Читать книгу Through British Guiana to the summit of Roraima онлайн

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The Essequebo was unusually low on this occasion, and the silver sand-reefs jutted out of the water like bones. At midday we were stopped by the Kopano sands, which forbade further progress. Here we waited a long three hours for a smaller launch, the Nelly, which was expected downstream from Tumatumari to discharge her crowd of “balata-bleeders” and “pork-knockers” into our bigger launch for their return journey via Rockstone to the joys of a Christmas in civilization. We found the time long, in spite of lunch, Lord Macaulay, and the view of a flat-topped hill known as the Arosaro Mountain, a welcome sight to eyes that had scarcely seen any rising ground for two years. It is a low forest-clad hill with a flat top and cliff-edges, the first sounding of the Roraima leit-motif. We were, however, anxious to reach Tumatumari that night, for we knew that the Ark must be left behind with the big launch, while the tarpaulins and camp gear, that would have made a bivouac on the river-bank tolerable, had preceded us by some days with our stores. At 3 p.m. we welcomed the sight of a puff of dark smoke on the wide stretch of smooth, still water before us; but it was close on 4 p.m. before our transhipment was complete and our fate committed to the launch Nelly. She was quite unspeakable—filthy dirty, with a shocking vibration—but we were thankful enough when she did vibrate, for the hateful little thing constantly broke down and floated helplessly on the vast expanse of desolate water, as we anxiously scanned the lingering daylight, the while an unhappy son of Ham wrestled in vain with his engine. My husband managed to sling a hammock for me inside the launch, and that was a great comfort; but the noise was excruciating. The coxswain, a nice fellow called Lekha, half East Indian and half black, said his orders were to get us through, if possible, but that Crabbu Falls could not be run in the dark. As he spoke, the vixenish launch broke down again, and required half an hour’s patching up. A little later the engines stopped once more for a quarter of an hour. We felt rather miserable, as a more comfortless place in which to spend the night than that abominable little Nelly could hardly be imagined, and no food was available, save tea and the remains of a cake, with some slabs of chocolate which I fortunately had handy; so we were now pretty hungry. By 6.30 p.m. it was dark. Rich, fresh, sweet scents were wafted to us from the banks; but, though the moon rose beautifully at 7 p.m., she hid her fickle light soon afterwards behind a cloud-bank. However, our cox was a real good fellow. By help of a very feeble light from the dimmed moon, he got us safely through Tigri Rapids—a tortuous race between rocks—and at about 8.30 p.m. we got to the foot of Crabbu Falls. Here another launch, the Potaro, was waiting to help us up the rapid, and the blazing crude oil of her engines made the night a weird inferno of noise and glare. She was lying near a sandy spit; and, when Nelly got alongside her, we managed to push out a plank, scrambled ashore, and strolled about to stretch our cramped limbs. There was a banaboo of Patamona Indians near by, whose inhabitants came out silently to watch at a safe distance our strange proceedings. The flickering light of the burning oil lit up their dusky figures uncannily.