Читать книгу Through British Guiana to the summit of Roraima онлайн

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We managed to reach Matope before dusk in spite of many breakdowns. Here, amid tree-crowned rocks, the river swirls down in fifteen separate cataracts; and, in the days of Wenamu and Pigeon Island gold booms, Matope rest-house, post office, and bond-store were established on the two most accessible islets, and a launch service plied thither. We were joyously greeted by the black officer in charge of the station, who proudly displayed to us the attractions of his lonely little domain and ferried us in the gathering dusk—for twilight is, alas! unknown in the tropics—across to the rest-house island, a most enchanting spot. Here, after the bustle of disembarkation and the long, hot day, a bathe in the cool, soft river water, like cream to the skin, was delightful indeed, though it had to be accompanied by a furious splashing to frighten the pirai, an unpleasant flesh-eating fish that nips off the fingers and toes of the unwary ere they know it. Then, lulled by the musical roar of the cataracts, we slept soundly until, at 3 a.m., the “howling baboons” howled. To anyone who has never heard these creatures it is perhaps impossible to convey any idea of this marvellous sound. The South American baboons have howling bones in their throats, and at a distance of some miles their “howl” sounds merely like a storm-wind soughing through distant tree-tops; but, when they are close at hand, the whole air is alive with the din, so that you cannot tell from which direction it proceeds. Every nerve in your body tingles, and there is a curious fascination in the great volume of sound, which used to remind me dimly of the boom of the big temple-bell through the cryptomeria groves of far-distant Japan.