In Unknown British Guiana . Part 2
By A. Hyatt
Verrill
From The Wide
World magazine, Oct. 1918. Digitized by Doug Frizzle April 2014.
Illustrated
from photographs.
It is no
exaggeration to say that British Guiana, a vast stretch of territory on the
shoulders of the South American Continent, is one of the least-known portions
of the globe Here are great primeval forests, mighty rivers, huge waterfalls,
extensive plateaus and great mountain ranges, where dwell strange Indian tribes
and quaint animal life of which virtually nothing is known. The Author, who has
made it his business to penetrate into the unknown interior of this land, has
specially written for “The Wide World Magazine” an account of his journeys and
adventures, which will be found of absorbing interest. He discovered large
rivers and mountains whose existence was unknown, and stumbled across primitive
races who had never seen a white man before. His striking photographs give an
added value to a fascinating narrative.
IN last
month’s WIDE WORLD MAGAZINE I described how at our camp in the forest below
Kounara Hole far up the Mazarumi River, right in the heart of the country, we
were surprised at the arrival of a party of Patamonas on a hunting and fishing
trip. Presents were exchanged, and soon my native boatmen were on the best of
terms with the strangers.
Whenever two
Indians meet it is an invariable custom for them to tell each other all the
news from the time they last parted. No detail is omitted, the most trivial
event being related exactly in the order of their occurrence. Their memories
are simply marvellous and are almost phonographic in their accuracy. Not until
the first has completely finished his story does the other speak or question,
but sits silently drinking in every word—that he may be able to repeat it
later—until it is his turn to tell what he knows.
On this occasion
there was so much to be told—for the events of several months had to be gone
over—that I fell asleep with the droning, monotonous voices of the Patamonas in
my ears. Twice that night I was aroused to find the men continuing their tales,
for these people have a curious habit of awakening from a sound sleep and
resuming a story at the point where they ceased as they fell asleep, and
exactly as if the tale had never been interrupted.
Our visitors
were up betimes preparing for a hunt on the following morning, but before they left
I induced one of them to demonstrate the use of his blowgun and poisoned
arrows. In the hands of an Indian the blowpipe is a terrible weapon, for the
slightest scratch with a Wurali-tipped arrow will kill any bird or animal in a
few seconds.
The blowpipe
is a very cleverly and carefully made affair and consists of two tubes, one
within the other, and separated by wrappings of fibre or cotton cemented in
place with Karamani (a mixture of bees’wax and gums). Near one end one or two
agouti teeth are attached to serve as a sight, and in some cases a mouthpiece
is fitted to one end of the tube.
These weapons
are made only by the Myankongs and Arekunas living on the Venezuelan border,
for it is only in their territory that the necessary hollow reeds and palms
occur, and hence the blowpipes are highly prized and are very valuable. In
addition to the pipe there is a small basket containing the fluffy down of the
silk cotton tree, which is wrapped round one end of the dart so it fits snugly
in the tube; and finally, there is the quiver with its darts and a small
quantity of the terrible Wurali contained in a small gourd or hollow tooth.
While the
manufacture of blowpipes is confined to one or two tribes in a very restricted
area, the Wurali poison is made by many tribes, especially by the Makushies and
Akawoias. Its preparation is surrounded by a vast amount of mystery, and
various ingredients, apart from the virulent poison, enter into its
composition. Among these are snakes' fangs, frogs, ants, centipedes, scorpions,
etc., none of which have any real effect; while gums, bulbs, and the juices of
plants are added to give the mixture the proper consistency and body and to
render the Wurali soluble. The most important and most probably the only
essential ingredient is the juice of climbing vines of the strychnine family.
The exact method of making Wurali is, however, a carefully-guarded secret
handed down from father to son and known to but few individuals, who are
regarded with a peculiar superstitious reverence and are often Piamen or
witch-doctors. Dances and celebrations are held when the Wurali is being made
and the simmering mixture is agitated with a wooden stirrer shaped and carved
like a miniature Kenaima club—the emblem of death, and which must be burnt in
the flames of the fire under the pot or the Wurali loses its power, according
to Indian belief.
The darts
consist of sharpened slivers of palm- leaf midrib, about the size of steel
knitting-needles, and are used both plain and poisoned, the plain darts being
employed for killing small birds and the poisoned arrows for larger game.
The poisoned
darts are secured in a roll around a central stick, so they may be handled
safely, while the non-poisonous darts are merely dropped loosely in the quiver.
Attached to the quiver is the jaw of a Perai fish, which is a very necessary
part of the equipment. Before using a poisoned dart it is inserted between the
knife-like edges of the Perai’s teeth and is twirled rapidly round. This
girdles the dart just beyond the area covered by the Wurali and causes the tip
to snap off and remain in the wound when it strikes a bird or animal. The
purpose of this is twofold, for it not only insures the poison entering the
blood, but prevents the poisoned dart from being shaken loose by the wounded
creatures and thus becoming a deadly menace to every barefooted passer-by.
My Patamona
visitor soon proved the value of his primitive weapon by killing several birds
from the topmost branches of near-by trees, and then, to exhibit his
marksmanship and the accuracy of the blowpipe, fired five darts in rapid
succession through a visiting card fifty paces distant.
The next day
was but a repetition of those which had gone before; innumerable falls and
rapids being passed, but the monotony was somewhat relieved by our first
glimpse of the distant mountains—a towering, magnificently-symmetrical cone
looming like a deep-purple cloud against the turquoise sky. This peak, the
first mountain seen when going up the Mazarui, is a well-known landmark, and
yet its identity and location are unknown. It is visible for many miles up and
down the river and from the Potaro as well,
but no one has ever yet penetrated the unexplored forest area above which it
towers.
Several bad
falls were passed the following morning, and as we paddled through a stretch of
still water an approaching boat was sighted between the verdured islands ahead.
As it drew closer it proved to be a gold-boat—a large ten-ton craft manned by a
score or more of husky, rough-looking black pork-knockers and captained by a
picturesque half-breed. They were bound to Bartica from the places up river,
and each man carried his little hoard of gold so hardly won and which would
soon be transferred to the pockets of the Portuguese dive-keepers in the
frontier town.
We drew
alongside, exchanged bits of news and gossip, and having entrusted our mail to
the captain, bade them farewell and were once more alone upon the deserted,
silent river.
Early in the
forenoon we passed the broad mouth of the Puruni, with the abandoned Government
gold-station just below, and in the next seven hours pulled through as many
falls.
In this part
of the river many of the rocks are worn into grotesque forms by the water. Such
is the Crapo or Frog Rock, an enormous monolith that from certain view-points
strongly resembles a gigantic toad. Near by are the Kamudi Falls
Just before
sundown we sighted the frowning Turesi mountains, clear-cut against a sinister bank
of lurid clouds, and soon after making camp, a terrific thunderstorm broke over
us. Never have I seen such vivid, blinding lightning, nor heard such deafening,
continuous peals of thunder. The rain fell in a solid wall of water, completely
blotting out every object more than a score of feet away, while the wind blew
with hurricane force, lashing the river into foam and whipping branches and
foliage from the trees. It seemed impossible that our tarpaulin could withstand
the blast, but it was partly sheltered by the surrounding forest and held fast.
But the very trees which protected us were our greatest menace, for many were
partly dead and rotten, or had been weakened by the ravages of wood ants, and
were constantly crashing to earth. Bound together as they were by cable-like lianas
or “bush-ropes,” one stricken giant would drag half-a-dozen of its fellows to destruction
as it fell, and each moment we expected to be crushed like egg-shells beneath
tons of heavy timber. But there was nothing we could do, it was as dangerous in
one spot as in another, and huddling in the centre of the camp to escape the
water driving under the tarpaulin, we waited for the storm to pass. Once a
blinding flash and an ear-splitting detonation told us the lightning had struck
close at hand and, ere the thunder had died away, a huge Mora tree fell within
a dozen paces of our refuge, shaking the earth as it struck and sweeping one
side of the tarpaulin with its descending branches.
Gradually the
storm spent its fury, and though throughout the night the thunder growled and
rolled and incessant lightning lit up the drenched forest, all danger had
passed and the morning dawned fresh and clear.
Two hours
after leaving camp we reached Turesi
Falls
A short
distance above here we nearly came to grief, however. Here the main river is
divided by a chain of small rocky islands. On one hand is an impassable mass of
broken water and jagged rocks; on the other, the river tears through a narrow
channel in swirling eddies, treacherous cross-currents, and ominous whirlpools
bordered by sheer jagged ledges. There is no foothold to enable the men to haul
a boat through and the passage must be accomplished by paddling alone.
Holding the
boat in a backwater, the men gathered all their strength for the attempt, and
then, with a savage shout, dug their paddles into the stream, fairly lifting
the craft from the water. But once in the terrific grip of the current the
speed slackened, and in a moment the boat was motionless, swinging from side to
side, rising and falling, trembling from stem to stern to the frantic strokes
of the six paddles, but making not an inch of headway.
Shouting
encouragement to his men, the bowman wielded his own enormous paddle, while the
captain spurred the crew to redoubled efforts, cursing, urging, and coaxing by
turns. But all to no avail, and, grasping spare paddles, Sam and myself added
our efforts to those of the straining crew. For an instant more the boat hung
stationary and then slowly, imperceptibly it forged ahead. Inch by inch, foot
by foot, we forced the craft forward, putting every ounce of our strength into
the work, sweating, panting, straining, for our lives depended on our efforts.
If once the boat made sternway, if once it swung broadside to the current,
capsize and death were inevitable. And as we fought and struggled to conquer
the angry flood one fear was uppermost in every mind and every ear was strained
to catch a dreaded sound, the sound of snapping wood that meant a broken
paddle. But the paddles held, the passage was won, and with deep-drawn breaths
of relief we swung the boat into calm water, and at that instant, with the
raging, sweeping current scarce a fathom astern, two paddles snapped short off.
Our lives had been saved by less than five seconds!
Beyond the
river stretched smooth and tranquil as a lake, and throughout the afternoon we
paddled easily along through still water, with the lofty Merume Mountains Warapa River
Shortly after
midnight I was aroused by one of the Indians.
"Me been
report sick, Chief,” he announced, and extended his right hand.
That it was
something serious could be seen at a glance, for the hand was puffed up to twice
its natural size, the forearm was badly swollen and dark, livid streaks showing
upon the brown skin.
“How you
makeum so?” I asked, as I examined the hand; but before he could reply I had
discovered the cause: two tiny inflamed wounds on the middle finger,
unmistakable evidences of a snake’s bite.
There was no
time to lose, and without hesitation I cut a deep incision in the injured
finger and rubbed permanganate of potash into the open wound. The hand and arm
were then poulticed, and as I wrapped the bandage, Theophilus explained that he
had been awakened from sleep by the pain in his arm, but knew nothing as to how
he had been bitten.
As his hammock
was slung very low, and as he invariably slept with his hands hanging over the
hammock’s edge, the only explanation was that his hand had come into contact
with a prowling labaria (Fer de Lance). Luckily the snake was a small one, and
the worst symptoms of poisoning passed off in a few hours, although it was
several days before Theophilus could again handle a paddle.
A few miles
above camp we passed an enormous tree-trunk poised on the summit of a rock some
fifteen feet above the water—a striking demonstration of the tremendous rise of
the river during the rainy season, often twenty feet or more in a few hours.
The following day we reached the mouth of the Karanang River, and several miles
upstream we ran the boat ashore, for I planned to make a trip inland to a
village of primitive, uncivilized Indians which was supposed to exist somewhere
in the Merume Mountains. My informant, one of my Arekuna boatmen, had no
definite information, and all he knew had been told him by other bucks. He
“thought” a trail led to the village at the point where we had landed, but he
had no idea of the direction or distance, although he averred it was not “too
far,” and added that he believed it was not more than a day’s walk.
Scarcely had
we stepped ashore ere we found unmistakable evidences of the presence of
Indians. A broken rotting woodskin, a canoe made from the bark of a tree, rested,
half-buried, in the mud of the creek; charred sticks told of camp-fires; a
discarded “suriana,” or pack-basket, was discovered in the underbrush, and
presently one of my men called out that he had located a trail.
Apparently we
had struck the right spot, and, packing the necessary provisions, hammocks, and
trade goods in bags and surianas, and leaving two men in charge of the boat, we
shouldered our loads and, in Indian file, plunged into the forest.
Only the
trained eye of an Indian could have followed that trail, and time and again my
bucks were obliged to halt and search about until the faint, indistinct, all
but invisible, signs of a pathway were again discovered. And yet it was a trail
beyond a doubt, and had been travelled recently, for the dead leaves and moss were
pressed together in a narrow winding path and, where it crossed the muddy beds of
forest streams, the imprints of bare feet could be distinguished. Around and
about it wound, as erratic and uncertain as though made by some wandering animal,
and I could not but think that the man who first made the trail had been
following an agouti or other game when he blazed the way for others to follow.
Soon the
ground commenced to rise; we toiled laboriously up the foothills, and ere long
we were climbing with panting breaths up a precipitous mountain side, a mass of
rugged loose boulders and sharp stones and seemingly without end. But
eventually the summit was reached, and having stopped to recover our spent
breath and cool our sweltering, aching bodies, we again resumed the weary
journey through the semi-twilight of the interminable forest.
Now that we
were on the high tableland or plateau of the range the way was less fatiguing
and the air cooler and for hour after hour we marched on. Macaws screamed
angrily at our approach; birds of brilliant plumage flashed through the foliage;
great marvellous blue, scarlet, and emerald butterflies flitted in the dim
shadows; toucans barked and clattered in the tree-tops, and when the Indians
slipped for a few yards into the jungle and reappeared with agoutis, deer, and
tinamous I realized how unfrequented, how seldom traversed was this district
through which our way led.
Several times
the trail forked and the Indians were at a loss, but trusting to luck, and keeping
always to the right, we pressed on. At last we passed the remains of a crude
shelter; near at hand my Indian hunter pointed to a flimsy platform in a tree
from which Indians shoot agoutis, and soon, through the maze of trunks and
vines, we saw sunlight and blue sky and knew a clearing was close ahead.
Very promptly
at the sight the leading Indian Abraham halted. “You makeum walk first, Chief,”
he remarked, in low tones. “Mebbe Patamonas no sabby me fren’ an’ been make for
shoot.”
I was greatly
surprised at this, for the Guiana Indians are ever peaceful and hospitable, and
while I knew that the Arekunas and Patamonas had once been inveterate enemies,
yet I did not dream there was any ill feeling between the tribes nowadays.
But a glance
at the clearing was enough to assure me that no Indians were there. The
provision fields had grown up to brush; the remains of deserted “benabs,” or
huts, were rotting among the reeds, and the spot had evidently been deserted
for several years. It looked as if we were on a wild-goose chase and our arduous
tramp had been for nothing; but in an instant Abraham called out that he had
found a trail leading onward, and we were soon hurrying along the dim pathway
towards whatever might lie beyond.
Fully twenty
miles had been covered since we left the river, we were on high land and in
unmapped, unexplored country, and I had commenced to think the trail endless,
or else that it led through to Venezuela, when I caught sight of light ahead,
and a moment later stepped from the forest into the brilliant sunshine of a
large clearing. And instantly I knew that my long journey had not been in vain,
for before me were half-a-dozen benabs and, standing about, resting in their
hammocks and gazing curiously towards us, were Indians by the score—men, women,
and children, naked save for laps or bead-aprons; their limbs wrapped in bands
of beads, strings of seeds and teeth about their necks, and with their bronze
skins wonderfully painted. I had found the “wild” Indians at last.
Despite their
reputation the Patamonas received us hospitably and Abraham’s fears proved
groundless, and he and his fellows were soon chatting and laughing in most
friendly fashion with the villagers.
A large benab
was allotted to us, the owner and his wife moving bag and baggage to a smaller
hut, and our dunnage was scarcely placed in our new home before a young girl
arrived bringing huge calabashes of cassiri for our refreshment.
Cassiri is the
common and favourite beverage of all the Guiana Indians, and is made by grating
the roots of sweet cassava, or sweet potatoes, boiling them to a syrupy
consistency and fermenting the liquor, which is coloured pink with anotta or
the juice of red yams.
As it is never
thoroughly strained it is far from appetizing in appearance, especially if one
knows how fermentation is brought about—by the women expectorating masticated
cassava bread into the brew; but it is very refreshing, with a slightly sour
and not unpleasant taste. Moreover, to refuse to partake of the proffered
cassiri is tantamount to an insult to one’s hosts, for drinking the liquor when
entering a camp or village is a ceremony almost sacred in the Indians’ eyes and
is the invariable form of welcome, analogous to smoking the peace pipe.
Although
intoxicating, yet it is so mildly alcoholic that an enormous amount, a gallon
at least, must be imbibed before an Indian feels any effects, and no white man
could possibly drink enough at one sitting to befuddle his mind in the least.
Indeed, I found it quite beyond my powers to swallow more than a small portion
of the liquor presented to me, and was, I presume, looked upon with secret
contempt for my limited capacity, for my men gulped down the entire contents of
their calabashes at a single draught.
Quite a crowd
gathered about our benab gazing at me and my belongings with the most intense
wonder; evidently consumed with curiosity as to the contents of our bags and
the object of our visit, and chatting and laughing among themselves at a great
rate. Much to my surprise the Patamonas paid no heed to my camera and allowed
me to photograph them without the least hesitation. Indeed, they behaved as if
they were totally ignorant of my purpose, for the Guiana
aborigines, as a rule, have a strong and deep-seated objection to being
photographed. When I made inquiries I learned that no white men had ever before
visited the village and that many of the Indians had never seen a man of
another race, although some of them had been to the gold diggings, a few had
visited Bartica, and one or two had even travelled as far as Georgetown. No
wonder I appeared a very strange being to their eyes.
When the bags
containing my trade-goods were opened and the contents spread on the floor of
the benab, the Patamonas pressed close about, examining every article with the
greatest interest and gabbling with delight like a flock of parrots. The chief
now arrived on the scene, a lean, sharp-featured, old man with no distinctive
regalia and as simply clad as his subjects.
Presents were
then handed around, and much to my amusement the chief appropriated a full box
of fish-hooks as his due, taking possession so calmly and innocently that I
could not object, although it left me woefully short of this useful medium of
barter.
Like all the
Guiana Indians, the Patamonas are short and stocky, with deep, broad chests and
powerful necks and backs, but with disproportionately small legs and very small
hands and feet. Indeed, many of the women had feet which would have been the
envy of the daintiest of their white sisters.
Their faces
were broad and round, with none of the aquiline features of the North American
Indians. In fact, all were strongly Mongolian, and if clad in Oriental garments
would have passed anywhere for Chinese or Japanese. Their expressions, however,
were far more pleasant and vivacious than any Mongolian’s, and the women were
constantly laughing, smiling, and joking; but not by any stretch of the
imagination could they have been considered good-looking, while the tattoo
marks and painted decorations made their faces even uglier than Nature intended.
These tattoo
markings are not merely ornamental, but serve as beenas, or charms, and many of
the painted designs are worn for the same purpose. It is seldom that the men
are tattooed, as their beenas consist of the juices of certain plants rubbed
into incisions in the skin. The Guiana Indians have absolute faith in the power
of their beenas, and even the civilized tribes have an implicit belief in their
effectiveness. Some of the charms employed are most peculiar, and among these
is the “ant beena.” This consists of a frame of parallel strips of bamboo or
palm, 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. To the mind of the Indian the excruciating pain caused by
this operation is proof of the beena’s potency, for the worse the pain the more
powerful is the beena. Even more barbarous in some ways is the “nose beena.”
This consists of a long braid of fibre, tapering from a point to a diameter of
half an inch or more. At the tip a biting ant is attached by means of a bit of
gum and is then inserted in the Indian’s nostrils. The ant, biting as he goes,
climbs up the nose and emerges in the mouth, and the Indian, grasping the tip
of the beena, pulls the entire affair through the nasal passage.
As the novelty
of our presence wore off the Patamonas resumed their usual life and went about
their various tasks. Reclining in my hammock beneath my benab, I watched my
Indian hosts with interest as they prepared their evening meals and busied
themselves at their various occupations all in full view, for the benabs are
merely thatched roofs of palm supported on upright posts and housekeeping is of
the simplest description.
Of furnishings
there are 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,
provides a lowlier seat. On the rafters are stored the bows and arrows, the
blowguns, and perhaps a gun. From rafters and posts are hung baskets of raw
cotton for spinning, festive ornaments and decorations, bunches of
bird-peppers, and any odds and ends of household treasures. Here and there, in
the underside of the thatch are tucked knives or machetes, bundles of feathers
for arrows, cotton spindles, and other small articles. Somewhere about the
premises will be a supply of cassava bread, a metapee, and numerous baskets,
mats, and other articles used in cooking, as well as several surianas, or
pack-baskets for carrying loads. In the centre of the earth floor a fire is
kept burning day and night, and over this all cooking is done, the ordinary
utensils being great black earthen pots. The pungent smoke which fills the huts
seems a great nuisance to the visitor, but to the occupants of the benabs it is
of vital importance, for it prevents wood-ants and other vermin from living in
the thatch and aids in preserving meat-skins, etc., hung on the rafters.
The daily life
of these aborigines is as simple as their costume, and yet their every want is
satisfied and they are perfectly and supremely happy. For three hundred and
sixty-five days in the year their menu consists of cassava, with the addition
of game when it can readily be obtained, the purple “buck yams,” sweet
potatoes, and occasionally plantains or bananas.
To them
cassava is the staff of life, and most of their time is devoted to its
cultivation and preparation. The prime requisite in selecting a village site is
land suitable for growing the manioc or cassava plant, and every camp or
village has its “fields"— a waste of fallen, charred trees and enormous
stumps with the spaces between filled with a jungle of ten-foot cassava bushes.
Once the
fields are cleared and planted the men s duties are over and all cultivation
and harvesting is left to the women and children, the men spending their time
in hunting and fishing, making bows and arrows, cutting timber and thatch for
benabs, building woodskins or corials, or weaving baskets, for despite popular
ideas to the contrary, the buck is seldom idle, and even when indolently
lolling in his hammock, is frequently employed making arrows or other small
articles.The roots of
the cassava are first washed and pared and are then grated on a slab of wood
roughened with chips of quartz set in cement-like gum, a utensil made only by
one or two tribes of the far distant interior. The grated roots are next
inserted in a long cylindrical wickerwork affair, known as a “metapee.” This is
suspended from a beam or rafter, a stick or lever is inserted through the other
end of the metapee, a bowl or calabash is placed below it, and one or two women
seat themselves on the lever. Their weight causes the metapee to stretch
lengthwise and to compress the contents with tremendous force, and thus squeeze
the juice from the grated cassava through the interstices of the metapee,
leaving the pulp dry and pressed in the form of a solid cylinder, which is
removed piecemeal from the metapee.
These hard
cores are then pounded in a wooden mortar and the resultant meal is sifted
through a wicker sieve. The fine meal is then spread, by means of a wooden
trowel, upon a hot stone or sheet of iron over a small fire. The meal quickly
coalesces to form a firm cake, which is lifted and turned by means of woven
mats or fans until thoroughly baked. Finally, the cakes are dried in the sun
and are stored in baskets or in bales wrapped in plantain leaves. The baking is
not, as is often supposed, for the sole purpose of cooking the meal, but is
done mainly to insure perfect freedom from the poisonous juice, which contains
prussic acid and which is driven off by heat. The juice itself, as squeezed from
the meal by the metapee, is carefully preserved and is boiled to the
consistency of thick syrup or molasses, thus evaporating all the poisonous acid
it contains. In this form it is known as “cassareep,” and forms the basis of the
famous Guiana “pepperpot.”
But
cassava-making was not the only occupation of the Patamonas. For hours at a
time the girls and women would recline in their hammock, spinning the raw
cotton into thread, and the skill they exhibited in this art was astounding.
The only implement used is a slender stick of hard wood, with a tiny hook at
one end and a disc of shell or bone near the other end. Wrapping a band of raw
cotton round the left wrist, the spinner hooks one end of the fibre to the
primitive spindle, gives the latter a quick whirl and, raising the left hand,
spins out a thin thread of cotton, the smoothness and size of which is
regulated by running the thumb and finger of the right hand up and down the
strand as it is drawn out by the revolving spindle. As soon as the motion of
the spindle becomes much reduced, the spun-thread is wound upon it, a new hold
is secured with the hook, and additional thread spun as before until the
spindle is quite filled with thread. From the strands thus produced the Indians
make various articles and ornaments as well as hammocks. To spin a ball of
twine sufficient to make a hammock requires about three months’ work, and
weaving the hammock itself requires from three weeks to two months according to
size and mesh, but time is of no value, and a hammock may be in the works for
months. Although the hammocks are beautifully made, yet less dexterity is
required in their manufacture than in weaving the bead “queyus,” or aprons,
worn by the women. Originally these were made of seeds, but nowadays even the
most remote tribes use beads arranged in beautiful and elaborate designs.
They are a
good-natured, honest, hospitable lot, kindhearted and wonderfully fond of their
children and of their numerous pets. Despite their shortcomings, I found them a
most likeable race, and it was with real regret that I packed up my belongings
and prepared to return to the river and our boat. We had obtained a large stock
of provisions from the Indians, and these, with the collections I had made,
were too much of a load for my own men to carry, and I hired three of the
villagers to help transport the luggage through the forest. The individual
loads were packed in surianas, which are carried on the back and supported by a
band of bark around the forehead, and averaged over a hundred pounds each. As
we were preparing to start one of the girls, the wife of one of the carriers,
requested permission to accompany us to the boat, stating she would also carry
a load. It seemed a physical impossibility for this young girl, less than five
feet in height, and with tiny hands and feet, to lift the heavy pack, much less
carry it over mountains for twenty miles. But, as I looked on with absolute amazement,
two men lifted the loaded suriana to her back and, adjusting the brow-band, she
trotted off, grinning with undisguised amusement at my surprise.
How she ever
negotiated that fearful trail, or clambered down those precipitous slopes with
her load, I shall never know, for she travelled so rapidly I was left
hopelessly behind. When, tired out, I arrived at the waterside she was seated
beside her buck and chatting and laughing as unconcernedly as possible. She had
made the trip of her own free will and expected no payment, and when I allowed
her to select what she chose from the trade goods, she decided upon a small
pocket-mirror and a paper of pins and seemed to think it a great joke to be
paid so liberally for such trivial work as carrying a one-hundred-pound load a
mere matter of twenty miles.
(To be
continued.)
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