The Lost Mine -Part 2 from 1952

Now with perhaps 400 of Verrill's stories included in this blog, we are beginning to exhaust the 'easy' finds. This story as is mentioned below, has twice appeared in The Wide World magazine which was published in the UK and USA. The illustrations are different in the two versions and the end point of 'part 1' is different in each edition. Link to Part 1 just below./drf

http://stillwoods.blogspot.ca/2012/04/lost-mine-part1.html

The Lost Mine -Part 2

By A. Hyatt Verrill

from The Wide World magazine, July 1952, Vol.109. Digitized by Doug Frizzle, April 2014.

 

Somewhere in the little-known interior of Panama, lost to the sight of civilized men for centuries, lies Tisingal, reputed to be one of the richest gold-mines ever worked by the Spaniards when they ruled the New World. Many expeditions have set out to seek the vanished bonanza, but all have ended in failure and disaster. When the Author went into the jungle to study the wild Indians everybody assumed he was in search of Tisingal, and before long he found himself involved in some very strange experiences. We originally published this story in 1929. The first instalment described the start of Mr. Verrill’s upriver journey and his meeting with various people who told him of the existence of a mysterious native “king,” whom, with the aid of an Indian guide called Chico, he determined to seek.

II (Conclusion)

THE following morning we left the General’s home in a torrential shower, and, until he was hidden from sight by a bend in the stream, could see the old Spaniard standing motionless in the drenching rain wistfully watching us. I had been the first white man to visit him for ten years or more; our short stay had evidently been an epoch in his solitary, hermit-like existence.

At the end of a week it seemed to me we must have traversed the entire length of Central America, but Chico, Indian-like, would not commit himself. It was always “Un poco mas lejo” (“A little farther”) to all questions as to the distance to the Comisario’s home. And then, quite suddenly and without a word of warning from our guide, we were there!

No one but an Indian would have dreamed any human beings were within a hundred miles. No boat was drawn up on the bank, no opening showed in the fringe of dense jungle, no tell-tale smoke rose above the trees, and no sounds of voices issued from the forest. A scarcely-distinguishable trail led from the verge of the stone-strewn playa into the bush, and with Chico in the lead we trudged along it.

Half a mile inland we came upon a small clearing, and were vociferously welcomed by yelping curs which rushed towards us from three thatched huts. As we reached the largest of these the Comisario himself appeared. A dignified-looking, keen-faced Indian, he was—much to my surprise and momentary disappointment—clad in a white home-spun cotton coat and trousers.

His appearance, in fact, was far more that of a well-to-do native planter than a wild Indian, but I soon found that his more or less conventional costume was a mere veneer; he and his family were at heart as primitive and unspoiled by civilization as I could wish. All of them, men and women alike, wore clothing, but the garments of the women were a blaze of gay colours. Their necklaces and other ornaments were of teeth, bones and shells; and there was not a single “civilized” article or utensil in the houses.

Finely-woven hammocks swung between the palm-wood timbers; baskets, calabashes, and peculiar pottery vessels were scattered about; beautifully-finished bows and long arrows rested on the rafters overhead; and two young Indians were occupied in painting each other’s faces. Upon a fire of glowing coals a great earthern olla was boiling, sending forth appetizing odours, and one of the women was busily crushing cacao beans on a wooden slab by rolling a heavy oval stone backwards and forwards.

No one exhibited the least surprise at our arrival, and Chico informed me that the sphinx-faced Comisario had been aware of our approach for the past four days. How he had received the news our guide did not reveal, but I have no doubt that couriers telling of my plans had been sent overland from the Indian hut where we first stopped. Toluka, as the old fellow was called, seemed quite friendly, but did not appear at all enthusiastic over my proposed visit to his king.

Under the influence of presents to himself and family, however, he presently unbent, and not only gave his official permission for Chico to guide us to the king’s palace, but even volunteered to send one of his own youths with us, so that we should be under Government protection, so to speak. And once Toluka had discovered the contents of my trade-box, his bartering instincts were aroused and he brought forth innumerable articles of great ethnological interest.

During the remainder of the day we rested, and I made good use of my time by acquiring a lengthy list of Shayshan words, with the result that I became convinced these Indians were actually of Mayan ancestry, or at least of a race which had come under Mayan influence in the past.

We made an early start accompanied by a bright-eyed youth, who gabbled incessantly with Chico and performed most amazing acrobatic stunts in balancing himself on the gunwale of his cranky cayuca as he poled the craft along. He was a cheerful, willing fellow, a great help in portaging, and seemed to take everything as a huge joke. And we certainly needed someone of an optimistic disposition!

All that had gone before was as nothing compared with the following three days. It was all up-grade, and the river, although very low, tore along its rocky bed like a mill-race. Often the united strength of the whole party was required to drag our canoe against the current, and I tried to picture what the passage would be like in the rainy season, with the stream in full flood. Then it would fill the bed from bank to bank, a distance of nearly half a mile; and the water-worn bluffs and rounded boulders on either side showed that the torrent must rise fully fifteen feet above its present level.

Here and there great trees were stranded high and dry upon the playa, and at one place we passed an uprooted tree over sixty feet in length and five feet through at the base, which had been carried down by the raging waters and left firmly wedged between two enormous boulders ten feet above my head. Bad as the going was now, I thanked my lucky stars that I had not attempted to reach the Shayshans’ territory during the rainy season.

If current tradition and history were true, and Tisingal actually lay somewhere in this wild, untamed land, then super-human indeed must have been the labours of the old Dons. It seemed utterly impossible that human beings could have transported supplies and equipment, machinery and tools—even a bell and cannon—over this route to the lost mine, or that they could have built a road through such an impenetrable wilderness.

But they worked with slave labour, loss of life meant little or nothing to them, and suffering and hardship were forgotten in their lust for gold. As we toiled onward I wondered how many exhausted and tortured men had died along the route, and how many millions in precious metal had been carried down this selfsame river to enrich the coffers of the King of Spain or to fall into the hands of the dare-devil buccaneers who lay in wait for the gold-laden galleons.

A NIGHTMARE JOURNEY

Meanwhile the country grew steadily wilder and rougher. The river-bed became a canyon, and huge masses of grey, pink, and green porphyry took the place of boulders. On every side rose lofty mountains, covered with dense forests. Often we worked for hours, lifting and carrying our canoes over impassable cataracts or through foaming rapids.

To traverse the dry river-bed was like scaling the walls of some ruined castle. Scrambling and climbing, with bruised and barked shins and hands, we surmounted the barriers of glass-smooth rocks, leaped—with fear gripping our hearts—across the yawning chasms between them,         or crawled, crept, and wormed our way through cavern-like interstices. To portage our stores necessitated Herculean efforts.

No living man could force his way for a hundred yards with a load on his back or shoulders; every bundle and package had to be carried piecemeal from one rock-barrier to the next. Finally it became obvious that our craft could go no farther. The river-bed in front was barred by a great dyke of jagged, razor-pointed, black lava. Through a narrow break in this the water poured in a roaring, plunging torrent, and on both sides the mountains rose in sheer thousand-foot precipices to the low-hung clouds.

Apparently all our labours had been for nothing. We had come to the end of our tether. Further progress was impossible!

But Chico and his fellow-tribesmen merely grinned, as, calmly and deliberately, they hauled their canoes out of the water, began packing the contents of the boats into portable packages, and gave obvious evidence of intending to continue onward. Evidently they knew of some way out of the impasse, and, encouraged by their attitude, Cordova and Pepe likewise fell to work. But Chico promptly interfered. Only the lighter and most essential articles could be taken, he declared; the rest must be left in the canoes. In reply to my questions he pointed toward the frowning, multi-coloured wall of stone that rose on our right.

“Road too narrow,” he announced. And then, as though stating a most ordinary and familiar fact, he added: “Not any farther. The king’s house here.”

Was it possible? Had we actually reached our goal?

I was not to be kept long in doubt. Shouldering their loads, the two Indians picked their way across the stony river-bed toward the precipitous cliff. At the very base of the overhanging wall a narrow, scarcely-visible trail had been cleared, cut, and cleaned from among the debris fallen from above. It wound about enormous masses of rock, passed through a tunnel-like aperture under piled-up fragments of precipice, zigzagged this way and that, and finally came to an end. Pointing dramatically ahead, Chico exclaimed : “Look, sir! The house of the king!”

Before us the bare, rocky playa came to an end. The river flowed in a broad, swift expanse stretching from bank to bank, burbling musically over miniature rapids. Above our heads rose the cloud-hung precipice. On the farther shore the land sloped gently upward to a high hill crowned with jungle, and then, rising tier after tier, to the distant mountains.

Up from the pebbly beach stretched a broad sweep of smooth greensward dotted with clumps of lime, palm, and orange trees, and upon the summit of the grassy hill stood a large hut, its thatched roof of palm-leaves gleaming like gold in the afternoon sunshine.

This, Chico explained, was the “palace” of the Shayshan king, and, gazing at it, all the hardships we had suffered were forgotten, for we had accomplished the seemingly impossible and arrived safely at the home of the mysterious cacique of the Shayshans.

Our arrival had obviously been expected, for a group of Indians had gathered at the water’s edge below the palace, and already a long, narrow canoe was being poled toward us, its bronze-skinned occupant balancing himself upon the after-end, and handling his frail craft with incredible dexterity.

He was a stocky, sturdy youth and, as I learned later, no less a personage than the Crown Prince. Truly we were being received with high honours! He was thoroughly democratic, however, and having greeted me in his own tongue—not a word of which was intelligible to me—he commenced chatting volubly with my two Indian boys.

We were to cross the stream in his canoe, it appeared, though it seemed impossible that our party and our dunnage could be ferried across the swirling river in such a tricky craft. But it would not do to show my doubts in the presence of royalty, and so, as it was a case of trusting to the canoe or swimming, I followed my men and belongings into the dug-out.

I hardly dared to breathe, for the water was within two inches of the gunwales, and a dozen times I felt certain the canoe was on the point of capsizing. But the Indians, and especially the Prince, were as unconcerned as though on dry land. Standing erect, he poled his craft against the swift current and performed feats of balancing that would have shamed an expert performer on the slack wire. And, almost before I realized it, the canoe grated on the opposite bank and we stepped safely ashore just below the home of the Shayshan king.

Like all Shayshan “houses,” the palace was open on three sides, built upon posts several feet above the earth, and floored with strips of black palm-wood. Its steeply-pitched roof was of thatched palm-leaves, with low eaves.

A hearth of baked clay held an ever-smouldering fire, and the furnishings consisted of several carved wooden stools, a number of bark-cloth mats, several large earthenware pots, baskets of various sizes, a platform-like affair of split palm-strips on which stood calabashes and baskets of provisions, and three or four hammocks. Squatted near the hearth were several women and girls, while baby princes and princesses, completely naked, played and rolled about like brown kittens.

THE SHAYSHAN KING

The king himself reclined in a hammock. He displayed no signs of either curiosity or surprise at my appearance, but, through the medium of Chico as interpreter, received me most hospitably. He had carved wooden stools placed for myself and my men, and put the palace and all it contained at my disposal with almost Castilian politeness. Then the welcoming calabash of thick, unsweetened chocolate was passed round, and, having solemnly drunk this with due ceremony, I explained the reason for my visit.

Almost instantly I discovered that King Polu understood Spanish perfectly, and after this our conversation proceeded in that language. I soon found that the King of the Shayshans was a most remarkable man for a Central American Indian. Unlike his fellows, he was as stoical and reserved as any Sioux or Apache, and he possessed all the eloquence, the love of the dramatic, and the power of simple, poetical expression of a North American Indian.

When I asked him how long his family had ruled the Shayshans he rose and led me to the open side of his house facing the river. Stretching out his arm, the king pointed to the towering mountainside high above the rushing stream.

“Once,” he said, raising his hand towards the water-worn crags hundreds of feet in air, “the river flowed on top of the mountain. But even then my fathers were kings of the Shayshans.”

Despite all that had been told me, he proved to be a most amiable and friendly fellow. He assured me that to find all the members of his tribe would be a long, weary, and probably hopeless task, for they were scattered throughout the mountains, miles apart. But, to save me trouble and help me, he would send a messenger to the outlying tribesmen with orders for all of them to gather at his house, bringing in such of their possessions as they were willing to trade.

My theory that the Shayshans were of Maya stock and perhaps the oldest of existing Central American tribes was rapidly confirmed. Not only was the language distinctly Mayan, but the feather head-dresses were precisely like those depicted on Mayan sculptures and figuring in the engravings and paintings made in the days of the Spanish Conquest, and unlike those of any other known tribe.

Even more remarkable was the fact that the Shayshans’ bows were designed to be bent round side outwards, thus differing from the bows of other races. Apart from their bows, the Shayshans used blow-guns, ten or twelve feet in length, and here again the tribe differed from all their neighbours, for instead-of darts the Shayshans used spherical clay pellets, which, at a distance of thirty or forty yards, were as effective as a small-calibre rifle for bringing down large birds.

Except for maize and a few plantain, banana, and cacao trees, these Indians raised nothing in the way of foodstuffs. An almond-like nut, the boiled fruit and young flower-buds of the palm, and a wild tuber resembling a potato were their mainstays. Corn was eaten whole, and the cacao beans, instead of being fermented and made into chocolate, were roasted and ground to a powder, from which a beverage resembling thick black coffee was made. The Indians drank this in inordinate quantities, taking it, boiling hot almost incessantly from morning to night.

The Shayshans appeared so shy, so friendly, and so docile that I could not imagine them in the role of hostile savages. When I mentioned this matter, Polu and the others declared that the tribe had always been peaceful, and that while they distrusted and disliked the Spaniards, by whom their ancestors had been enslaved, they had merely sought protection from these traditional enemies by moving farther and farther into the wilderness.

By this time I had come to the conclusion that Polu was a wily fellow, and that his sphinx-like face concealed a great deal more guile than one might suppose. When I asked about the other tribes who were reputed to inhabit the even more inaccessible mountains, Polu seemed reluctant to answer, professing the greatest dread of them, although claiming to be at peace with all his neighbours.

Learning that I proposed visiting the Doraks, as the Shayshans called them, the king and his friends showed the greatest concern. They declared it would mean my certain death, explaining that though a Shayshan might enter and pass through the Dorak country, provided he did not linger, no white man would be permitted to set foot beyond the recognized boundary of Shayshan territory.

When pressed for reasons for this attitude, the king and his retinue evaded the question. I felt certain they were trying to keep something from me, and as I puzzled over this I remembered Señor Toro’s words, the tales of the old General and others, and the universal belief that the Shayshans held the secret of the lost Tisingal mine. I also recalled Polu’s evident anxiety that I should not attempt to visit his subjects, and his suggestion that I should remain with him while a courier summoned the tribe.

I AM PUZZLED

Was there, after all, some truth in the rumours? Could it be that the wily chieftain was trying to prevent any possibility of my stumbling upon the jealously-guarded secret of the lost mine? Was I “getting warm,” as they say in the game of “Hunt the Thimble”? It was a fascinating conjecture, and it seemed by no means impossible nor even improbable, I reflected, that the fabulously-rich Tisingal might be located not very far from King Polu’s palace.

But I was not there to investigate mines, old or new, and I had no intention of searching for Tisingal, especially if to do so might result in arousing the resentment or even the suspicions of the Indians, and thereby thwart my purpose in visiting them. Nevertheless, the romantic aspect of the matter appealed to me; my exploring instinct was aroused and—well, I doubt if there is anyone who would not be somewhat thrilled at the thought of being almost within stone’s throw of a long-lost and incredibly rich mine which countless men have sought in vain and whose history is one of tragedy, mystery, and romance.

The most adroit and roundabout questioning, however, failed to elicit any definite information from Polu and his fellows, even though I felt sure I had convinced them that I was not searching for gold. It might be, they agreed, that the Doraks knew of the old mine.

They themselves had heard from their fathers, who had heard it from their fathers, that long ago the Spaniards had a mine somewhere in the mountains, where they forced the Shayshans to labour as slaves. But, they added, they themselves knew nothing. They had no knowledge of gold. It was valueless to them, and if they knew where the mine was they would gladly tell me, for was I not their friend? Had I not given them presents, lived with them like a brother, and dwelt in the king’s house?

Eventually, deciding my imagination had over-ridden my common sense, and that, in all probability, the Shayshans knew nothing definite about Tisingal, I busied myself with my scientific work and forgot the lost mine.

Then, as so often happens, Fate intervened and opened the sealed lips of the Shayshan King. His daughter, a chubby brown princess of eight, was seized with a most agonizing but far from dangerous fit of colic, the result of eating too many oily proa-palm nuts. Her shrieks and screams in the middle of the night aroused everyone, and the Indians, firmly believing some evil spirit had taken possession of her, added their wails, lamentations, and incantations to the uproar.

At first Polu and his copper-coloured queen would have none of the white man’s medicine. But when the most powerful of Shayshan potions, the beating of drums, the application of “magic” wood and fungus, and even the slaughter of a cock failed to exorcise the “devil,” the Shayshans, as a last resort, turned to me.

The little princess’s trouble quickly responded to proper treatment, her screams of agony changed to sobs, the sobs to whimpers, and soon she was sleeping quietly and soundly on her mat of pounded bark beside the queen. I very much doubt, however, if Polu slept again that night. When I tumbled into my hammock he was sitting motionless, staring into the black, starlit night, and when I awoke at dawn he was in precisely the same position, immobile as a bronze statue, his mind evidently concentrated on some deep and important matter.

Not until the inevitable chocolate was passed to him did he come back to earth. Then, having swallowed the steaming mess, he rose, took down a long and powerful black-palm bow and sheaf of wicked-looking six-foot arrows and very carefully examined each one in turn. Evidently, I thought, the king was preparing to go out on a hunt. Then, to my unbounded surprise, he requested me to accompany him.

For a time he walked on in silence. Not until we had passed beyond sight and hearing of the house and were well within the jungle did he speak. Then, halting, he turned, beckoned me to his side, and grinned. His Spanish was somewhat crude and limited, and my recently acquired knowledge of Shayshan was even more exiguous. But we had always got along famously, and there was no possibility of misunderstanding him.

Rubbing his stomach, he twisted his face into an agonized expression. “Child sick; very sick,” he said. Then he closed his eyes and sighed contentedly. “I am grateful; you were good to my daughter,” he added. “I am glad the child is well again,” I replied, using his own dialect.

Polu narrowed his eyes; the half-quizzical expression I had often noted—an expression suggestive of crafty shrewdness came over his face. For fully a minute he studied me. Then he turned abruptly and pointed towards the sombre green mountains, their sides still streaked with shreds of the night mist, their shadows purple and mysterious.

“Come!” he ejaculated, suddenly, “Tisingal!”

I could scarcely believe my ears, hardly convince myself I heard aright. I was absolutely dumbfounded. Polu did know the secret of the lost mine! He was about to reveal it to me, was taking me to it as proof of his gratitude for curing the little princess!

For seemingly endless hours we climbed the mountain through a misty, penetrating drizzle. Mile after mile I followed Polu into the shadows of the vast, impenetrable forest, until I lost all sense of direction. I was drenched to the skin and heartily sick of the whole business when the king suddenly halted and beckoned me to him. Carefully parting the drooping ferns and interlaced creepers, he pointed to a pile of rotting, moss-grown masonry rent by the snakelike, twisted roots of great trees, and almost hidden in the accumulation of decaying vegetation.

Here, buried in this untrodden jungle, was the age-old work of civilized man, and unquestionably, as proved by the mortar, of Europeans. Polu walked a few paces farther, and, stepping aside, showed me a stretch of roughly-paved roadway, beside which were the almost vanished hard-wood logs of what once, centuries before, might have formed a stockade or a massive gate. Was it possible that I was actually gazing at the remains of the approaches to Tisingal?

THE GUNS OF TISINGAL!

Then, while my mind was still a chaos of sensations, Polu, with furtive glances about him, as though desecrating a tomb, bent low, and pressing through a thicket, halted among the trees. Before him lay two large cylindrical objects half buried in the earth. At first glance I took them for moss-covered logs, and then, with fast-beating pulse, I realized my mistake. There was no doubt about it—they were cannon! Cannon of bronze; ancient guns of small bore, ornately ringed, bell-mouthed, and thick with the verdigris of countless years of drenching tropical rains and ever-dripping moisture.

Carefully scraping away the growth of moss and tiny ferns, I could distinguish raised figures and letters upon the metal. Corrosion had almost obliterated them, but here and there a letter was decipherable, and on one the date—“1515”—was quite plain.

I had thought that ancient mines, real or imaginary, held only a passing interest for me, and yet, as I knelt there beside those centuries-old guns, in the heart of that unknown forest, I felt a wave of exultation such as I have seldom known.

Beyond the shadow of a doubt I was looking upon objects that many a man would have given half his life and thousands of dollars to behold—the ancient Spanish cannon that once guarded the way to the richest mine in the New World: the long-lost, long-sought, almost fabulous Tisingal! And, strangest of all, that which no other civilized man had been permitted to see had been revealed to me through a child’s attack of colic!

Unquestionably, I was the first European to view those relics of the past and live to tell of it during all the centuries that had passed since Tisingal had been lost to the world. Somewhere nearby, hidden in the rank growth, was wealth beyond one’s wildest dreams, but if I had dared to enter that ominous jungle alone a Silent arrow might have sped from some lurking, watching savage, and my bones might have been added to those of other seekers for the elusive Tisingal.

As I stood there in that shadowy forest and looked upon those ancient bronze weapons, the whole tragic story of the mine came vividly to my mind. I could revisualize the Dons—mail-clad, ruthless, cruel, caring nothing for life or bloodshed where gold was to be won—murdering the simple Indians who resisted the invaders, enslaving those who were peaceful.

I could imagine them hewing their way through the jungles as they penetrated farther and farther into the mountains. I could see them in their cumbersome craft conquering the rapids, falling by the wayside, suffering martyrdom in their lust for gold, until at last they reached the Shayshan country and, by inhuman tortures, wrung the secret of Tisingal from some captive Indian.

And, having come that way myself, I could appreciate the Herculean labours of the Spaniards and their slaves as they transported their goods and equipment up the river, made roads through the jungle, built forts and bridges, and erected their dwellings, their barracks, and even their church, deep within these forests. And I could picture the savage exultation of the long-oppressed and enslaved Indians when, at last, they squared accounts and, massacring the Spaniards to the last man, destroyed every vestige of the Dons’ work.

No wonder, I thought, that the Doraks maintained an endless vigil and prevented all intruders from rediscovering Tisingal! Gold and the white man’s greed for wealth have always been the curse of the Indians, and I was thankful that the secret was so well and so effectively guarded. My only regret was that I had no camera. I had not brought it with me when I left Polu’s home, for I thought I was merely accompanying the king on a hunting-trip.

And now Polu was becoming nervous. He was impatiently urging me to go, meanwhile peering furtively about him, searching the surrounding jungle as if in fear of stealthy, hostile savages. Perhaps it was pure imagination, or perhaps the king’s fears were contagious. At any rate, I felt that we were being watched, that unseen eyes were upon us, and that I stood very close indeed to death. So, with a last glance at the mute guardians of the old mine, I turned, and, in Polu’s footsteps, threaded my way along the indistinguishable trail that led back to the domains of my silent companion.

At last we emerged from the jungle with the king’s house in view, and instantly I halted in amazement. Gathered in a little knot before the thatched hut were half-a-dozen wild-looking naked Indians!

Who were they? Had the hostile Doraks swept down on the Shayshans to demand satisfaction for the king’s action in betraying the secret of Tisingal to a white stranger? Before I could ask a question, or utter a word, however, they caught sight of us, and, in the twinkling of an eye, had vanished!

Oddly enough, Polu did not seem at all surprised or disturbed. He could not or would not understand my queries, and merely grinned amiably as we hurried across the few rods of open grassland to his palace.

Then I understood. Seated in the house were the Shayshans the king’s courier had summoned. They were wild-faced, shockheaded, shy-looking tribesmen, but each and all were garbed in ragged shirts and much-patched trousers. At sight of the white man they had hurriedly transformed themselves from untamed savages to semi-civilized Indians—at least outwardly!

Not until much later did I learn the real facts, however. When I was leaving for the long and laborious trip downstream Polu, with a twinkle in his keen eyes, revealed the great secret. The Shayshans and the Doraks were one and the same people! A Jekyll and Hyde tribe—peaceful, quiet, friendly, and with an external veneer of civilization, or wild, savage, and hostile, as the conditions called for—the Shayshans were the sole guardians of the long-lost mine!

Through Panama by Motor Car

CHAPTER X

THROUGH THE INTERIOR BY MOTOR CAR

From Panama of Today by A. Hyatt Verrill.

1928. Digitized by Doug Frizzle, April 2014.

By motor into Coclé. Villages and towns. The German colony. Roads and bridges. Hills and llanos. The cattle country. Progressive towns. Schools. The volcano. Natá the oldest city in America. The old church. A fortress and church combined. A marvelous contrast. The city of salt. Onward into Veraguas. Side trips. Silicified forests. Bird life. The capital of Veraguas.

Having visited the ruins of that once "Goode and Staytlye City,'' and having seen all there is to be seen around and about Panama, the visitor will do well to take a trip into the interior.

A few years ago this was a difficult thing to do and even a short journey into the country was filled with discomforts and hardships. But today, one may travel for over two hundred miles into the interior by motor car over roads that, with a few exceptions, are by no means bad, and many miles of which would be a credit to our own country.

But the visitor planning this trip should be provided with camping outfit, food and all other necessities and luxuries, if the journey is to be taken in comfort. There are, it is true, little fondas or so-called hotels in every town of any size in the interior. But these are, with few exceptions, impossible for those travelers who are not inured to roughing it. They are dirty, often vermin infested, lacking in nearly every necessity and convenience, and the sleeping accommodations consist of hard native cots. As a rule, too, anywhere from two to ten persons are crowded into one room and there is no privacy. The meals are of the coarsest native food, badly cooked and worse served, and the charges, considering the accommodations, are ridiculous. It is a far better plan to camp out and cook one's own meals. But in selecting a camp site be sure and do not make the mistake that so many Americans make, of camping on low ground near a stream, on lands where there are cattle or in the jungle. If you do you will be eaten alive by mosquitos, devoured by ticks or made miserable by other insect pests. And be sure not to drink river water unless thoroughly boiled. At nearly every village and town there are driven wells from which pure water may be obtained, and the larger towns are provided with a water supply which is safe, although in the height of the dry season it cannot be relied upon. The best places to camp are the sides of the road, and if near a village so much the better, for some fruits, vegetables and other food may usually be purchased, and eggs, pigeons, chickens and turkeys are always obtainable. If fond of hunting by all means carry a shot gun, for quail and wild pigeon are abundant and will greatly help out the menu. But fight shy of the native beef and pork. Cattle are seldom killed in the interior until they are far too old for breeding purposes, or for shipment to Panama City, and the beasts are slaughtered and the meat sold and eaten the same day.

If the trip is taken during the height of the dry season,—from December until April, practically no shelter will be required. There will be no danger of rain; but as a strong wind blows constantly a protection from this and the accompanying dust is necessary. And be sure to provide blankets and mosquito nets. The nights are cold in the interior and while, during the dry season, mosquitos are not numerous, it is well to provide against any chance of contracting malaria by being bitten by the pests. In the tropics an ounce of prevention is worth many pounds of cure. For this reason no traveler should venture into the interior of Panama without a supply of quinine and other simple medicines and a first aid kit. As there are gasoline filling stations where fuel and oil may be had, at every town, the traveler need not worry on that score. Leaving Panama or Ancon, the route is to Pedro Miguel where a ferry carries the automobiles and passengers across the Canal. Then, over a road that is a disgrace to our government, the way leads through Empire and Camp Gaillard, where the Porto Rican Regiment is stationed, and hence over a roughly-cobbled road through charming hilly country to Panamanian territory. The first portion of the new Panama highroad is far from perfect and, in many places is so narrow, so tortuous and has such sharp, blind curves that it is positively dangerous. The first good sized settlement is Chorrera, an old Spanish town sprawling over the rolling country with its glaring red earth. But it is of little interest, as is Capira, the next village of any size. From here on, the road is wider, straighter and, in some places, is fairly good. Here the highway climbs a number of small mountains or high hills, covered with jungle and affording wonderful vistas of the Pacific and the islands in the offing. Here, too, one passes a little village of the typical wattled, mud-walled, thatch-roofed native huts, but which appear quite different from the others we have seen. They are neat and tidy; about them are flower gardens, and, most incongruously, the windows are furnished with muslin curtains and flower boxes. And the inhabitants seem just as incongruous. They are white skinned, blue eyed and tow headed, for they are Germans, brought out by the Panama government with the mistaken idea that they could make the wilderness blossom like the proverbial rose, and would,—by some miraculous means,—induce progress and prosperity in the district. Unfortunately, the poor colonists, who were entirely ignorant of the tropics and tropical agriculture, have proved a dismal failure. The few crops they have raised, in a spot wholly un-suited to gardening, have been either destroyed by the natives or have proved unsalable, while such products as were harvested and were salable could not be sold except at a loss owing to the high cost of transportation.

As a result, the Germans became poverty stricken and were actually suffering from want until their plight was brought to the attention of charitable persons on the Zone and in Panama City. Thus partially provided for, and by earning a few dollars serving coffee and light refreshments to passing travelers, the colonists who have remained have managed to eke out an existence; but by far the greater number have migrated to more promising fields and are working as laborers. Had the Panama government selected peasants from southern Europe instead of Germans, they might have succeeded, though it is hard to see how any one could succeed as an agriculturist in the district and under present economic conditions.

Beyond here the road swings westward towards the coast to Chame, and hence to Bejuco, both small but rather neat little settlements where orange trees laden with fruit are on every side, and where the traveler may fill his car with the sweetest of juicy oranges at a cost of a few cents.

Beyond Chame a branch road runs to San Carlos while the main thoroughfare continues on to Antón. This district is the beginning of the plains or llanos that sweep inland to the distant mountains. Here, too, the road is excellent, and bridge after bridge is crossed. The land, however, though well watered by the numerous streams, is sterile and thin and is incapable of supporting anything more than a sparse growth of wiry grass and thorny shrubs. It is almost wholly volcanic ash and tufa, and often, near the road, one sees areas of the glaring white ash cut by the rains into weird formations like innumerable spires.

Antón, the largest shipping town in the district, is a fairly good sized village but with few attractions, and from here the smooth surfaced road runs across the almost level llanos to Penonomé. Penonomé the capital of Coclé province, is the most up-to-date, most progressive and the cleanest and best kept town in the interior of the republic.

It was the first to have a municipal water supply and the first to have an electric light system. Its schools are so numerous that they seem out of all proportion to the size of the town, and everyone appears well-to-do, contented and happy. In fact the better class of inhabitants are apparently of a far superior race to those of other interior villages, and their pride in their town is most admirable.

The streets are smoothly paved and well kept, every house is repainted each year, there are numerous well stocked stores, two or three gasolene filling stations and a good market. But the most attractive feature of Penonomé, the ancient church on the plaza, has been completely ruined by rebuilding and modernizing. Penonomé is the outlet for a large area of country, and quantities of rubber, coffee and other mountain products are brought into the settlement by the Indians who dwell about La Pintada and in the mountainous country of the interior of the province. But the Coclé tribe is thoroughly civilized and the Indians have even forgotten their own tongue. However, they still keep up some of their ancient tribal customs, and they weave excellent hammocks, baskets and bags which may be purchased at very reasonable prices in the Penonomé shops.

Immediately after leaving Penonomé a rugged isolated mountain is seen, rising abruptly from the plain to the north, or right hand side, of the road. This is the Guacamayo volcano which is still slightly active. On its southern side, plainly visible as we pass within a few miles of the volcano, is the great red broken down crater. Here are immense deposits of sulphur with hot springs and a few fumeroles. From the summit of Guacamayo a magnificent panorama of country and sea is spread at one's feet; but the climb to the summit is a terrific undertaking and is not to be recommended.

From Penonomé the road continues on across flat llanos and over numerous big iron bridges, and passes through the little villages of Coclé, Rio Grande and Rio Caño to Natá. This town is mainly of interest as being the oldest occupied town on the American continent, having been founded by the Spaniards in 1520. The church, however, is the only remaining building of the original town, the present houses being mainly miserable native shacks, while the town itself is filthy, badly kept and wholly unattractive. Here, as in so many instances, the priests, with more zeal than common sense, have attempted to rejuvenate the splendid old church. But here, fortunately, they only got as far as one tower and left the rest of the building in its original condition. Built of brick and rubble, the old church covers an immense area and was originally surrounded by a stout loop-holed wall which also enclosed the fort. Much of the wall has been destroyed and the fort has vanished, but the church itself is in a fair state of preservation. It contains some priceless Old Masters and some remarkable silver but, like everything else in the place, it seems run down at the heels and woefully in need of cleaning and care.

Near Natá a road branches off to the north across the llanos. This road, which is passable for automobiles during the dry season, leads to within a short distance of the Limon waterfall, one of Panama's greatest natural wonders. Here the Rio Caño, flowing across a high plateau, plunges over the verge of a precipice, and, in a series of gigantic cataracts, falls for over one thousand feet to the level of the plains. During the dry season the volume of water is not great, but during the rainy season and the first part of the dry season, the falls are visible for twenty miles and their roar is audible for nearly five miles.

Beyond Natá the plains are more fertile and in places are covered with large trees while here and there are fields of sugar cane. Here, too, one first sees the giant nests of termites, hard conical or culumnar objects dotting the plains, and looking from a distance like the kahki-colored tents of an encampment.

Soon the sugar cane patches grow more numerous, we pass the centrál of Don Rudolpho Chiari, president of Panama, and presently reach Agua Dulce.

This town, which is an important port, is the center of the salt industry. Indeed, its entire existence depends upon the salt which is crystallized in immense "pans" on the low mud flats about the town and is shipped far and wide. The visitor is often at a loss to understand how a town several miles inland can be a port, but like many other Latin American cities, the town was built at a distance from the sea to decrease the danger of piratical raids in the old days, while the port itself, or the "playa" as it is called, is at the water side. The town and port of Agua Dulce are connected by a splendid road, but as the port consists merely of a dock and a shed there is nothing of interest to be seen. Agua Dulce is by no means comparable to Penonomé or even to Antón, for cleanliness, neatness or attractions.

It is dirty and badly kept, it has few good buildings, the church has been thoroughly modernized, and the inhabitants have a greater admixture of negro blood than in the other towns. There are, however, a number of fairly good shops and several garages and filling stations in the town. Also, from Agua Dulce several side trips may be taken to Pocrí, Chitré, etc.

But the main road runs on to Santiago, the ancient picturesque capital of Veraguas province.¹ Beyond Agua Dulce the same flat llanos extend, almost deserted except for herds of rather scrawny, undersized cattle and an occasional native hut. Altogether it is such a scene as one might expect in South Africa. There are the same conical ants' nests, often ten to fifteen feet high, the kopjes, the distant hazy mountains, the thorny mimosa scrub, and one half expects to see a Kaffir kraal or a herd of ostriches or giraffes. But the nearest approach to giraffes are the woefully thin cattle and horses, while there is nothing more resembling an ostrich than the repulsive vultures and carrion hawks.

Now and then another car is met, usually a delapidated Ford; at times a bus or "chiva" tears by, bound for Panama and intermediate stops, and often we pass the big, lumbering, native bull carts creaking ponderously as they are drawn at a snail's pace by two or four great, long-horned bulls lashed by the horns to the cart's pole on which perches the swarthy, brigandish-looking driver.

1 The name Veraguas is of Indian origin and not Spanish as is generally thought. The ending "agua" is merely a coincidence and has nothing to do with the Spanish word "agua" meaning water. The same ending is found in many other Indian words and names such as Managua, Nicaragua, Comagua, etc.

Bird life, too, is abundant. Little flocks of ground doves flutter from the roadway. Graceful quaker-gray swallow-tailed flycatchers dart back and forth as they capture tiny insects. Bold-eyed hawks look disdainfully down from the telegraph poles, and sweet-voiced meadow larks sing from fence posts and shrubbery.

At Estrella, a tiny village about ten miles from Agua Dulce, the road forks, the right hand branch proceeding to San Francisco. But it is almost impassable, even for a Ford, and the main highway stretches straight ahead.

Scenically, however, the old road through the hills is more attractive, and the visitor who is fond of nature and horseback riding, might do worse than take this trip. It leads past the Santa Rosa sugar estate and hence through rugged and picturesque country among the foothills of the cordilleras,—crossing tumbling rivers where one must swim one's horse; meandering through dense thorny jungles; following the verges of deep ravines; passing through narrow defiles with scarcely space for a horse to pass. Here and there are bare areas of brilliant red, purple, yellow and green earth dotted with lumps and boulders of agate, while often one rides for long distances through areas covered with silicified trees. Some of these stumps are standing as if freshly cut; others lie about in short smooth-ended sections as if sawed for cordwood, and still more are scattered about like newly broken sticks and branches. Indeed, one cannot believe that they are flinty hard agate until closely examined and tested.

On the main road also, there are spots where these fossil trees may be seen, but these and the agates are far less numerous than farther back near the mountains. Beyond Estrella the first village worthy of the name is Davisa, about halfway between Agua Dulce and Santiago. Beyond here the plains grow more restricted, there are more hills, and presently one is constantly ascending and descending sharp grades. Then at last the road comes forth from the broken country and ahead sweep broad plains stretching to the far off mountains, and with the little town nestling, white and red, upon the level land.

In Unknown British Guiana -Part 4

In Unknown British Guiana -Part 4

By A. Hyatt Verrill

From The Wide World Magazine, December 1918,  Vol. XLII, No. 248?, American Edition. 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.

HIDDEN in the heart of British Guiana—almost unknown to the outside world and yet within comparatively easy reach of Georgetown, the busy, attractive, up-to-date capital of the colony—is Kaietuerk, the cataract incomparable, a stupendous waterfall five times the size of Niagara and in a tropic setting whose beauty cannot be excelled in all the world.

To visit Kaietuerk is by no means difficult, and the round trip may be made from Georgetown in less than ten days and at a total expense of less than two hundred dollars, or forty pounds sterling. It seems incredible that in these days of progress a country should possess such a world wonder as Kaietuerk Falls and should be so short-sighted, or apathetic, as to leave it unexploited and relatively inaccessible. In a straight line Kaietuerk is scarcely one hundred and fifty miles from Georgetown, and yet one must travel for five days by steamer, railway, and small boat in order to reach the cataract. For a comparatively small outlay the falls could be brought within two days' travel of the capital, but in a way it is fortunate that it is unexploited, for the very wildness of its surroundings, its untouched, unspoiled beauty, its solitude, and its freedom from crowds of visitors are among its greatest attractions. Here, in the presence of Kaietuerk, with civilization left miles behind, with only Indian guides as one's companions, and with the vast interminable forest stretching to the very heart of South America, one feels as if he were the first human being to gaze upon the marvellous sight.

There are two ways of reaching Kaietuerk: the first by steamer and rail to Rockstone, the other by boat up the Essequibo from Bartica and through the rapids to Rockstone.

If one be in hurry, or desire comfort and ease, by all means take the first route; but if you would really see the "bush” with its wealth of wild life and its vegetable wonders, and would taste the thrill of adventure, the spell of the wilderness, and the excitement of a journey through the jungle, then travel up the Essequibo.

Although the falls and rapids which stretch between Bartica and Rockstone are considered among the most dangerous in the colony, yet in the dry season, and with a good crew of six men, a captain, and a bowman, there is no danger, for the greatest peril is in running down the rapids; there is nothing to worry over when going up, although there is plenty of excitement and thrills. Bartica is a tiny frontier settlement at the head of steamer navigation on the Essequibo, and here one may always secure a boat and crew. The prime necessity is a competent captain and bowman, and with these engaged all other details may be left in their hands.

Propelled by the powerful strokes of the eight paddlers, the craft sweeps swiftly up the tranquil river and soon leaves the last outlying houses of Bartica astern. Low in the east the sun is painting the sky in gorgeous crimson and gold; above the league-wide river hangs a curtain of gossamer mist; parrots wing screaming overhead, macaws screech and toucans clatter and yelp from the tree-tops, and from the forest depths issue the countless songs, notes, and cries of awakening life. Then the clearings and lime orchards of Agatash are passed, and nought but the untamed wilderness stretches ahead for forty miles along the river's banks. Close to the shore the boat skirts the rank green jungle with its dark, mysterious shadows and giant trees, while strange birds and great sky-blue butterflies flit amid the labyrinth of roots, vines, palms, and foliage—an impenetrable barrier, a living wall, through which one cannot move a yard without hewing a way.

Just before sundown the boat is run upon the sandy beach of a wooded island and the men bustle about preparing camp. While some "catch" a fire, others are busy clearing a small opening in the brush, and others again are cutting poles and stakes, and in a wonderfully short time the big tarpaulin, which forms a part of every outfit in the bush, is stretched across a pole between two trees and in its shelter the hammocks are slung. As the velvet-black night descends upon river and forest a wonderful picture is presented, a scene beyond the power of brush to paint or pen to describe. Against the background of the giant trees glow the camp-fires, touching the great trunks with ruddy lights, filling the air with the pungent odour of smoke, and transforming the old tarpaulin to a canopy of gold. Squatting on their haunches, leaning against the trees, or lolling in their hammocks are the men, their brawny limbs and half-savage features gleaming like polished bronze in the fitful light, while all about the giant lantern-flies twinkle and flash like animated incandescent lights. Borne down the river on the cool night wind comes the distant roar of the falls; from afar in the forest echoes the weird scream of a jaguar; a soft-winged goatsucker cries querulously, complainingly, as it flits by, and from every side issue the countless croaks, trills, whistles, and booming notes of innumerable frogs. Then a sudden shower rattles like hail upon the canvas roof and quenches the glowing embers of the fire, the forest voices are hushed, and silence falls like a curtain over the wilderness.

Long ere the sun has risen, everything is again stowed in the boat and is covered with tightly-lashed tarpaulin, and once more the flashing paddles are urging the boat upstream.

Within half a mile of camp are the river falls, in reality a rapid with the brown water churned to amber foam where it swirls and eddies over hidden rocks and between jutting fangs of granite. At the foot of the falls the boat is paddled alongside a mass of rocks and the passenger steps ashore, while the men uncoil long bow and stern lines and prepare to haul the craft through the boiling waters.

Waist-deep in the rushing flood, they struggle up against the current, securing precarious footholds on slippery submerged rocks, and bending their backs to the strain of the rope. Others, holding the stern line, brace themselves for the supreme effort; the captain, huge paddle in hand, stands erect in the stern, directing, encouraging, and guiding, while the gigantic bowman, submerged save for head and shoulders, exerts the mighty strength of his back against the bow—a human buffer between the boat and the jagged rocks. Slowly the boat forges ahead to the irresistible drag of six pairs of knotted muscular arms; the water dashes and roars high above the bow; the stern is swung deftly by line and paddle, and a minute later the heavy craft emerges from the turmoil and floats quietly on a smooth backwater above the falls.

Within ten minutes after re-embarking above the first rapids you are compelled to disembark again as another series of rapids is reached, and throughout the day the traveller does little else than clamber in and out of the boat as one rapid follows another. But even if one loses interest in watching the men, there is still much to occupy one's attention. On every side are thousands of rocks and ledges surrounded by water rushing and roaring like a mill-race, and every rock and boulder bears its own crown of vegetation and its quota of life. Everywhere the rocks appear as if covered with a stubbly beard, and a closer examination reveals the fact that this is a curious, sedge-like plant with delicate pink blooms which somehow finds roothold and sustenance on the smooth, bare surface of these water-washed rocks.

But blasé indeed must be he whose attention is not riveted on the toiling men, or whose pulses do not quicken at their constant perils, escaped by almost superhuman efforts. In places the raging waters tear between rocky barriers scarce wide enough to permit the passage of the boat; in other places the waters above the falls run black, deep, and ominous, and the men are forced to swim ahead with towlines grasped in their teeth in order to reach a foothold from which to haul their craft upstream. Now and again the water roars in cataracts over dam-like dykes where the boat cannot float, and by herculean efforts the sweating, toiling men actually lift their craft and drag her to deeper water by main strength.

But they never hesitate, never grumble, never shirk. Their lives and yours are at stake, and though the waters are infested with the dreaded Perai fish, though the cry of "Cayman!" often causes the crew to glance apprehensively about, and though ever and again some man loses his footing and is swept from the line, they take it all in the light of a frolic and laugh heartily at one another's mishaps.

It is thrilling enough as one watches their progress from the safe, dry vantage-point of the rocks, but the real excitement comes when, in certain spots, the traveller remains in the boat while the rapids are conquered.

Perchance, when paddling furiously to stem a series of small rapids, the boat may be caught by an unseen cross-current, and, despite the frantic efforts of the men, it is dashed full upon a submerged rock.

With a blow that all but throws you from your seat, the heavy craft crashes against the reef, rides half its length over it, swings as on a pivot, and tips perilously. But ere it can capsize or fill, the men leap overboard, some breast deep, others buried in the torrent to their mouths, and others swimming, and by dint of sheer strength they lift the boat and push it into deep water. Then, with the agility of monkeys, they clamber over the gunwales, grasp paddies once more, and drive the boat through the rapids to safety. It is a marvellous exhibition of skill, pluck, and concerted instantaneous action. If they hesitate, if one fails at the critical moment, nothing can prevent a capsize or a washout with loss of provisions and possible loss of life.

Sometimes, too, there are huge treacherous whirlpools to be passed, great swirling oval spaces below or above the falls. With every ounce of their strength the eight men ply their paddles, the boat hangs motionless for one instant, the bow quivers and vibrates to the drag of the water, and then the craft darts forward. High above the gunwales boils the maelstrom as the centre of the pool is reached; the boat seems actually to rear on end; it slides up a hill of racing water, and ere you have time to realize it is accomplished, the boat is beyond the danger-point and is safe in a narrow, swift-flowing channel. It is no place for the timid, no trip for the nervous; but exhilarating, exciting, stirring beyond compare for those who love a spice of danger and a novel experience.

But while falls and rapids innumerable are passed through, the river is by no means all broken water. Between the various falls the stream stretches for miles, broad, unbroken, tranquil, placid as an inland lake, and walled by primeval bush which is reflected in the oillike water as on a polished mirror. No sign of man or of his handicraft is visible; one can scarce believe that fellow-men have ever passed this way, and the traveller feels as if he were in the very heart of the wilderness, in a land untamed, untouched, and all but unknown.

On every hand rises the vast forest, the enormous trees towering for near two hundred feet above the river banks, and so bound together with lianas, so densely foliaged, so overgrown and covered with vines and creepers that the forest appears like a stupendous curtain of green velvet draped in graceful folds above the quiet river.

Overhead toucans, parrots, macaws, and many smaller birds wing their noisy way from shore to shore; crested eagles and great white-headed hawks soar majestically in vast circles; great-billed terns and pied skimmers preen their plumage on golden sand-bars, and thousands of steel-blue dainty swallows rise in vast clouds from their resting-places on the ledges. And as the boat skirts the forest's edge, hosts of vicious little vampire bats flutter from the tree-trunks and, winging an erratic course for a few yards, again flatten themselves against the bark of other trees, where instantly they become invisible. From before the boat, shoals of fresh-water flying-fish spring from the glassy surface of the stream and skitter off like skipping-stones, or a clumsy tapir or startled capybara crashes into the forest in headlong flight.

And now the last rapids have been passed, the boat speeds swiftly up the smooth river, it sweeps around a wooded bend, and ahead are the broad cleared lands and the scattered buildings of Rockstone.

This town is of no importance, save as the terminus of the railway from Wismar, on the Demerara River, which was built to obviate the necessity of travelling up the line from Bartica in order to reach the Upper Essequibo and the hinterland. At Rockstone the boat and its Bartica crew may be dismissed, for noisy, ill-smelling, kerosene-burning river-boats ply up and down the river between the town and Tumatumari.

The trip up the Essequibo above Rockstone seems tame indeed by comparison with the journey from Bartica, but once or twice glimpses of distant mountains may be seen, and at the mouth of the Potaro a brief stop is made before continuing the voyage up the Potaro River to Tumatumari.

Tumatumari is a very beautiful spot, with its four foaming cataracts roaring between their wooded islands just below the rest-house windows, and there are few places in the tropics which could be transformed into more desirable resorts in which to spend one's time. There is an abundance of game in the forests; the river teems with fish; there are extensive gold placers four miles back in the bush, and close to the settlement are several good-sized Indian villages, while the air is delightfully cool and invigorating and the scenery is magnificent.

As the falls are practically impassable, it is necessary to walk for half a mile over a good road to the head of the cataracts, and from here a launch continues the journey to Potaro Landing, about a dozen miles up the river. This landing is at the head of launch navigation, and it is also the terminus of the road leading into the Minnehaha and other goldmines. From this spot the traveller must tramp about seven miles to Kangaruma, but as much of the distance is through the dense forest it is cool and shady. This detour is made necessary because of Pakutuerk Falls, whose roar can be heard as one walks along, and which bar the river with a series of dangerous cataracts. While these falls can be navigated, so much time is required and the trip is so dangerous that it is not advisable, unless one is out for excitement. On one occasion I went through Pakutuerk Falls, and some idea of the difficulties may be gauged by the fact that it required four days of unceasing, heart-breaking, almost superhuman efforts on the part of my twelve men—ten of whom were Indians—to successfully negotiate them. But returning was a wonderful experience, and with the speed of an express train we shot through the foaming, roaring, rock-filled rapids and over the cataracts in less than four hours. It was an adventure I would not have missed for worlds, but which I would never care to repeat, for although we got through safely, yet time and again we came perilously near to death, and in one spot we had a lively washout with a considerable loss of our belongings.

At Kangaruma one embarks once more in a batteau and is paddled swiftly up the ever-narrowing river towards Amaktuerk.

Wilder and more luxuriant becomes the forest; ever more beautiful becomes the winding river, the charming islets, and the vistas of mirror-like stream. Far away above the endless bush loom the blue Pakaraima Mountains, and as the sun sinks in a blaze of glory the boat swings around a bend in the river and Amaktuerk is revealed in all its beauty. Against the rose and golden clouds rise the towering mountains, already wreathed in evening mists; on either hand the dark forests are reflected in the gilded waters, and in the centre, bursting from between the wooded shores, leap the lovely falls, half hidden in a filmy veil of spray. It is a wonderful picture, a glorious sight, for Amaktuerk Falls are by far the most attractive on the Potaro and their setting is perfection itself. Here, above the falls, and directly across the river from the towering Amaktuerk Mountain, is a tiny rest-house, and it would be hard to find a more charming spot in which to spend the night. Portaging the luggage around Amaktuerk, another boat is taken above the falls, and from here, on, the traveller is in the heart of Guiana's scenic wonderland. On every hand the great isolated mountains rear their bare precipitous faces and forest-clad slopes for thousands of feet above the sea of forest, while fleecy clouds drift lazily across their frowning ramparts. Mirrored in the river, they appear twice their height and seem to overhang the passing boat; but, in reality, miles of impenetrable forest stretch from the river bank to their feet. Of them all, perhaps Kukuieng, or Hawk's Nest, is the most impressive and the most conspicuous, for it rises abruptly from the forest, its turret-like form and rocky battlements startlingly resembling some titanic castle, and for mile after mile it is ever within sight. But no matter where one looks, mountain after mountain may be seen, and with each mile they increase in numbers and in size as they merge into the stupendous gorge which forms a fitting approach, a worthy gateway, to the world's highest waterfall.

By noon the falls of Waraktuerk are reached, and, having made a short portage, the last stage of the journey is begun, and two hours later the traveller catches his first glimpse of Kaietuerk—a faint silvery thread against the hazy blue of the gorge. Now the mountains hem the river in as by a mighty wall on either side, and again and again one catches new glimpses of the marvellous cataract in the dim distance. It is a scene of surpassing beauty and grandeur, a land wrapped in a vast silence broken only by the silvery, ringing notes of the bell-birds, which, perched on the topmost summits of the dead trees, gleam like specks of alabaster against the dark verdure of the mountain sides.

And then, at last, the boat is run ashore at Tukuit, the journey by river is at an end, and preparations are made for the climb over the mountains to the falls on the following morning.

Tukuit is a beautiful spot surrounded by great wooded mountains with the silvery river at their feet, while directly across from the rest-house a lovely cataract issues from the verdure and plunges down for hundreds of feet to lose itself in masses of trees above the clouds. In many lands this fall in itself would considered a wonderful sight and worthy of the pilgrimage, but in this gorge of stupendous proportions, in the presence of titanic Kaietuerk, and amid such an excess of sublime scenery, this cataract and a dozen or more like it pass unnoticed.

Although several women have made the climb to Kaietuerk, yet it is a fearful trail and no easy walk even for an able-bodied man. Formerly there was an easier, zigzag trail, but this is now, or was until very recently, impassable with fallen trees, and one must clamber, or rather claw, a way straight up the mountain side in the dry bed of a water-course. It cannot by any stretch of the imagination be called a path, for it is filled with loose boulders of every size, deep holes and crevices, slippery mud, and gnarled, moss-grown roots. It is a good two hours' climb up a slope of about sixty degrees to the summit of the first ridge, which is marked by a large tree on whose bark is deeply carved the word "Amen."

Beyond here the way is comparatively easy, for it leads across a narrow, hog-backed ridge between two deep gorges and is fairly level. Here, if one proceeds quietly, may be seen the gorgeous cock of the rock, whose orange plumage glows like fire amid the leaves, for about Kaietuerk these rare birds are fairly common, and in the breeding season they may be seen performing their remarkable "dances" on the little open spaces among the rocks, which the birds clear for the purpose. Three hours after leaving Tukuit, the Kaietuerk Plateau is reached, a weird, strange place, so different from the forest that the traveller feels as if he had entered another land, and it is hard to believe that one is still in British Guiana. Everywhere are the strange giant lily-like bromelias peculiar to the region; here and there among the rocks are clumps of remarkable, grotesquely-flowered orchids; pretty sundews carpet the ground in spots, and grey lichens lend a northern aspect to the place, while clumps of bracken and nodding blue harebells seem out of place here in the tropics. Even the birds and butterflies are different from those of the lower levels, for the Kaietuerk Plateau has a flora and a fauna of its own. But, on the whole, it is a dreary and barren scene; a waste of smooth, water-worn rock and stagnant pools of rain-water, across which the visitor hurries towards the brink of the falls.

Throughout my life I have prided myself on never feeling nervous or dizzy at great heights. I have stood on lofty mountain peaks; I have climbed to the trucks of ships' masts rolling in a seaway, and I have gazed down at teeming city streets from the narrow steel beams of half-finished skyscrapers, and never have I felt ill at ease. But when, for the first time, I stepped boldly to the brink of Kaietuerk Gorge, I beat a precipitate retreat and sat down among the bushes a dozen yards from the edge.

I had expected to look down for an enormous distance, but I also expected to see some tangible connection between the brink of the plateau and the bottom of the gorge. Instead, I found myself standing isolated on a narrow, outjutting, shelving rock in mid-air, with nothing but space between me and the tiny thread of river a thousand feet below.

There is something so unexpected about this absence of a sloping, or even a precipitous, mountain side beneath one's feet that it quite takes one's breath away, while the motion of the falls and the rising spray gives one the sensation of plunging forward into the abyss. The feeling soon wears off, however, and in a short time I found I could approach the brink without trembling and could even lie down and peer into the gorge; but I confess that I had an irresistible desire to hold on to something whenever I drew near the brink.

There are some things in the world which are impossible to describe, and Kaietuerk is one of them, for words utterly fail to convey any adequate idea of the falls and the gorge. It is something which must be seen to be realized, and even the most perfect photographs fall far short of the reality.

Kaietuerk cannot be properly described as beautiful, for it is far more than that. It is awe-inspiring, sublime, overwhelming, and terrifying in its grandeur. It is the very epitome of stupendous power and titanic strength; immeasurable, irresistible, incomparable. In its presence one feels puny, helpless, and insignificant. Gazing upon it the beholder is filled with quaking, unreasonable dread, and yet is fascinated as by some gigantic savage beast of magnificent form and perfect grace. It is a sight so sublime, so marvellous, so stupendous that the human mind cannot grasp it all at once, and one must gaze long upon it, must remain in its presence for hours, and must become accustomed to the titanic scale of one's surroundings ere it is possible to appreciate Kaietuerk in full. Only by comparison with other objects can we realize the tremendous size, the overwhelming scale of the falls and the gorge: for the proportions are so perfect, the distances so deceptive, and the surroundings so vast that the cataract itself seems but a mere detail of the whole.

Far down, in the depths below the falls, we see a soft green carpet which we take for moss studded with pebbles. Then, with almost a shock, we discover that the apparent moss is in reality a forest of giant trees, that the pebbles are enormous masses of rock weighing hundreds of tons, and that the clinging vines and fern-like growths about them are immense bush ropes and lofty palms. It is the same with the falls themselves. At first sight they appear surprisingly small, and we cannot realize that the gleaming mass is plunging through space for near a thousand feet and is almost a mile distant. But little by little the scene assumes its true proportions. A man standing beside the verge of the falls appears a mere speck, almost invisible. We noticed that not a drop of real water ever reaches the deep pool below; that so stupendous is the drop that the falling masses are transformed to spray-long ere they reach the limit of their descent and appear more like falling smoke than water, and then it dawns suddenly upon us that there is something lacking, that there is no deafening roar, no audible evidence of a gigantic cataract; that there is scarce more noise than would be made by the rush of water over a good-sized mill-dam, that the only sound is that of the torrent pouring over the brink of the falls, and that standing at the very verge of the cataract there is no difficulty in conversing in ordinary tones.

Could one but reach the base of Kaietuerk a far better idea of its size could be obtained, but the difficulties in doing this are almost insurmountable. One or two men have gained the foot of Kaietuerk by almost superhuman efforts, arduously climbing over immense masses of fallen rock and lowering themselves down precipices by ropes. The vast forest conceals the true character of the country, and it is difficult to believe that beneath the mantle of green are stupendous precipices, black fathomless ravines, and a chaotic mass of boulders and broken rock. The only feasible route by land is close to the river, but with light canoes it would be a comparatively easy, although a slow journey, the only difficulty being to carry the canoes around the several rapids and falls between Tukuit and Kaietuerk.

Perhaps the greatest attraction of Kaietuerk is that it is never twice the same. Every moment it changes; with every breath of wind, with each variation of light, with every passing cloud, it takes on a different aspect. And scarcely less sublime, scarcely less marvellous than the cataract itself, is the stupendous gorge stretching from the falls for miles into the dim and hazy distance. Wonderfully beautiful is this gorge, hemmed between vast forest-covered mountains and plateaux of a myriad shades of green, with its frowning precipices and black ravines, purple in the shadows and golden in the sunlight, while between the mighty ramparts flows the slender silver thread of river which, through untold and countless centuries, has cut this titanic scarf through the heart of the enduring rock.