Rivers:—The Essequibo.
Let us take a glance over some of the rivers of the land.
The Essequibo, called by the Indians the “younger brother of the Orinoco,” first claims attention. The mouth has rather the appearance of a vast lake than a river, its shores bordered by thick groves of that tree of curious structure, the mangrove, whose roots or seeds, borne on the ocean wave, strike wherever they can find a muddy soil, throughout every part of the tropics. Rising upwards on the roots, which it shoots downwards as it grows, the base of its stem is often six or eight feet from the ground—the stem itself seldom more than a foot in diameter, and from fifteen to twenty feet in height. Its thick stiff ribs, about eight inches long and nine inches wide, are of a dark sombre hue. This broad estuary, extending inland for thirty miles or more, with numerous picturesque islands covered by tropical vegetation rising out of it, is joined by the united streams of the Masaruni and Cuyuni, its own and their romantic waterfalls making a continuous navigation up them impossible. Yet, notwithstanding its impediments, these rivers afford the only means of communication, except
along the foot-tracks of the Indians, through the dense forests, into the far-off interior. These forests commence in many parts close to the ocean, spreading often for thousands of square miles, broken sometimes by swamps, and at others by wide savannahs, open spaces covered with grasses, and here and there clumps of trees. Even the sand-hills of moderate height bordering the Atlantic are clothed by the superb vegetation of the tropics,—the forest extending to, and even climbing up the sides of the Rocky Mountains. Vast timber trees, the purple and green heart, the stately mora, the locust-tree, raise their heads above
their smaller brethren, conquering in the struggle for room to allow their foliage to expand; while below, the moist carpet of fallen leaves, fungi, and moss, increases the richness of the vegetation. Here also are numerous graceful palms,—the cocorite, from which the Indians form their poisoned arrows; the troali, with broad and long leaves, used for thatching their huts. The graceful manicol, rising to a great height, bends, like the weeping willow, its slender stem over the stream; and, with several other species of palm, it affords the succulent cabbage. Beautiful parasites hang in every direction from the trunks and boughs—sipos ascending and clinging in intricate network, interlacing the trunks and branches, and often supporting the remnants of the trees they themselves by their fatal embrace have destroyed; indeed, the same style of forest here exists as throughout the Valley of the Amazon.
As the flora is much the same on a similar altitude, so there is little difference in the fauna, although some species are found in Guiana which are unknown in the latter region. The native tribes, however—the red men of the wilds—differ considerably. Near the supposed site of the famed El Dorado at Pirara, situated on the borders of Brazil, some thirty years ago, an attempt was made to carry, not the gold that perishes, but the joyful news of salvation, to the long-benighted Indians in that region. It was blessed, and was prospering greatly, and gave promise of the speedy conversion of the Macusi tribe and others, when some Brazilian Roman Catholic priests, hearing of it, determined on its destruction, and induced their government to claim the region as Brazilian territory. A detachment of militia was despatched, and took possession of the village. The Indians, fearing lest the Brazilians might conduct them into slavery, dispersed into the forests and mountains, while the missionary with difficulty escaped with his life.
The distance to be traversed from the British capital of George Town to Pirara is about three hundred miles; and though the scenery is of that enchanting character which, as the enthusiastic Waterton describes it, made his soul overflow with joy, and roam in fancy through fairyland, yet, as it is through an almost uninhabited country, with numerous rapids and torrents, woods to be traversed, and mountains to be climbed, the difficulties are not contemptible.
“To surmount these obstacles to navigation,” say Mr Brett, “it is necessary in some places to carry or haul the canoe overland at the sides of the fall. At others, advantage is taken of the eddies which are found at the base, and huge rocks that intercept the stream. The Indians pass from rock to rock by leaping, wading, or swimming, and, by means of a hawser, haul the boat through the rushing water from one resting-point to another, the steersman keeping his seat, and—sometimes lashed to it—striving with his large paddle to guide in some degree her course. The roar of the water dashing and foaming against the surrounding rocks renders this operation as exciting as it is difficult. Still more exciting and difficult is the task of descending these rapids. The safety of all then depends on their perfect steadiness, and on the bowman and steersman acting in concert, and with instant decision. The canoe is kept in the very centre of the current, one of her best hands kneeling with quick eye and ready paddles in the bow, and the rest of the crew exerting their strength to give her headway. Darting swiftly along, she arrives at the head of the fall, and bounding downward, shoots into the surf below it, dashing it up on either side, and leaving her crew alone visible. If all be well, rising above the foam, she obeys the guiding paddles in stem and stern, and dances over the tumbling waves, while her excited crew exult at their success. Whole families, however, even of Indians, are sometimes drowned; and in 1805 Captain Beresford, son-in-law of the governor, and four other gentlemen, with two of their crew, lost their lives in shooting the lower falls of the Masaruni.”