The golden city; a tale of adventure in unknown Guiana

Front matter

Class EL

Book L/.

7 r r io

Chapter I

In the depths of the vast Guiana forests two white men sat upon the spreading roots of a giant mora tree, while near them a young Indian broiled a monkey over a fire.

The one was a youth scarcely out of his teens ; the other a man of middle age, and the tattered garments and unkempt appearance of both spoke of long absence from civilisation.

Five weeks before they had set forth from Georgetown for a trip up the Essequibo and Rupinuni rivers, and now they were lost, — castaways in the pathless “bush” which stretched for countless miles, north, south and east from the Amazon to the sea.

Frank Ellis, the younger of the two, had

come to British Guiana in company with his l father, who had business to transact in the capital. There he had met Andrews, of the Lands and Mines Department, and at the latter’s invitation had joined him on one of his official expeditions into the interior.

It had been a wonderful trip. Frank had seen Indians by the score, he had learned to speak their queer “talky-talky” jargon, he had camped, fished and hunted to his heart’s content; he had run rapids and portaged around cataracts until such things had become commonplace; but through it all his boyish enthusiasm had not deserted him; he had enjoyed every minute of the time and the perils he had passed through and the very grave dangers he now faced seemed but exciting and fascinating adventures to his youthful mind.

How vividly it all came back to him. He could recall each detail, remember every little event of the trip, as if it were but yesterday, and yet how much had been crowded into those five weeks and how long ago it seemed since he had set forth from Georgetown.

And now, while Joseph, the Arekuna Indian, cooks their meagre meal, let us go back and review the events which led to Frank’s long journey and thrilling adventures in the unknown South American wilderness.

One day Frank’s father had announced that he had met an old friend who had been all over Guiana and they had spent an evening with Mr. Andrews. He had shown Frank innumerable pictures of the bush, of Indians, of the enormous Kaieteur Falls five times as high as Niagara, and of Mount Roraima, and in the meantime had related story after story of personal experiences in the jungle. He had brought forth his wonderful collection of Indian arms and curios, — gorgeous feather crowns, strangely carved clubs, dance sticks and bead work, queyus or women’s aprons, rattles and necklaces of jaguar teeth and peccary tusks, bows and arrows, blow-guns and poisoned darts and countless other treasures. He told Frank how these were worn or used and donned some of them and pranced about the room imitating an Indian dancer, until Frank and his father roared with laughter. Then he had told tales of Indians’ ways and lives, how they hunted, fished, and made their homes, and had related anecdotes of his life among them.

Then the conversation had turned to stories of the old discoverers and the legends of Manoa and El Dorado.

“Some of the Bucks declare such a lake as Raleigh sought really exists in the unknown interior,” said Mr. Andrews. “But no one can confirm or deny it — there’s so much country unexplored that one might discover almost anything.”

“Do you mean that parts of British Guiana are really unknown?” cried Frank in surprise.

“Certainly,” replied Mr. Andrews. “Comparatively little is known of the country anywhere, save along the coasts and rivers, and even these are often incorrectly mapped. The sources of two of our largest waterways, — the Demerara and Berbice rivers, — have never been discovered. In fact, there’s a district nearly one hundred miles square which no white man has ever penetrated.”

Frank vowed he’d like nothing better than to penetrate this unknown area, and added, “It must be fine to do such work as yours and go to all these places and see all these wonderful things.”

Mr. Andrews had laughed. “There’s plenty of hard work as well as fun in it,” he declared. “It’s by no means easy to travel through the Guiana jungle, and there are countless discomforts and not a few perils to be met. Would you really like to take a trip into the bush?”

“Would I!” cried Frank. “Nothing would suit me better, but father can’t give the time and of course I can’t go by myself.”

“I think I can arrange it,” said Mr. Andrews. “I’m going into the interior in a couple of days and if your father doesn’t object I’ll be glad to have you go along. It will give you an idea of the country and will be a novel experience.”

Mr. Ellis willingly gave his consent. “If he’s in your care, I’m sure he’ll be safe, Andrews,” he declared. “Frank’s been perfectly crazy to get into the bush ever since he’s been in the colony.”

“You may not see as much as you expect,” Mr. Andrews cautioned him. “I don’t expect to go very far, — just up the Essequibo to the Rupinuni, — but you’ll see plenty of Indians, though all pretty tame, I expect. You’ll have a chance to visit the gold and diamond diggings, see balata gatherers at work, visit a greenheart grant, run rapids and camp in the bush, besides getting a shot or two at peccary, labba, deer, and perhaps a tiger, and of course you’ll find plenty of monkeys and powis, marudis, and small game.”

“Well, I think that’s enough to satisfy any boy,” laughed Frank; “but do, please, tell me what labba and powis and marudis are, and do you have tigers here?”

“The animals we call tigers are jaguars,” explained the other. “Labbas are a sort of gigantic guinea pig, — paca, I believe, is the correct name, — and powis and marudis are big pheasant-like game birds. There’s an old saying that he who eats labba and drinks creek water will come back to Guiana to die, so if you don’t want to spend your last days in the colony you must avoid doing that.”

“I guess I’ll take the risk,” declared Frank.

“Will we see any savannas or Mount Roraima?”

“Hardly said Mr. Andrews. “My work may take me to the edge of the savanna country, but Roraima is nearly two hundred miles beyond the farthest point I expect to reach. I will try to find time to take you to Kaieteur Falls though — you really should see it. I plan to be away about a month, but time isn’t of much value in the bush, and if your father won’t worry, we may stay for three weeks or four weeks longer — one can do a lot of country in that time.”

“Don’t hurry back on my account,” said Mr. Ellis. “I’ll not worry over Frank while he’s with you. What sort of an outfit will he need, Andrews ? You know all about the bush. Suppose you tell him what to get and let him make notes of it.”

“Righto,” agreed the other. “But there’s not much required. Most of the travelling’s done by boat and canoe. You’ll need an iron box or cannister for your duds, — they’ll get soaked in anything else, — and good heavy boots. Old stout clothes, a few changes of undergarments, — woollen by all means, — plenty of socks, and that’s about all, except your toilet articles, handkerchiefs and any other odds and ends. I’ll lend you a hammock, — we’ll sleep in them every night, — you’ll want a pair of light woollen blankets, and then there’s the gun, a machete and ammunition, which I’ll provide.”

“Won’t I need medicine and bedding and mosquito nets and cures for insect stings and snake-bites?” asked Frank. “I always thought the tropical forests were full of fever and poisonous reptiles and insects.”

Mr. Andrews laughed. “You’ll probably not see a snake the whole time,” he declared, “unless possibly a small boa or ‘camudi,’ as they’re called. As for insects, you’ll have to hunt hard to find scorpions, centipedes or anything worse than wasps or hornets and ants, and you may not see a mosquito on the entire trip. Fever doesn’t trouble one if wet clothes are changed for dry promptly and if you use reasonable care ; but I always carry a few simple medicines and a first aid outfit. Don’t burden yourself with too much, — every pound counts in portaging a boat and outfit around the falls, and your cannister will hold all you really need.”

Chapter II

Two days after meeting Mr. Andrews, Frank stood upon the deck of the little river steamboat and watched the roofs and docks of the city fade into the morning haze astern, while ahead stretched a vast expanse of muddy water with a dim cloud-like line of grey marking the distant shores of the river nearly thirty miles away.

Mr. Andrews settled himself comfortably in a chair with a book and Frank soon followed his example, for, truth to tell, there was little to interest him for several hours after leaving the town behind. But when the steamer entered the mouth of the Essequibo and the shores loomed close at hand, Mr. Andrews laid his book aside and pointed out the various places of interest.

He called attention to a large wooded island, which Frank had mistaken for the shore, and

told him it was known as Dauntless Island, as 10 it was formed upon the wreck of a schooner named the Dauntless. He explained to the wondering boy how the sand and rubbish, carried down by the stream, accumulated where any object interrupted the current; how mangroves and other plants took root and grew whenever a bar was thus formed and how these caught more and more rubbish and sand as they grew, until at last the forest-clad island ten miles or more in length had been formed.

Frank thought this all very wonderful and expressed the greatest surprise at the size of the river and the numerous large islands which hid its further shores from sight.

“Many of them are cultivated and inhabited,” said Mr. Andrews. “There are countless islands all up and down the Essequibo — some small, others twenty miles or more in length — and two at least are nearly as large as Barbados. The boat calls at several of them. The one we’re approaching now is Leguan.”

As he spoke the steamer had slowed down and drew in to a little dock, or “stelling,” crowded with picturesque Hindus and ragged darkeys. Then, having discharged a few packages of cargo and a number of coolie deck passengers, the boat tooted its whistle and resumed its trip up the great river.

From side to side the course led, sometimes close to the shore, at other times keeping to mid-stream; but ever following the channel in its tortuous windings. Now and then they passed within stone’s throw of the banks and Frank gazed with interest at the impenetrable jungle, the queer mangrove trees, the giant lily-like “mucka-muckas” and the graceful palms that grew to the very edge of the water.

Along the muddy strip of shore stalked white, blue and grey herons; egrets perched among the sprawling roots of the mangroves, and once a great flock of vivid scarlet ibis rose and flapped ahead of the steamer, their brilliant wings gleaming like living flame against the dark green background of the forest.

Here and there they passed a clearing where wood cutters were at work; sometimes a tiny thatched hut was seen among the foliage and often dug-out canoes, great coorials and clumsy lighters were met, manned by crews of halfnaked coloured men or turbanned coolies.

To Frank it was all very strange and new and he watched intently in the hope of catching sight of an Indian canoe paddled by aborigines, for the country seemed wild and unsettled enough to harbour savages, and the thatched huts amid the jungle savoured of the primitive, while the steamer seemed incongruous and out of place upon the bosom of the forest-bordered river.

But Mr. Andrews disillusioned him. “There are few Indians so near the coast,” he said. “A few Warros and Arawaks dwell here and there, but they are thoroughly civilised and miserable specimens of the noble red man. You’d scarcely distinguish them from the coloured people. Most of the inhabitants along the lower stretches of the rivers are ‘Bovianders.

“What are ‘Bovianders’?” asked Frank. “It sounds like a Dutch word.”

Mr. Andrews laughed. “It’s a corruption of ‘above yonder,’ ” he explained. “Any one who lives up the rivers lives 4 ’hove yander,’ in the creole dialect, so the river people who dwell 4 ’hove yander’ are ‘Bovianders.’ They are mostly coloured folk, — descendants of the old Dutch settlers and their slaves or people who have come here from the coast and have settled down to cut wood or raise garden truck.”

The boat was now close to a large, densely wooded island, and as they drew close to its shore Frank noticed a big ruined stone building in a little open space near the landing.

“Why, that looks like an old fort,” he exclaimed; “surely no one ever built a fort way up here.”

“It is a fort,” replied Mr. Andrews; “an old Dutch fort, and the island is known as Fort Island. Strange as it may seem, the first Dutch settlers went far up the rivers to build their towns and their capital and headquarters was at the junction of the Mazaruni and Cuyuni rivers, over sixty miles from the sea, at a spot called Kijk-over-al. Wild as it seems now, all this river district was once under cultivation by the Dutch, and the ruins of their buildings and forts are found in many places on the islands and the mainland.”

“I think that’s very strange,” declared

Frank. “Why should they take the trouble to sail away up the rivers and settle in the jungle, instead of choosing a spot on the coast, ;like Georgetown ?”

“There were several reasons,” replied Mr. Andrews. “In the interior they were less exposed to the attacks of enemies and pirates from which all coast settlements suffered; by building forts on these islands they could command the channels and prevent vessels from reaching the upper rivers and, as the Indians were friendly, there was no reason for keeping to the coast, as was necessary in other localities where the natives were a constant menace. In addition the interior was richer than the , coast lands, while the fact that it was higher land and above reach of floods made it easier to cultivate the soil and build towns than on the coast, where ditches and dykes must be made, as at Georgetown. Finally, and perhaps most important of all, was gold. From the first discovery of Guiana, the Europeans believed, as you know, that somewhere in the mterior was the golden city of Manoa and El Dorado. The further into the interior

Europeans could penetrate before settling, the less distance they would have to travel to find the fabled wealth, and, moreover, the Dutch did find gold on the Mazaruni, where it is mined to-day. So you can see there was ‘method in their madness’ after all.”

Fort Island and its ruins had now been left far behind and the steamer was steadily breasting the swift current of the river. Frank noticed the swirling waters flowing against them and asked Mr. Andrews about it. “It’s the tide,” he replied. “The tide rises and falls in the rivers for sixty miles and more inland — in fact, to the foot of the rapids and falls — and the falling tide, added to the natural flow of the stream, produces a very strong current. However, it won’t delay us much to-day. There’s Bartica ahead now.”

Frank soon saw the town, — a few white specks amid the greenery on a bluff a few miles ahead, while to the right the great Mazaruni River emptied its turbid flood into the waters of the Essequibo. Mr. Andrews pointed out the Penal Settlement gleaming in the sun on the opposite shores, but Frank’s eyes were all for the little town they were rapidly approaching and from which they were to start forth on their real trip into the jungle.

Soon the boat drew alongside the dock, and, accompanied by Mr. Andrews, and a coloured boy with the baggage, Frank stepped ashore at this little village on the edge of the wilderness.

He found it interesting enough — the crowds of Hindus, negroes, coloured people and Portuguese were picturesque, and close to the dock his attention was attracted to a huge, open, shed-like building within which countless haimmocks were slung with their occupants dozing idly, while all about were brown and black men cooking their meals over glowing fires.

This was the “barracks for the Pork-Knockers,” Mr. Andrews informed Frank, and explained that “Pork-Knocker” was a local name for the independent native gold digger and that while awaiting transportation to or from the “diggings” the men camped in the big building by the docks.

Bartica, with its single, well-kept street between two rows of small houses and shops, was of little consequence, but when Frank saw the hotel and read the legend, “Outfitters for the Gold, Diamond and Rubber Fields/’ painted across it, he felt that at last he was at the borders of the wild.

It was still early in the afternoon and Mr. Andrews suggested a stroll up the road into the bush. The outlying houses were built within the shadow of the forest and ’twas scarce more than a step from the village street to the silent shadowy jungle.

In a little clearing under some giant trees were several huts and these Mr. Andrews told Frank were the homes of Indians, but the owners were absent and the two continued their stroll along the sandy pathway through the forest.

Suddenly Frank uttered a little cry of surprise as from the growth beside the trail there stepped forth a striking figure, — a bronzeskinned Indian, naked save for a scarlet loin cloth, a gun in one hand and a small deer slung across his shoulder.

Frank stood stock still, gazing at the apparition, until the “buck” had passed and disappeared into the bush beyond.

“Why!” he exclaimed, “that was a real wild Indian.”

Mr. Andrews laughed. “Real enough,” he admitted, “but hardly wild. He’s a hunter, and strips to his primitive costume when in the bush, but he’s civilised and a Christian most of the time and you’d never turn to look twice at him if you saw him in his ragged cotton clothes in the village.”

“I’d much rather see him as I did,” declared Frank, as he resumed his walk. “He was a fine looking Indian.”

“Yes, it’s a pity civilisation has taught them to wear clothes,” agreed Mr. Andrews. “With only a lap, the Indian is a true son of the forest and perfectly suited to his life and surroundings, but dressed in white men’s garb and imitating Europeans in his life, he becomes merely a vagabond. However, it can’t be helped, — it’s the same story wherever the white and red meet.”

No other Indians were seen, but Frank was wonderfully interested in the dense forest growth that hemmed the path, the vine-draped trees, the various strange birds that flitted and sang in the foliage, and the flocks of chattering parrots that winged their way above the treetops.

At last he was on the verge of the wilderness,— at the end of civilisation, — and that night he went to sleep with the cries of night birds and the lapping of the river in his ears to dream of marvellous adventures, but none of which could compare with what fate held in store for him.

Chapter III

“You’ll have a chance to visit an Indian village to-day,” Mr. Andrews announced the following morning. “We’re off for Groete Creek, where there’s a good-sized Arowak village. The bucks are quite civilised, but their houses and ways of life are as primitive as ever. You can obtain a good idea of what an Indian village is like from seeing this one.”

Breakfast over, Mr. Andrews led the way to a tiny stone dock behind the hotel where a little motor boat was waiting.

“Oh, are we going in a launch?” asked Frank, as they prepared to embark. “I thought we would travel in a canoe paddled by Indians.”

“Not on this trip,” replied Mr. Andrews. “A launch is far quicker than a canoe and there’s plenty of water and no rapids where we’re bound for. Groete Creek is a fairly large stream and leads to some of the gold diggings, — large boats pass up and down it constantly.”

“Well, it seems funny to go visiting an Indian village in a motor boat,” declared Frank, as their craft slipped quickly down the river. “But everything seems to be a sort of hodgepodge here,” he added.

For several miles the launch continued down the Essequibo; Bartica was lost to view astern and then turning to the east they passed between two large islands and headed for an opening in the trees that lined the bank.

Presently they had left the river behind and were sailing up the creek and Frank constantly exclaimed at the beauties and strange sights that greeted them at every turn. From the water’s edge rose the impenetrable bush. Great gnarled trees with huge buttressed roots, their branches hung with a maze of vines and lianas, and covered with air plants, mangroves, with their queer sprawling stilt-like roots raising their dark foliage above the muddy flats; slender, graceful palms with queerly bent stems leaning far over the water, and everywhere a tangled luxuriant growth of brush, palmettos and broad-leaved plants growing in riotous profusion and bound together by a tangle of rope-like creepers. In the shallow water grew giant arrow-leaved “mucka-muckas” ; overhanging trees drooped flowering branches and sweet-scented orchids above the passing boat and from the depths of the hush came the dog-like barks of toucans and the raucous screams of parrots. But more wonderful than all were the reflections on the surface of the creek. The water, — stained a deep red-brown by the vegetation, — was smooth as oil and on it were mirrored the jungle-covered banks, the palms and trees ; each leaf and twig and detail so perfect that ’twas scarce possible to say where water ended and land began and, standing on the boat’s bow, Frank had a strange sensation of travelling through air with forests both above and beneath him.

Now and then a pygmy kingfisher would dart from some jutting limb and, flashing like a jewel, would splash into the water to seize some tiny fish, or a great, dazzling, blue butterfly would flit lazily across the creek, its metallic azure wings reflected in wondrous manner on the surface of the water as it passed.

Here and there little coves were seen, and Frank caught glimpses of frail dug-out canoes moored in the shelter of the trees while queer ladders, made from notched logs, led upwards from the water to the banks. These, Mr. Andrews told him, were landing places of the Indians, who had houses and provision grounds within the nearby forests, and Frank was quite excited as, on rounding a bend, they came face to face with a bronze Indian lad paddling silently down stream in a dug-out. He nodded to them as he passed and a moment later was lost to sight, and just then the launch drew in to a landing place where several canoes were hauled upon the beach.

On the bank above were several naked children, but as they caught sight of the approaching launch they scurried out of sight like frightened brown partridges.

Mr. Andrews called out a few words in the Arowak tongue and, reassured, the Indian children came shyly forth from their hiding places and stood near as Frank and his companions stepped ashore and clambered up the rude ladder.

Preceded by the Indians, Mr. Andrews led the way up a narrow footpath through the jungle and presently they came forth in a little clearing where, half-hidden amid banana trees and cassava bushes, were a number of thatched huts.

“Here’s the village,” said Mr. Andrews. “Make yourself at home, — no one will object, — and ask all the questions you wish. These bucks all speak English, — of a sort, — and I’ll explain anything that you’d like to understand.”

Frank looked about with interest. The houses were well and neatly built of thatched palm leaves, but they were merely open, shed-like structures and Frank thought it must be very strange to live where one had so little privacy. Within the houses, which Mr. Andrews told him were called “benabs,” were slung hammocks and in some of these Indians or “bucks” were lolling at their ease while women and girls were busily cooking over fires under the same roofs. The men glanced up and greeted the newcomers, but showed no interest or surprise at their arrival, and Mr.

Andrews commenced to converse with them as though his visit was a matter of course.

Frank noticed a woman grating some roots on a roughened slab of wood and asked Mr. Andrews about them.

“They’re manioc or cassava roots,” he replied. “Cassava is the staple article of food of the Indians and the principal occupation of the women, or ‘buckeens,’ is cultivating and preparing it for use. In its natural state it’s deadly poison, but the juice is the only injurious portion and if this is extracted the root is nourishing and healthy.”

“That’s wonderful,” declared Frank. “How do they extract the poisonous juice, Mr. Andrews?”

“It’s a very simple process,” replied his companion. “See, yonder are women about to do it now.” He pointed to a woman who was pressing the grated roots into a strange cylinder of wicker work which was held by a young girl.

Drawing near, Frank watched until the cylinder was full of the grated white roots when the two Indians carried it to a nearby post and hung it by one end to a peg. Thrusting a long stick through the loop at the other end of the affair the two women pressed down upon it and immediately countless streams of milky liquid began to squirt through the interstices of the wicker work. Slowly the cylinder stretched under the pressure until at last it was nearly twice its original length and scarcely half its original diameter. No more juice now issued from the wicker work and the women removed the lever and carried the cylinder into the hut and dumped its contents into a large tray of basket work. The ground roots were now light and nearly dry and, as Mr. Andrews explained, were ready for coob in g.

“That apparatus is called a Metapee,” he said; “it’s a sort of power press and strainer combined and has been used by all these Indians from time immemorial.”

He then showed Frank how the cassava meal was sifted, how it was made into a sort of dough, and how this was worked into thin cakes which were baked on hot stones, or sheets of iron, over the coals.

One of the women was busily baking these cakes and smilingly handed several to the visitors. Frank found them excellent but rather dry, and Mr. Andrews remarked that it needed pepper-pot to moisten it.

“What is pepper-pot?” inquired Frank.

“It’s another Buck’s delicacy,” replied Mr. Andrews. “It’s made from the juice of the cassava boiled down to a sirupy consistency, the heat of boiling driving off the volatile poison, and into this are thrown peppers, vegetables, odds and ends of meat, fish, and in fact anything else that’s edible. It keeps forever and every Indian benab has a supply constantly on hand. You’d better try some so you can see what it’s like.”

The Indian woman had heard and understood and she now approached and handed Frank a calabash filled with a dark brown mixture. It looked far from appetising, but Frank was determined to make the most of his trip and to sample everything new and strange which was offered him.

“Dip your cake in it,” suggested Mr. Andrews, who was holding another calabash of the pepper pot. “You’ll find it rather hot, but you’ll get accustomed to it very soon.”

Frank, following Mr. Andrews’ example, dipped his manioc cake in the calabash and took a good mouthful.

Instantly tears filled his eyes, his face became scarlet, and he spluttered and coughed as if he had swallowed a hornet.

“Whew!” he cried as soon as he could catch his breath. “It tastes like red-hot lead. How on earth can any one eat the stuff, — no more pepper-pot for me, thanks.”

Mr. Andrews burst out laughing, and even the stoical Indians grinned and chuckled.

“You should go easy at first,” said Mr. Andrews. “It is hot to a beginner, but it won’t hurt you, and hot things are really excellent in the tropics. Why, these Indians would gulp down all you have there without blinking. I’m accustomed to it myself and don’t mind it, you see.” As he spoke, he helped himself to another liberal mouthful.

“Well, perhaps I might get used to it in time,” admitted Frank, “but it would be a mighty long time. I think I prefer my cassava plain — a little of that pepper-pot goes a long way.”

The episode of the pepper-pot had served to break the reserve of the villagers and they now became quite sociable, gathering about Frank and Mr. Andrews, chattering away among themselves in Arowak, and in fairly good English with the two visitors, until Frank soon felt quite at home.