Pioneering Sage of the Suwannee

This item was purchased at an auction and it seems that it was produced for a story that we have yet to locate. The photo is certainly a great one, taken at the homestead that he built.

Pioneering Sage of the Suwannee

Collected and digitized by Doug Frizzle, September 2011

32666 Wide World Please Credit (This picture is for release to PMS of Tuesday, Sept.7, 1943 (note special release date) and thereafter, with Malcolm B. Johnson’s Chiefland, Fla., AP special story on A. Hyatt Verrill)

A, Hyatt Verrill, 20th century pioneer at the age or 73, stands near his hand-built home at the old Anhiarka Indian village near Chiefland, Fla., in the Suwannee River back country. Verrill went there four years ago after a half century as explorer, naturalist, archaeologist, author and artist. He cleared two acres of wooded land, built his house, made much of the furniture and now lives there with his wife and a distant relative who helps Verrill decipher inscriptions they found in pre-Incan ruins. Author of a hundred books about his adventures and work, Verrill now tans leather and makes his own footwear, carries on scientific experiments with flowers and vegetables, is a taxidermist, upholsterer, wood and leather worker for his neighbors, and their consultant on forest lore and farming, known as “The Doctor”. His only worry is his grand-daughter Conchita Cintron, the only woman bullfighter, who risks her life in Mexican arenas.

9415-w-9/1/43 11:15a x-j wabc 118

Looking for Adventure

Lately, Alan Schenker has been coming up with a lot of national newspaper stories by Hyatt Verrill. This one combines a number of stories that are in his autobiography, but the story starts with an interesting viewpoint. There are a couple of graphics but they did not survive the multiple copying.

Looking For Adventure

Where Do They Get That Hair-Raising Thrill Stuff? Asks Veteran Explorer of Tropical America

by A. Hyatt Verrill

The Washington Post; Jul 6, 1930; pg. MS5. Collected by Alan Schenker, digitized by Doug Frizzle, September 2011

Whenever I read narratives relating the astonishing, thrilling, not to say hair-raising, adventures of explorers who have ventured for a brief time into some untamed portion of tropical America, I wonder how they do it. Is adventure, like art or music a gift or a talent with which one is born? Or is it like so many things nowadays, a specialized profession? Is real adventure pure luck or—perish the thought—all imagination?

For the better part of 35 years I have been knocking about in the jungles of South and Central America, in the high bush of the West Indies, on deserts and pampas, on the bleak snowcapped Andes. I have tramped hundreds of miles through jungles supposedly infested with wild beasts, venomous serpents, noxious insects and hostile savages. I have traveled for weeks on tropical streams filled with rapids and whirlpools, my craft a frail bark or dugout canoe, my boatmen, native Indians. I have journeyed thousands of miles on horseback, muleback and afoot through the wildest country in South America. I have dwelt among^: scores of Indian tribes, who were as primitive and wild as in the days of Columbus. I have hunted and killed every four-footed creature of South and Central America. I have voyaged several hundred thousand miles by^: sea in steamships, windjammers, fishing smacks, dugouts and leaky cattle boats. I have traveled and camped, eaten and slept with chance companions who were murderers, bandits, outlaws, escaped convicts and out-and-out scoundrels, black, white, red, brown, yellow and all intermediate shades. But never yet have I had what I would call a real adventure.

Of course I've run risks. I've been in tight places and have had close shaves and have had my full share of hardships and the inevitable results of tempting the tropics—such results as yellow typhoid, dengue, blackwater, breakbone, chargres and ordinary malarial fevers. Such things are all part of the day's work for an explorer in the tropics. But I have never been, held up, threatened, robbed nor molested by any one. I have never been attacked by a wild beast; never bitten by a poisonous snake; never treated with anything but friendliness by Indians; never shipwrecked; never held for ransom nor inconvenienced by revolutionists (although I have been in the vortex of several revolutions); have never been obliged to keep my men under control at the point of a gun; nor have I ever slept with a revolver under my pillow while plots and counterplots buzzed about my camp.

Possibly I've missed a lot. Very probably many persons will feel that in confessing to the above I have knocked the romance out of tropical exploration or will assume I am lacking in imagination. On the contrary, I possess a highly developed imagination and an intensely romantic disposition. But as regards adventure in the accepted meaning of the term, I take much the same stand as the countryman who for the first time gazed at the giraffe.

Yet perhaps I'm wrong. Perhaps after all I have had adventures. Possibly what I consider experiences might be classified as adventures by others. Honestly, I would like to know, and the best way of finding out may be to relate a few of my most interesting experiences and let the reader judge.

There was Jose and the jungle trip, for example. I was in the interior of Costa Rica at the time. My headquarters were in a frontier settlement in the midst of the jungle. As there was no other habitable building available, the alcalde cleaned out one-half of the jail and informed me that the house and all it contained were mine.

As a rule I carry my own guide and servant with me on my expeditions, but on this occasion I was without an A. D. C. for I had expected to find a satisfactory man in the village. But none of the able-bodied males could be induced to work and I turned to my friend, the alcalde, in my dilemma. He scratched his nose in perplexity.

Then a brilliant idea came to him.

"There is Jose, senor!" he exclaimed. "He knows the jungle like an Indian; he knows the ways of the birds and beasts and he is an honest man.”

“Excellent!" I agreed. "And who is Jose?"

"He is only a murderer,” the alcalde assured me. "He is here awaiting the police, who are to take him to San Carlos, where he is to remain in prison for life. But the police will not arrive for two weeks. In the meantime the senor is welcome to him. The senor need pay him no wages, and each night he will sleep in the jail, so he will be of no expense to the senor."

Jose, a stocky half-breed, grinned when the alcalde explained matters. The tiny jail was vermin infested and crowded with rascals each night, and he was overjoyed at the idea of spending his days in the jungle. He proved a veritable treasure to me. Never have I employed a better bushman, and he was as faithful as only a dog or an Indian can be. From dawn until dark we tramped and hunted the jungles, Jose, the condemned murderer, carrying my loaded rifle and alone with me in the heart of the tropical forest.

He was booked for lifelong incarceration in San Carlos Prison—there being no capital punishment in Costa Rica—and it would have been the easiest thing in the world to have shot me in the back. Provided with my gun and ammunition, he could have lived for months in the jungle without fear of capture; he could have escaped to Nicaragua or to Panama, and even had he been taken and his act proven he would have been no worse off. But I don't believe the idea ever entered his head. At any rate, I never gave it a thought and I never considered it an adventure.

From Costa Rica the scene shifts to the Guianas. I had been traveling by canoe for weeks up one of the big jungle rivers and had penetrated far beyond the last outposts of civilization, where only the primitive Indians dwelt in widely separated villages and where few white men had ever been. I had been visiting an Indian village in the jungle-covered hills and had returned to my camp beside the river with my five Indian boatmen, my half-breed captain and my Negro camp boy. Darkness had fallen; we had finished our dinner of broiled monkey and cassava bread when the grizzly headed Boviander captain raised his hand warningly, listened intently and remarked:

"Bateau she been comin', chief."

"Maybe an Indian family coming downstream," I suggested.

The captain shook his head.

"No, chief," he declared, "she not Buck (Indian) bateau. She been white man or mebbe black fellows."

The rattle of paddles on gunwales was now plain, and a moment later a large boat filled with men appeared silhouetted against the pale shimmer of the river. Our campfire threw a ruddy light, and from the strange craft came a hail in broken English, asking if we were Indians. Then the voice inquired if he and his comrades could camp with us. Seeing no reason to refuse and knowing there was no good camp site elsewhere for several miles I assented.

A moment later a big bateau grated on the bank and fully twenty men scrambled ashore. Who or what they were I could not be sure, but by the faint light from the fire I could see that some were black, others brown and one of two white, that all appeared to be ragged and wild looking and that they jabbered among themselves in patois French. The fellow who had first hailed us—a big, gaunt, bewhiskered fellow in short canvas breeches and ragged shirt—strode forward, thanked me for permission to camp and asked if I could spare any tobacco. I did not have an oversupply, but knowing how a smoker craves tobacco in the bush I told Sam to open the provision chest and give the fellow a couple of tins.

As he watched Sam, he unquestionably saw the other tins of tobacco, the trade goods, the supplies, the matches and other articles. He knew, too, that we had arms and ammunition, fishing tackle and money. But he asked for nothing else and, expressing his thanks, joined his comrades, who had lighted a fire and were spreading palm leaves for beds. Wondering at this, for no one dreams of going into the Guiana bush without hammocks, I strolled over to their camp and, to my surprise, I noticed that there was no sign of the inevitable rice and coffee being cooked. Only a miserable bony sunfish was being prepared. The leader evidently read my thoughts and remarked that he and his friends were short of provisions, having journeyed a long way. In the bush one shares what one can with the other chap and, returning to my camp, I had Sam break out sugar, coffee, rice, beans and pork, and adding a haunch of peccary to this, I sent the food to the strangers.

The food put them in gay humor, and far into the night they sang, laughed and joked. Our supplies, our arms, our equipment remained unguarded and unwatched as we slumbered in our hammocks, until, as usual, the first streaks of dawn, the clattering of toucans and the squawking of parrots and macaws aroused us. Our unknown companions of the night had already broken camp and were embarking in their big battered and patched canoe, which looked as if it had reposed beneath the water for years.

Never have I seen a tougher appearing crowd than they, but they were good humored, they shouted thanks and farewells, and noisily pushed off and vanished around a bend of the river, not an article of ours was missing, not a thing had been disturbed—and yet, as I knew, the fellows must have been desperately in need of provisions, arms and equipment. Already I had begun to suspect who and what they were, and later I found my suspicions confirmed. They were escaped convicts from the penal settlement in French Guiana, the most desperate and ruthless Apaches and thugs, and their bewhiskered leader was thrice a murderer. Poor devils! They never won through. Ignorant of the treacherous river, its currents and its rapids, they took a wrong turn, went over a cataract and perished to a man within a few hours after they had left our camp. It was the great adventure for them, but hardly an adventure for me.

At another time I was in the interior of Santo Domingo, in a wild, unsettled district. It was raining in torrents, the night was coming on, and, having expected to reach a village before dark, I was not equipped for camping. My only companion was a West Indian colored boy and it looked as if we would pass a miserable night in the saddle. Presently to our joy, we came to a tiny clearing with a palm-thatched hut. At our approach a man appeared in the doorway of the hut. He was a swarthy, fiercely mustached fellow with bushy brows and reddened eyes, and was far from prepossessing. He was clad in patched cotton garments, wore a battered sombrero, carried a long-bladed, cross-hilted machete and a heavy revolver at his belt. For a moment he peered at us, and then, as I asked if we could stop for the night, he grinned, doffed his hat and declared that his house and all it held were mine. He was the soul of hospitality. Humble as was his hut, he did his best to make us comfortable. His woman, a plump, good-looking half-breed, fanned the smoldering fire into a blaze, prepared coffee and baked tortillas while our host brought out chicha and cleared a space in one corner and spread a cowhide and palm trash for our beds. With our garments dried, and our stomachs lined, we chatted with our fierce visaged host. At that time revolutionists and bandits were as thick as ants throughout the republic. It was not wise to express an opinion for or against a political party, but as our host appeared to take a keen interest in the situation, and explained he had kept out of sight for fear of being drawn into the forces of one side or the other, I related all I had seen or heard. He, too, had had experiences, and he told of service in the last revolt, showed an ugly bullet wound in one leg and a livid scar made by a machete on one shoulder, and conveyed the impression—though without bragging—that he was something of a firebrand himself. But I noticed he did not mention names or places in his stories.

When I left his home the following morning he refused to accept any payment for his hospitality; gave me directions as to a short cut across the mountains, and with a hearty, "May you go with God, senor," he waved his hand in farewell.

A few weeks later there was great rejoicing throughout the province. The most feared bandit in the country, a murderous rascal named Galvan, but more widely known as "El Lobo," had been taken. He had put up a savage fight and was brought in literally cut to pieces. He was a shocking sight; but I recognized the bloodstained, pallid face of the dying bandit as the face of the fellow who had given me shelter that stormy night.

By all recognized rules of adventure tales he should have cut my throat while I slept, should have held me for ransom, or at the very least should have robbed me. But he did neither, and so again adventure passed me by.

Another time, while in Central America, I was starting forth from a tiny wayside inn long before dawn. My way was over an unfrequented road across mountains, with no houses for miles, and I foresaw a lonely ride. As I entered the patio where my horse stood saddled, the mozo inquired if I would object to having a companion on my journey, explaining that another caballero was traveling in my direction. Presently the caballero appeared—a burly figure whose features were unrecognizable in the darkness. He expressed his pleasure at the prospect of a companion on the lonely road and mounted a splendid white horse. For hours we rode side by side, talking and chatting, and I found my unknown comrade a most delightful and interesting individual.

When, at last the gray light of dawn enabled me to see his face I discovered that he was a gigantic Negro with a huge scar across one cheek which had twisted his thick lips into an evil leer. We breakfasted beside a spring on the mountainside, and an hour or two later reached the summit of the pass. Here the fellow halted, and, informing me that his way led over a trail to the south, he shook hands cordially, wished me a safe journey and rode off through the forest.

Late that evening I reached San Mateo and threw myself with a sigh of relief into a hammock swinging at the inn. The proprietor plied me with questions as to my trip and asked casually if I had met any one on my ride. As I spoke of my chance companion and described him, the face of the easy-going innkeeper paled and he glanced nervously about.

"Madre de Dios! he exclaimed, crossing himself. "The Americano senor bears a charmed life then. Know you not that you rode with the Evil One himself? No other bears such a scar on his face. It was Panchito Gomez, senor—the outlawed leader of the last insurrection. There is a price of 5,000 gold pesos on his head!"

But I can not see that there was any adventure in riding through the hills at night with an outlaw with a price on his head—that is, when one is not aware of it at the time.

Possibly I have been unlucky—or maybe I should say lucky—in not meeting with more thrilling adventures. But judging from my own experiences, the type of adventure we associate with tropical exploration is about the rarest thing in the bush.

Perhaps, too, my grizzled old Boviander captain was right when, referring to this same subject of adventure, he observed: "Taken’ de fac's o' da case in considation, Ah boun' say a man boun' to fin' wha'sever he aims fo', dat is if he lives long ‘nough."

So it may simply be that I have not lived long enough.

Where East Meets West

This article originally had 13 pictures (by the author) and in the processing, the captions below the images were discarded by my software. That being the case, I've just included three, sorry.

Where East Meets West

Demerara and Paramaribo, a study in contrasts—Oriental life in South America—British and Dutch Guiana, the last relics of great colonial empires—Native customs and character

A. Hyatt Verrill

Travel magazine February 1916, collected by Alan Schenker, digitized by Doug Frizzle August 2011.

TO those seeking new lands to visit during the winter months— places out of the beaten track and yet within easy reach and where every necessity and luxury may be obtained—Demerara will prove an ideal spot.

Here on the northeast coast of South America is a land intensely tropical and marvelously luxuriant with strange and wonderful forms of vegetation—a land where splendid highways enable the visitor to drive or motor for hundreds of miles through scenes utterly new, and where hunting, fishing, sailing, golfing or any other sport or recreation may be followed to one's heart's content. A country of strange, sharp contrasts, where Twentieth Century civilization borders on the untamed wilderness, where wild birds and beasts and wilder men may be seen dwelling in their native homes, and yet where every comfort and necessity is provided for.

Although less than five hundred miles north of the equator, Demerara—or more properly Georgetown, the capital of British Guiana is not oppressively hot, and, contrary to prevalent ideas, it is not unhealthy.

Throughout the year the trade winds blow constantly and temper the heat of the tropic sun, and while it is often unpleasantly wet during the rainy summer season, yet the mercury never soars into the nineties, and the sweltering, humid heat of New York is unknown. During the winter—from October until January or February—the thermometer rarely exceeds 85 degrees, occasional showers cool and freshen the air, the nights are cool and delightful, mosquitoes and other insect pests are rarely troublesome, and as a whole there are few places in the tropics which possess a climate more agreeable or less trying to Northerners. But if you visit Demerara don't make the mistake of trying to live, dress and eat as in the north; even the healthiest of tropic lands will prove inimical to one's welfare unless one's life and habits are adapted to the local conditions.

"Early to bed and early to rise," is an excellent maxim for the visitor to the tropics to bear in mind, for abundant sleep is a necessity and the early hours of the morning are the pleasantest of the twenty-four.

Don't overeat, but partake of native food as much as possible; far too many tourists adhere to a northern diet in the tropics, with dire results. Wear the lightest of summer clothing, but avoid draughts or cool air when warm. Don't overexert or over-exercise, and thus exhaust your vitality, for while sunstroke and heat prostration are practically unknown, yet extreme lassitude, digestive disorders and irritating skin affections often result from a too strenuous life beneath a tropical sun. Above all, never use spirituous liquors to excess; if you must drink, drink sparingly; liquor has killed more men in the tropics than all the fevers, insects, snakes and diseases combined.

While Demerara is almost unknown to the majority of Americans, yet it is a big, bustling, modern place with a population of nearly half a million, commerce amounting to over $20,000,000 annually, and an output from its gold mines of over $1,000,000 a year.

Quite out of the world, as far as tourist travel is concerned, yet Demerara is within easy reach by steamer from New York, and the ten days' voyage, over the smoothest of summer seas, is pleasantly broken by stops at charming West Indian islands— tropic gems set in turquoise and sapphire seas where verdure-clad mountains lose their summits in the drifting clouds and rustling palms shade the quaint and sleepy towns—and to visit which would alone be worth the entire trip.

Originally settled by the Dutch in 1613, Demerara has been a British possession since 1814, but the influence of its original owners may still be seen on every hand. Wherever the Dutch settled, they seem to have selected sites as much like their beloved Holland as possible, and they apparently could not feel thoroughly at home unless they devoted much of their time and labor to keeping the sea from their possessions. True to this tendency they founded Georgetown on land as flat as a board and so low that it is several feet beneath sea level—or, rather, river level, for the town borders on the great Demerara River nearly twenty miles from the ocean.

Seen from the water Demerara is disappointing, for the one-time dykes have been transformed into broad sea walls and great docks, lined with warehouses, stores and buildings which almost conceal the city beyond. But as the traveler emerges from the docks he steps into a busy, bustling, well-built modern town. The broad, straight streets are smooth and well kept; trolley cars run here, there and everywhere; automobiles and motor trucks hurry hither and thither; drays and carts pass and repass in a never-ending stream, and people of innumerable races and of every shade and color throng the sidewalks and the stores. As in most West Indian towns, colored people predominate in Demerara, but the population as a whole is wonderfully cosmopolitan. Aside from the English, Scotch and other Anglo-Saxons, there are many Portuguese; Chinese are numerous, and most noticeable of all are the Hindus. Picturesque and striking in their native costumes, the East Indians give a touch of the Orient to the scene and form one of the most interesting features of Demerara. Originally brought over from India as indentured field laborers, the ''coolies" have prospered and increased, and many of them are now independent planters, well-to-do merchants, successful tradesmen and skilled artisans. Everywhere they are in evidence. On country roads, in stores and shops, on the city streets they are seen, all redolent of the Far East, ever with something of the mystery of India about them and always fascinatingly foreign and strange to northern eyes.

Thin almost to emaciation, the men stalk about, clad in the lightest and scantiest of costumes and with huge turbans on their heads, while the women—brilliant in gaudy, silken jackets and heavy with silver and gold armlets, bracelets, anklets, collars and nose rings—squat beside trays of sweets or fruits, or trip along with lace or silken scarfs fluttering to the breeze. To see the East Indians at their best, however, one should visit their villages in the suburbs or should travel to the outlying sugar estates.

Here they swarm, living their own lives, following their own customs, and worshiping in their own temples as in far-off India.

Above the nodding palms the shimmering dome of a mosque gleams in the sunlight, and if the visitor desires—and wins the favor of the white-bearded descendant of the Prophet—he may step within the dim interior or the mosque, first having removed his shoes, and may gaze upon the ponderous Koran resting in its niche.

In soggy, marshy pastures, mud-blue buffaloes graze while tended by naked Hindu boys. Beside the roads motley throngs of Orientals haggle over the prices of strange, spiced viands and odd fruits. In the shade of tamarinds coolie barbers ply their trade and shave their fellow countrymen in the open air in sight of all the world, and upon the highway passes an ever-changing procession of men, women and children that well might have stepped from one of Kipling's stories.

Hindu priests in loose, white robes; Parsees and Brahmins; wizened fakirs in rags and tatters; holy men with beards dyed scarlet and foreheads painted with mystic symbols; fat, well-fed merchants in spotless silk and with huge parasols to protect their turbaned heads— a score of races, a thousand types, innumerable castes, some plodding on foot, others crowded into tiny donkey or bullock carts, and still others whirling along on motorcycles or in automobiles.

Though far more interesting and picturesque than the omnipresent negro, and while their soft "Salaam, Sahib" is a vast improvement over the accustomed "Mornin', San," yet the East Indians are but one of the manifold attractions of Demerara.

The broad, smooth streets are shaded with great trees, and in the residential districts have well-kept grass plots and shady paths in their centers, while through many of the city thoroughfares and everywhere in the country are the canals. Within the town they are lined with concrete and are flushed and cleaned daily and at cross streets they are spanned by attractive bridges, while on their placid waters are mirrored the lofty palms and beautiful buildings that rise above their banks. In the outlying districts they become lovely sylvan streams, bordered by gorgeous flowering shrubs, shaded by long avenues of stately palms and often filled with blooming lotus and pink-hued water lilies. By their sides the natives dwell in neat cottages on stilt-like posts, while under the verandas ducks swim about, cattle and buffaloes munch the reeds and water plants and children bathe and splash in the shallow water.

These canals are a characteristic feature of the place, typical of Demerara, and while adding greatly to its charm they combine utility with attractiveness, for they are essential to Georgetown and serve to drain the low-lying ground on which the city is built. Each time the tide runs out the ponderous sluice-gates are opened by their Hindu tenders and the land is drained, and when the tide turns the gates are again closed to keep the river out. Stretching across the country, bordering the highways and flowing through the city's streets, the canals add a touch of Holland to the scene, but unlike those of the Netherlands they are not used as thoroughfares, for canals have few advantages where roads are as numerous and as perfect as in Demerara. Level as a table, smooth as asphalt, broad, straight and lined with palms, luxuriant tropical foliage and brilliant flowers, the roads of Demerara are simply ideal for driving or motoring. One may spend days driving about and never visit the same spots twice, for there are over 350 miles of highways around Georgetown, and if one cares to go farther afield there are splendid auto roads leading for seventy miles and more into the interior.

Here one may motor in comfort and ease, with the untamed "bush" stretching away on every hand, or past broad fields of cane and great sugar mills; through paddy fields where all-but-naked Hindus labor waist deep amid the tender, green rice plants; along rivers where sharp-prowed Indian canoes drift slowly down the stream between jungle-covered banks; or by villages of thatched and wattled huts where bare, brown children scurry to cover like frightened partridges at one's approach.

If one cares for outdoor sports or recreation they are to be had in plenty in Demerara. There are golf links and tennis courts, cricket grounds and shooting clubs, and a race course which is one of the finest in America. Within easy reach there is excellent fishing, game is abundant in the near-by forests, and the river affords an ideal spot for motor boating or sailing.

Lines of river steamers ply upon the great waterways, and an excursion may be taken far into the heart of South America, where naked Indians live their primitive lives, where gigantic liana-hung trees form a forest that sweeps unbroken for untold leagues, and where strange beasts and birds are still unafraid of man. By these steamers one may visit the lumber camps where greenheart, purpleheart, crab-wood and many another rare timber is being cut, or may travel to the "diggings'' where miners are washing precious metal from Guiana's golden sands.

And to accomplish all this requires no hardihood, little discomfort and no hardships. Stopping places are all provided with hotels, the steamers are clean and comfortable, and the entire trip is scarcely more than a summer picnic or a holiday excursion, for at Demerara civilization rubs elbows with the wild, and it's but a step from the teeming, modern business center of the town to the vast, almost unknown interior and its impenetrable jungles.

But of all things in Demerara, the crowning attraction is the public garden, or "Botanic Station." Close to the busy city and within easy reach by trolley or carriage is this veritable wonderland —a bit of tropical forest improved and beautified by man and yet so well arranged and so admirably planned that there is no artificiality about it to detract from its natural beauty. Here are gathered together the flowers, shrubs, vines, trees and palms of every tropic land, with nurseries and experimental plots filled with all the food-plants, fruits, spices and economic trees adapted to a tropical climate. Everywhere through the gardens are smooth, well-kept, shady roads stretching for miles, and one may walk or drive through the station for hours and ever see something new, interesting and strange. Here and there are broad, grassy lawns, above which rise stately palms of enormous size. Ponds and streams are spanned by picturesque Japanese bridges and shaded by clumps of gigantic bamboos. Beside the roadways are canals choked with the wonderful leaves and great, white flowers of the marvelous Victoria Regia, and everywhere are arches of huge trees, their branches covered with strange air plants and brilliant orchids. Best of all, bird and animal life teems in this beautiful setting, and to drive through the Botanic Station is like driving through a zoological garden.

In the tree-tops paroquets and parrots chatter and scream or wing away in bright-hued flocks at one's approach. From hedges and shrubbery the notes of gorgeous song birds issue, and among the flowers brilliant tropic butterflies and swift-winged humming-birds flash like living jewels in the sun. Across the lily pads and water plants dainty jacanas and purple gallinules run nimbly back and forth, seeming to walk upon the water's surface. Among the lotus leaves white egrets and dignified herons perch and crane their necks to view the passerby, and in canals and pools great alligators doze and clumsy manatees look curiously at the intruders.

But no description can do justice to the gardens or to Demerara, and one must visit the place in person to appreciate the many attractions, the innumerable features of interest and the manifold advantages which this bit of the tip of South America presents to the tourist from the north.

Then, having seen Demerara thoroughly, take a little trip "around the corner," so to speak, and visit Georgetown's next door neighbors in quaint old Paramaribo.

Only eighteen hours are required to make the trip from British Guiana's capital to that of Dutch Guiana, a city unlike any other in the world and the quaintest and most interesting town in South America, if not in the entire western hemisphere. Moreover, Paramaribo should be of the greatest interest to every New Yorker, for Dutch Guiana or Surinam was the price of our metropolis, and* Paramaribo was given by the British to the Dutch in exchange for New Amsterdam in 1674.

For twenty miles inland from the ocean the ship steams slowly up the broad and sluggish, coffee-colored Surinam River, between the low, mangrove-covered shores and around bend after bend. Here and there, upon a higher bit of ground, large trees, lofty palms and red-roofed houses may be seen. Cane fields, patches of bananas and cultivated lands break the monotony of the all-pervading "bush" and now and again a "Dutchy" church steeple rises above an outlying village. At last the city comes into view and the traveler feels that by some magic spell he has been transported from South America to the shores of Holland, for squatting behind its dykes at the water side Paramaribo might well be a village on the Zuyder Zee were it not for the palm trees nodding above the roofs and the absence of great windmills. White, green-shuttered houses with steep, gabled roofs and projecting dormer windows line the streets and water front; typically Dutch church steeples stand clear cut against the deep blue sky and the Dutch flag floats from the masthead of many a steamer and sailing ship lying at the great iron and concrete docks.

Strange as it seems to find this bit of Holland dropped down amid tropical surroundings, it is stranger still to step ashore among the people. In vain one looks about for staid, stout Dutchmen, plump, fair-haired fraus and tow-headed youngsters. In their places are burly negroes, buxom negresses and brown pickaninnies, but despite the color of their skin all are Dutch as Dutch can be.

Their gabble and chatter is in Dutch, prices are quoted in guilders, Dutch names adorn street corners and store fronts, and "Yah, mynheer," is substituted for the customary and familiar "Yes, sah."

Even the costumes of the negro women are patterned after the dress of Holland—combined with the African's love of gaudy colors and slight variations made necessary by the climate—the result being both picturesque and remarkable.

Death Dealers of Guiana Jungles

There is very little known about the Patamona Indians. Verrill is reputed to be the first 'White' to visit this tribe. One of Verrill's paintings of a 'Patamona Girl' supplements the original post; it has been contributed by the National Museum of the American Indian, Smithsonian Museum.

Death Dealers of the Guiana Jungles

A Race Which Hunts and Fights With the Deadliest of Poisons and Eats Food From Which Prussic Acid Has Been Squeezed.

A. Hyatt Verrill

Illustrated by Jefferson MacHamer

The Atlanta Constitution; Mar 18, 1923; collected by Alan Schenker, digitized by Doug Frizzle Sept. 2011.

(NOTE—this is the first of two articles by an explorer of the British Guiana wilderness, describing his discovery of a hitherto isolated tribe of aborigines.—The Editor.)

The fears of my Indian guide anxiously expressed to me as we approached the region of the Patamonas were not without reason, for these aborigines of the Guiana forests are famed throughout that part of South America as makers of poison. Not only do they concoct and use the terrible Wurali, but they are also adepts at preparing various subtle and deadly substances with which they destroy their enemies—whether these enemies be real or fancied.

There are incidents on record of Patamonas poisoning an entire crew of "balata bleeders," or gold diggers, in revenge for the black men's interfering with the Indian women. Woe be it to any Indian of another tribe who earns the Patamonas' enmity! Moreover, the Patamonas have the fame of sending forth most of the mysterious "Kenaimas," or curses, and their Peaimen or witch doctors frequently possess hypnotic powers. For all these reasons the tribe is held in peculiar dread by other tribes, and no strange Indian will venture alone into a Patamona village or, if he can possibly avoid it, partake of their food or drink.

The Wurali poison, to be sure, is employed by other tribes as well, but only a limited number of men know the secrets of its composition and this is carefully guarded. Several species of strychninelike lianas are used, as well as certain gums, snake poison and poisonous ants. The results of Wurali are almost instantaneous. A bird, shot with the poisoned dart, rarely has time to flutter before it falls helpless and dying to the earth. These poisoned darts of the blow-gun, indeed, are appallingly effective—slender fragile splinters of bamboo, though they are tipped with the mortal Wurali. For small birds, however, plain unpoisoned darts are the rule, but for larger winged creatures or quadrupeds, or enemies, the venom-tipped arrows are employed.

WHY THE PATAMONAS ARE DREADED.

"These aborigines of the Guiana forests are adepts at preparing various subtle and deadly poisons with which they destroy their enemies—whether these enemies be real or fancied. Woe be it to an Indian of another tribe who earns the Patamonas' enmity! They are, indeed, held in peculiar dread by other tribes, and no strange Indian will venture alone into a Patamona village, or, if he can possibly avoid it, partake of their food and drink."

IN order to prevent the dart from dropping from the stricken creature before the poison has done its work, as well as to guard against the fallen missile menacing the lives of their tribesmen walking through the forest, the dart to be used is inserted between the knife-edged teeth of the parai jaw and is twirled about until the poison-covered tip is nearly severed from the arrow. When this enters the body of a bird or beast it immediately breaks off, leaving the poison-covered splinter in the wound, while the harmless remaining portion of the dart falls to the ground.

Such was the hospitable reputation of the people we were seeking. Moreover, their favorite article of diet—the cascava root, is itself a deadly poison—that is, originally, though by a process taught among themselves, they can transform it into an edible both nutritive and palatable.

This was my third visit to British Guiana, I had come to study the aborigines, to dwell among them, to secure photographs and data and to make collections. On such a quest, therefore—a search for the untamed Indian in his native haunts—my boat crawled slowly up the Mazaruni river.

My objective was an obscure creek about one hundred and fifty miles distant. I had a suspicion, nevertheless, that my tedious trip might prove a wild-goose chase, for no one, official "Protectors of Indians" or any others, could give me any definite information as to the presence of Indian settlements on the upper Mazaruni. To set forth blindly in search of “wild" Indians, seemed about as hopeless as the proverbial search for a needle in the hay.

All I had to go upon as to direction, was rumor, for by merest chance I heard from a civilized Indian that there had been a village in the mountains of that district, but whether it still existed, or whether the "bucks” had migrated elsewhere, was uncertain. Only by personally investigating could I ascertain for sure and I had set forth, going as light as I dared, to gain time.

Slowly the hours passed, for I was all impatience to reach our destination and learn the truth, but the monotony was often broken by successful hunts in the later afternoons, by shooting alligators and by fishing. Otherwise our eyes gazed continuously upon two jungle walls of a thousand shades of green stretching away as far as eye can see; two ramparts of stupendous, spreading trees, of giant ferns, feathery palms, thorny scrub, rank weeds and tangled brush; between the greenery a dark brown, shimmering mile-wide lane of water, smooth as burnished metal, oil-like, and mirroring the cloud-flecked sky and verdure of the shores. Here and there, masses of dull-brown rocks mar the glassy water, or wooded islands—bits of detached jungle hide the shores from sight, while over all reigns the silence of the vast wilderness, broken only by the strident screams of great red macaws, the screech of parrots, the clattering of toucans or the querulous cries of black caracara hawks. Such was the scene hour after hour, day after day, as in the spoon-bottomed river boat propelled by brawny, copper-skinned Indian paddlers, I pushed my way into the heart of the Guiana wilderness.

A score of times a day, a dozen times, perhaps, within an hour, the heavy boat must be hauled by brute strength up tumbling cataracts, the men leaping into the torrent, swimming, wading, struggling and tugging at the ropes until, inch by inch, the way is won. The boat, breasting the racing waves, rests at last upon calmer waters above the falls. At other times, by Herculean efforts, the craft must be lifted bodily over jutting fangs of rocks, or, by prodigious feats of paddling, forced across sinister, yawning, black whirlpools where, often for minutes at a time, the boat stands motionless, trembling like a frightened horse to the swirl and drag of waters and the frantic beat of paddles—and life hangs in the balance while one listens with bated breath for the crack of a breaking paddle which would spell death.

Thrills there are a-plenty: hair breadth escapes occur at every turn and yet one soon becomes accustomed to the ever-recurring dangers safely passed, to the marvelous wealth of vegetation, to the strange, birds and dozing alligators, to the fairylike world of reflections.

In such passes as these, my Indians retained implicit faith in the power of their ''beenas,'' or charms, to insure success, good fortune or skill in various occupations or undertakings. So absolute is the belief in these of Guiana Indians, that even civilized "bucks'' retain conviction of their potency.

Hunting beenas as a rule consists of rubbing certain plants or other materials into incisions in the skin.

Most of the plants used are caladiums, but certain grasses and nuts are also used and one of the most potent beenas is the mucous of a living frog, or the ashes of a burned frog rubbed into a cut. In every case, however, a different plant or material is used for a certain beena. Thus, a deer beena is a white and green caladium; a tapir beena is a black-spotted caladium; the agouti beena is a red-leafed caladium and the jaguar beena a caladium variegated with red and white spots. As a beena for the curassow or “Powi" a ground nut is used and this loses all its virtues if the plant is touched or looked upon by a woman. Even hunting dogs are treated with beenas and a certain grass, powdered and rubbed upon the nose of the dogs is supposed to insure their success in tracking the paca or libba.

Another powerful beena is the "ant beena." This consists of a frame of parallel strips of palm or bamboo through the interstices of which living ants are thrust with their heads exposed on one side, and this array of biting jaws is then pressed here and there upon the skin. Of course, this causes excruciating pain, but, in the mind of the Indian, it results in a hunting 'charm' of exceptional potency, for the worse the pain of a beena the more powerful it is. The Indian will endure any pain for the purpose of a beena, although he cannot withstand the pain of an injury or the sufferings caused by disease with the stoicism of the North American Indian.

Eventually the sublimity of the scenes is forgotten, monotonous and tedious becomes the trip, as day after day as night after night the tarpaulin is spread between the mighty forest trees and, watching the gleaming giant fireflies, one falls asleep in his hammock, oblivious to the hoarse croak of frogs, the call of night birds, the strident shrilling of insects or the distant scream of jaguar.

Yet it is only by such trips, by weeks of slow, creeping progress up the mighty rivers, by tramps through many miles of jungle, that we can reach the haunts of Guiana's redmen—the strange aborigines who dwell in the depths of the “bush” and who, each year, move farther and farther into the unknown, who are still as primitive as before Europeans first set foot upon American soil.

At last, after endless paddling, of hauling through falls and of portaging cataracts, the prow of our boat was run against the bank and the end of our upriver journey was reached. Now was to come the most important portion of the trip, for I was dependent upon the limited knowledge of my Indian informant, and very vague indeed it was, as he had never been in the vicinity and admitted that all he knew of the village was information imparted to him by other Indians.

Scarcely had we stepped ashore, however, before we found evidences of Indians; a rotting woodskin, or canoe, rested, half-buried in the mud of the creek, charred sticks told or camp fires, a discarded "suriajia" or pack basket lay in the underbrush and presently, one of my Bucks called out that he had located a trail. We shouldered our loads, and, in Indian file, plunged into the forest.

The Haunts of the Poison Makers:

"It is only by such trips, by weeks of slow, creeping progress up the mighty rivers, by tramps through miles of jungle, that we can reach the haunts of Guiana's red men—the strange aborigines who dwell in the depths of the 'bush' and who, each year, move further and further into the unknown."

Only the trained eye of an Indian could have followed that trail. Even so, time and time again my Indians were obliged to halt and search about until the all but invisible signs of a pathway were again discovered. And yet it was a trail beyond a doubt and traveled recently, for the dead leaves and moss were pressed together in a winding narrow path and where it crossed the muddy beds of forest streams the imprints of bare feet could be distinguished.

Soon the ground began to rise and we were laboriously climbing the foothills. Before long we were toiling with panting breaths up the precipitous mountain side, a mass of rugged loose boulders and sharp stones seemingly without end. But at last the summit was gained, and, having stopped for a moment to regain our breath and cool our sweltering bodies, we again resumed our journey through the semi-twilight of the forest.

At length we passed the remains of a crude thatched shelter. Nearby, my Arekuna guide pointed at a flimsy platform in a tree a dozen feet above the ground. He explained that this was a stand where Indians sat with ready bow and arrow, or poised blow gun to shoot agoutis. Presently, through the dense canopy of leaves and the maze of trunks and lianas we saw sunlight. We knew then a clearing was close at hand. The leading Buck halted.

“You makeum walk first, Chief," he remarked in low tones, "mabbe Patamonas no sabby me fren' an' make for shoot."

I knew that the Arekunas, the tribe of my Indians, and the Patamonas had once been deadly enemies, but I did not think that such hostility still existed.

"You makeum 'fraid Abraham?" I inquired.

"Patamonas worthless people, Chief," replied the Arekuna. "Plenty bad men, no likeum Arekuna, no likeum other Buckmen. Mabbe see Buck comin’ thinkum Kenaima, make for killum. No killum white man, him all same God. They no Christian chief, all same me."

I could not help but laugh. Considering that Abraham believed implicitly in good and evil spirits, in the ''water mama," in the weird half-mystical, half supernatural power of the Peaiman and that he never started on a voyage, hunt or other undertaking without first resorting to a "beena" or charm to insure success, his reference to his own "Christianity" and his evident attempt for Patamona paganism was grotesque.

That I myself was safe I fully believed, and I greatly doubted that there would be danger to the Indians who were with me. I was convinced, that the Arekuna had merely displayed the instinctive caution of the aborigine when approaching, a strange place or the home of another tribe.

We stepped from the forest into the brilliant sunshine of an extensive clearing. Instantly I knew that my journey had not been in vain. Before me were half a dozen large benabs or huts and, standing about, resting in their hammocks and gazing curiously towards us, were Indians by the score—men, women and children—naked save for the laps or loin cloths of the men and the tiny bead aprons of queyus of the women. Their limbs were wrapped with bands of beads, strings of teeth hung about their necks and their bronze skins were wonderfully painted. I had found my "wild'' Indians at last!

(Concluded Next Sunday.) (Copyright 1923, for The Constitution.)

“Thrills at Every Turn."

"By prodigious feats of paddling, the boat is forced across sinister, yawning black whirlpools where, often for minutes at a time, it stands motionless, trembling like a frightened horse to the swirl and drag of waters. ... Thrills there are a-plenty; hair-breadth escapes at every turn."

Among the Death Dealers of the Guiana Jungles

The Uncanny Skill of the Patamonas with Blow Gun, Bow and Arrow—Where No White Man Trod

Before—Changing Poison to Food.

A. Hyatt Verrill

Illustrated by Jefferson MacHamer

The Atlanta Constitution; Mar 25, 1923; pg. F3

(NOTE.—This is the second of two articles by an explorer of the wilds of Guiana, describing his discovery of a hitherto isolated tribe of aborigines.—The Editor.)

The Patamonas, or "wild" Indians, with whom we found ourselves face to face upon stepping out from the jungle into the clearing where their settlement stood, were short and stocky, with deep broad chests and powerfully muscled necks, shoulders and backs, yet with disproportionately small legs, very small hands and feet. Indeed, many of the women and girls possessed hands and feet which would have been the envy of the daintiest of their white sisters.

Aside from their meager lower limbs the women were well proportioned, but the heads of the men appeared very large for their bodies, one chap having such an enormous head that it reminded me of a jack-o'-lantern. In color they were a coppery brown, although some of the younger girls were of a golden yellowish hue. Their faces were broad and round with rather small flat noses, which had no trace of the aquiline form. In fact, they were all strongly Mongolian in type, with high cheek bones, narrow and often oblique eyes, full lips, straight, coarse blue-black hair and black eyes.

If clad in Oriental garments, many of the Patamonas would have passed anywhere for Chinese or Japanese.

As none of the Patamonas spoke or understood English or even the lingua franca of the bush known as "talky-talky," I called upon Abraham to be my interpreter. They were disposed, it appeared, to be hospitable. To my joy I learned that no white man had ever before visited the village and that many of the Indians had never seen a man of another race.

Though I must have appeared a very strange being in their eyes, the men, women and children who gathered about were quiet and respectful. They were evidently consumed with curiosity as to the contents of our bags and the purpose of my visit. I decided to take advantage of the light and secure photographs without further delay. Much to my surprise the people lined up before my camera without the least hesitation. This in itself was ample proof of the isolation of the village, for the Guiana aborigine, as a rule, has a strong and deepseated objection to being photographed. The willingness with which my new-found friends posed for their pictures convinced me that they did not even know the purpose of a camera.

I could not but be impressed again with their similarity to the Mongolians, although their expression, especially that of the women, was far more vivacious. They were constantly laughing, smiling and exhibiting their rows of firm white teeth. Yet not by any stretch of the imagination, could they be considered good looking; the tattoo marks and painted decorations disfigured rather than improved their faces. The bags containing my trade goods were opened and the contents spread on the floor of the benab. Instantly the Patamonas pressed close about, squatting on their haunches, examining each article with the greatest interest and gabbling with delight.

The chief or "governor" now arrived on the scene; a lean, sharp-featured, shrewd-faced fellow with no distinguishing regalia and as simply clad, in loin cloth, as his subjects. Presents were then handed around—combs, soap, perfumes, beads, needles, pins and similar articles to the women and girls, and tobacco, fishhooks and knives to the men.

Amicable relations thus having been established, a brisk trade commenced and in exchange for hunting knives, powder, shot, percussion caps, lap cloth, beads and other goods I secured baskets, bows and arrows, blow guns, poisoned darts, ornaments of beads, teeth and feathers and beautifully wrought queyus.

Meanwhile I was busy noting the characteristics of the Patamonas, jotting down words of their vocabulary and making hurried sketches of their tattoo marks and painted decorations. Particularly did I observe their weapons; for it is with these that the Guiana jungle Indians have attained a proficiency that is amazing.

Few people realize the accuracy with which the Guiana Indian can use the blow gun. I have seen one of them fire six darts in quick succession into a visiting card at forty yards, and on many occasions have seen them bring down small birds from the top branches of the loftiest trees.

In the hands of the Guianan this instrument with its poisoned darts is a terrible weapon, indeed, for its speeding arrow is as swift and silent as the death it carries. Its tiny wound, scarcely more than a pin prick, is sufficient to kill even the Jaguar or the tapir.

These Indians possess fully as surprising skill, I learned, in archery, and this is exhibited spectacularly when shooting fish. That they can distinguish the fish in the dark water amid the turmoil of the rapids is marvelous, and until one has seen it, the feat appears incredible. With ready bow the Indian creeps about the rocks of the falls until, amid the foaming, rushing torrent, his keen eyes discover the darker gleam of a lukainani or pacoo when, instantly, the powerful bow is drawn to the ear, the long shaft darts its length into the water, and throwing aside his bow, the Indian hauls on the arrow line and presently drags a 15 or 20-pound fish on to the rocks.

Seldom indeed, do they miss, and seldom do they search for fish without success. If none are in sight the Indians either bait them, by throwing the broken seed-pods of the water wallaba or "mazetta." tree into the stream, or else resort to the marvelous method of "calling" them. Standing motionless by the edge of the water and with ready bow in one hand, the Indian makes a beckoning motion with the fingers of his other hand and, at the same time, utters a curious, low, but penetrating whistle. Unbelievable as it may seem, the fish actually respond to this and approach within sight and range. I am of the opinion that it is the fluttering motion of the fingers, rather than the sound of the whistle, which attracts them. Be this as it may, I have repeatedly seen the Indians call fish in this way when none were within sight.

The blow guns, or "pipes," as they are called in Guiana, are beautifully made, often 10 feet in length, and as straight and true as rifle barrels. They are manufactured only by the Arekuna and Myankong tribes of the Venezuelan border, for it is only in that district that suitable materials are found.

Although many people have an idea that the blow gun is a straight hollow cane, that is a mistake, for the weapon is most carefully and accurately made of two tubes, one within the other. The outer tube, or casing, consists of the stem, of a species of palm which is soaked in water until soft when the central, portion, or pith, is forced out by pushing with a smooth stick. The palm tube is then suspended from the roof of a house with a heavy weight attached to it to straighten it as it dries. Within this tube a perfectly straight hollow reed is inserted and is cemented in place by means of hard, tenacious gum at the ends. Finally one or two peccary or agouti teeth are fastened to one side of the gun by means of wax to serve as a sight and the weapon is complete.

The longer the gun the more accurate it is and the more highly it is valued. Six-foot blow guns are quite commonly seen; they are usually used solely for killing small birds with non-poisonous darts. The very long guns are seldom obtainable, and in combination with the Wurali tipped arrows, are used only by the absolutely uncivilized Indians of the far interior.

Their bows and arrows are very different indeed from those of our northern red men, for instead of short, broad bows and short, feathered arrows, the Guiana Indians used bows five to seven feet in length and of the true long-bow and half-round type. They are very powerful. Near either end they are wrapped with silk grass cord and are strung with the same material. The arrows are all very long, usually longer than the bows, and are of various types, but all have shafts of arrow cane, a giant grass which grows wonderfully straight and seems designed by nature for this identical purpose. For killing big game, such as jaguar and tapir, the arrows are tipped with spear-like heads of iron and are feathered; for smaller game and birds they are either tipped with small, barbed iron heads, or notched heads of hardwood, and are leathered; for large river fish they are equipped with a loose, carved head to which is attached a stout cord, the whole forming a miniature harpoon shot from a bow, for when the fish is struck, the shaft floats free and serves as a buoy while the fish is hauled in by the cord fastened to the bead of the arrow.

After the first flurry of our arrival, the Patamonas went about their usual tasks utterly oblivious of our presence, and, resting in my hammock beneath the benab, I watched my Indian hosts as they prepared their evening meals and busied themselves at their various occupations, in full view, for, the benabs are merely thatched roofs of palm supported on upright posts, and housekeeping is of the simplest.

I could not but be thrilled with the realization that I was looking upon a community which had never been seen by a white man before.

Of furnishings there were none worthy of the name, for the indispensable hammock serves as bed, couch and chair, and a log of wood, or a stool more or less elaborately carved from a block of greenheart provides a lowlier seat. On the rafters under the high peaked roof, were stored the bows and arrows, the blow guns and, if the owner of the benab possesses such a weapon, a muzzle or breech-loading single-barreled gun. From rafters and posts were suspended baskets of raw cotton for spinning, festive ornaments and decorations of beads, feathers and teeth, bunches of bird peppers and any other odds and ends or household treasures.

Somewhere about the premises would be a supply of cassava cakes, a metapee and numerous baskets, mats and other articles used in cooking, as well as an open pack-basket or "suriana," used for carrying loads. In the center of the earth floor a fire was kept burning day and night, and over this all cooking was done, the ordinary utensils being great black earthen pots, although battered iron pots and a sheet of iron for toasting cassava cakes were to be seen in nearly every benab. The pungent smoke which filled the benab seemed a great nuisance to a visitor; but to the occupants, it was of real value and importance. It kept ants and other insects from taking up their abode in the thatch, and it also served to preserve and cure meat and skins hung on the rafters.

At night the fires added little to the warmth and dryness of the dwellings, but how the Indians manage to keep comfortable and don't catch their deaths of cold is a marvel. At night the temperature fell to 67 degrees, and despite blankets, extra garments and my raincoat, I shivered with the penetrating chilly air and slept badly, and yet the Indians slept soundly and apparently in perfect comfort—though they were naked and had no bedding or covering of any sort.

Every one rose with or even a little before the sun and for half an hour or so the Indians gathered about their fires, warming themselves thoroughly after the chill of the night. The daily life of these aborigines is as simple as their costume and yet their every want is satisfied and they seem to be perfectly happy. For 365 days in the year their menu consists of cassava, with the addition of game, when it can easily be obtained, the purple "buck yams," sweet potatoes and, occasionally, plantains and bananas.

To them, the cassava is the very staff of life and much of their time is spent in cultivating and preparing it. The prime requisite in selecting a village site is land suitable for growing the cassava, or manioc plant, and every Indian camp or village has its cassava "fields."

The planting is done by both men and women sticking cassava roots, or cuttings into holes made in the earth with a sharp stick or machete.

The preparation of cassava—that is, its conversion from a deadly poison into an article of diet—is most interesting and it is a cause of wonder how the Indians first discovered the process. Certainly it could not have been by experiment, for those who experimented with the raw cassava, or tried to make it edible by ordinary cooking, must have died precipitately. Perchance the whole process, was discovered by accident like many other inventions; but whether by accident or design never will be known, for cassava has been used by the Indians of tropical America for countless centuries. The method of its preparation is identical among widely separated tribes and its history is one of the unsolved mysteries of prehistoric America.

In the Patamona village women seemed ever busy at one step or another in this preparation of cassava and I had a most exceptional opportunity to watch the entire elaborate process.

The roots are first washed and pared and are then grated on a slab of wood, roughened with chips of quartz set in cement-like gum. The grated roots are next placed in a long, cylindrical, wicker-work container. This is suspended from a rafter, a stick or lever is inserted through the other end of this metapee, or container, a large calabash or bowl is placed below it and one or more women seat themselves on the lever. Their weight results in the metapee, stretching lengthwise and contracting in circumference with irresistible force and as a result, the juice of the grated cassava is forced out through the interstices of the metapee leaving the pulp dry and compressed in the form of a solid cylinder which is removed piecemeal from the metapee.

These hard cylindrical cores are then pounded in a wooden mortar (some of the Indians used prehistoric stone mortars found on ancient village sites), and the resultant meal is sifted through a wicker work sieve held between the toes of the women.

The fine meal thus obtained is next spread by the aid of a wooden trowel known as a waisoo, upon a hot stone or a piece of sheet iron over a small fire.

As the big circular cakes harden and bake they are turned and lifted by means of small woven mats, or fans, and are placed on a frame of sticks, or on a basket-like tray, in the bright sunshine until thoroughly dried.

The cooking or baking is not, as is often supposed, for the purpose of cooking the meal only; it is done mainly to insure perfect freedom from the poisonous juice which contains prussic acid. The juice itself, as squeezed from the metapee, is carefully preserved and is known as cassareep. This is the basis of the famous pepper-pot and is boiled to the consistency of syrup, to evaporate all the poisonous acid it contains.

Into the prepared cassareep are thrown peppers, and bits of meat. The cassareep preserves the food and by frequent boilings the mass is kept fresh and edible for months or years. This pepper-pot is far from appetizing in appearance, for in color and consistency it resembles a mass of asphalt or coaltar but it is really excellent, despite the fact that one frequently finds in it the hand of a monkey, the head or foot of a fowl or some similar anatomical fragment.

Whatever the effect of this diet—which, to many might appear dubious—upon the health of the Patamonas it may be well to dispel some of the popular illusions in regard to "fevers" and other dread diseases of the Guiana wilderness. Nearly all the cases of "fever" which I have treated—and I have treated scores—were simply severe colds or were due to stomach, intestinal or liver troubles. Indeed, every illness in which lassitude, a slight temperature or headache occurs is dubbed "fever" by the Indians and black people. One case of "fever" which came under my notice proved to be a case of boils, while another was due to a snake bite.

Of their own curative skill, or instinct, these Indians give some evidence in having discovered an antidote for the terrible Wurali—and the only one existing, so far as is known. This is a mixture of cane juice and salt. And while the Patamonas are extremely careful not to prick themselves with the poisoned darts, they assert that a strong draught of cane juice and salt will prevent serious results. I have never seen this cure tried on a human being, but it is a common practice for the Indians to shoot macaws and toucans with Wurali-tipped arrows and, by the use of cane juice and salt, revive the birds and keep them alive for pets. Indeed, many of the live macaws offered for sale are taken in this way.

Of coarse it must not be supposed that one can see all these various things and can learn the ways and customs of the Indians in a single day. One must live long among them, must win their confidence and affection, and must almost become one of them, before they will talk of their lives, their beliefs and their habits, or will relate their interesting folklore and their tales of spirits good and bad, or give any information regarding their beenas, charms, dances and fetishes to a stranger. Still more difficult is it to indue them to speak of their "peaimen" or witch doctors or of the dreaded, half-supernatural kenaima.

Fortunately I was able to establish myself in the Patamonas' confidence by curing many of their ills with my slender stock of medicines. Not only were they very grateful, but I soon found they regarded me as a sort of peaiman, myself, and when I brought forth a number of the harmless fireworks known as "sparklets," and produced showers of brilliant sparks which did not burn or injure the skin, my status as a magician was firmly established.