes an admirable surface. All the big forest trees have been left standing, only the “under-bush” being removed, for shade thus prevents the swift upspringing of vegetable growth which would occur in any place exposed to the direct rays of the tropical sun. Cool even at midday, with hats and helmets removed to enjoy the delicious shade, to drive along these cleverly-aligned gradients is a treat indeed; and one dreams of the transformation which might be wrought by motor transport in this unopened land.
But the day of motor-roads into the interior has not yet come, and we reached Rockstone on our journey to Roraima by railway from Wismar. At Rockstone the great width of the Essequebo is disguised, as almost everywhere else, by islands; for immediately opposite the railway terminus is Gluck Island, fully seven miles long, in whose marshy jungle the Victoria Regia lily was originally found. Apart from the railway-station, the only other building there is a pleasant little bungalow hotel, in which we spent the night. The full moon over the Essequebo was very pretty.
We started upstream from Rockstone at 6.30 a.m. on the 21st December, 1915, and arranged ourselves for a long day’s occupation of the Ark, a primitive sort of house-boat, towed alongside the motor-launch which plies regularly, when the state of the river permits, between Rockstone and Tumatumari. The launch was a terribly noisy affair, and even in the dignified seclusion of our Ark we could not hear ourselves speak. However, once comfortably established in hammocks, we could lose ourselves in our books. One of the most important parts of an outfit for a bush journey, and certainly one that requires very careful thought, is the choice of one’s library; for who would dream of starting, like Musset’s Ninon, “en voyage sans livre”? You want, first of all, books that contain a good deal of reading matter in them, so that you may not run through the pages too quickly; and the more they afford of piquant contrast to the surroundings you are likely to encounter, the better; whilst an enduring charm will be thrown for you over any favourite work which has accompanied you across hill and dale and cheered hours of weary waiting in the rain, or of provoking delays on the part of the food commissariat. Sir George Trevelyan’s Life and Letters of that most delightful of men, Lord Macaulay, Macaulay’s Essays, Kim and Vanity Fair, have all acquired for me a peculiar and indescribable flavour, since this or that passage recalls some incident of travel or lazy hammock hours in river and forest, when, as supper was a-preparing or the pit-pat of rain beat on our tent-roof, I lay luxuriating in the delightfulness of freshly-donned, dry footgear and in the anticipation of “pigtail soup.”
The Essequebo was unusually low on this occasion, and the silver sand-reefs jutted out of the water like bones. At midday we were stopped by the Kopano sands, which forbade further progress. Here we waited a long three hours for a smaller launch, the Nelly, which was expected downstream from Tumatumari to discharge her crowd of “balata-bleeders” and “pork-knockers” into our bigger launch for their return journey via Rockstone to the joys of a Christmas in civilization. We found the time long, in spite of lunch, Lord Macaulay, and the view of a flat-topped hill known as the Arosaro Mountain, a welcome sight to eyes that had scarcely seen any rising ground for two years. It is a low forest-clad hill with a flat top and cliff-edges, the first sounding of the Roraima leit-motif. We were, however, anxious to reach Tumatumari that night, for we knew that the Ark must be left behind with the big launch, while the tarpaulins and camp gear, that would have made a bivouac on the river-bank tolerable, had preceded us by some days with our stores. At 3 p.m. we welcomed the sight of a puff of dark smoke on the wide stretch of smooth, still water before us; but it was close on 4 p.m. before our transhipment was complete and our fate committed to the launch Nelly. She was quite unspeakable—filthy dirty, with a shocking vibration—but we were thankful enough when she did vibrate, for the hateful little thing constantly broke down and floated helplessly on the vast expanse of desolate water, as we anxiously scanned the lingering daylight, the while an unhappy son of Ham wrestled in vain with his engine. My husband managed to sling a hammock for me inside the launch, and that was a great comfort; but the noise was excruciating. The coxswain, a nice fellow called Lekha, half East Indian and half black, said his orders were to get us through, if possible, but that Crabbu Falls could not be run in the dark. As he spoke, the vixenish launch broke down again, and required half an hour’s patching up. A little later the engines stopped once more for a quarter of an hour. We felt rather miserable, as a more comfortless place in which to spend the night than that abominable little Nelly could hardly be imagined, and no food was available, save tea and the remains of a cake, with some slabs of chocolate which I fortunately had handy; so we were now pretty hungry. By 6.30 p.m. it was dark. Rich, fresh, sweet scents were wafted to us from the banks; but, though the moon rose beautifully at 7 p.m., she hid her fickle light soon afterwards behind a cloud-bank. However, our cox was a real good fellow. By help of a very feeble light from the dimmed moon, he got us safely through Tigri Rapids—a tortuous race between rocks—and at about 8.30 p.m. we got to the foot of Crabbu Falls. Here another launch, the Potaro, was waiting to help us up the rapid, and the blazing crude oil of her engines made the night a weird inferno of noise and glare. She was lying near a sandy spit; and, when Nelly got alongside her, we managed to push out a plank, scrambled ashore, and strolled about to stretch our cramped limbs. There was a banaboo of Patamona Indians near by, whose inhabitants came out silently to watch at a safe distance our strange proceedings. The flickering light of the burning oil lit up their dusky figures uncannily.