When you consider the history of the South American Indian, starting with the refined and Christian cruelties of the Spaniards and working down to the present day, when the Amerindians have had their country wrested away from them and are forced to live in reserves so that they may be better protected against the blessings of civilisation that cause such havoc amongst them, when you consider this treatment, it is astonishing that you can come into any sort of contact with them at all. They would, perhaps, do better to emulate the reprehensible, though not unwarranted, attitude of their relations in the Matto Grosso, who greet all white men with a shower of well-directed poisoned arrows.
Eventually, having extracted a promise from the father that he would try to get specimens for us, we shook hands all round once again, and the youth paddled us back across the lake. He smiled at us as we stood on the bank, swivelled the canoe round and paddled off across the silent lake, leaving a streamer of black ripples on the smooth water.
Our walk back to Adventure was most exhausting, for we wanted to get back before dark, and to do this we had to hurry. The second sand reef seemed to have increased in size since we crossed it, and the sand appeared to have become twice as soft and clutching to our tired legs. At last we reached the woods on the further side, and looking back we saw the whole reef lying gleaming in the setting sun, like a frosted mirror. As we turned to enter the wood Cordai stopped us with an upraised hand and pointed at the trees some thirty feet away. I looked and saw a sight I shall never forget, a startlingly beautiful sight that held me spellbound.
The wood was not at all tropical in appearance, in fact it looked more like a strip of English woodland. The trees were not very tall, with slender silvery trunks and glossy green leaves. Thick, short undergrowth grew between the trunks, and this, together with the leaves on the trees, was turned golden in the rays of the setting sun. In the upper branches of the trees was a group of five red howler monkeys, brilliantly lit against this background of greenery. They were large and heavy creatures with strongly prehensile tails and sad chocolate-coloured faces. They were clad in long, thick, silky fur of a colour that defies description. It was the richest and most brilliant mixture of copper and wine red, shining with a metallic lustre that is rarely seen except in precious stones and some species of birds. To see such vivid colouration in a group of monkeys struck me speechless.
The troop was composed of a gigantic male and four smaller individuals that I presumed were his wives. The old male was the most vivid of the lot, and he sat in the topmost branches of a tree, in the direct rays of the sun, so that his coat shone as though it was on fire. He sat there with a melancholy expression on his face, plucking the young leaves and stuffing them into his mouth. Having eaten enough, he swung himself to the next tree by means of his tail and arms and disappeared among the leaves, followed by his troop of glittering females.
As we made our way through the shadowy woods and along the banks of the canals where the little frogs called, I made a mental vow that I was going to get one of those glossy, fantastic monkeys, even if I had to pay a king’s ransom for it.
3. The Monstrous Animal and Sloth Songs
There is to be found in South America an extremely interesting family of animals known as opossums. They are interesting principally because they are the only marsupials, or pouched animals, known outside the Australian regions. Like the kangaroo, and other members of the Australian fauna, the opossums carry their newly-born young in a pouch of skin on the belly, though this form of transport seems to be falling into disuse among the South American marsupials, for in most species the pouch is not large and is only used to hold the young when they are very tiny and helpless, and in others it has almost disappeared, being represented only by longitudinal folds of skin covering the teats. With these latter species a new form of transport has arisen: the babies are carried on the mother’s back, their tails lovingly entwined with hers. In general appearance the opossums resemble rats, though they vary in size, some being the size of a mouse and others as large as a cat. They have long, rat-like noses, and, in some species, long, naked, rat-like tails; but the difference between a rat’s tail and an opossum’s becomes obvious when you see an opossum climbing a tree: the tail seems to take on a life of its own, twining and coiling among the branches and holding with such strength that the animal can hang by it if necessary.
There are several species of opossum found in Guiana, and they are known collectively as uwaries. The commonest sort is the Didelphys opossum, which is disliked by everyone in Guiana. It has adapted itself to a changing environment with the skill of a brown rat, and it is as much at home among the backyards of Georgetown as it had been in the deep forest. It has learnt also to be a complete scavenger, and no dustbin is free from its investigations; it will even enter a house in search of food. Its large size and fierce character have made its regular attacks on chicken runs something to be reckoned with, and it is this habit more than any other that has earned it the hatred of the local population. In Georgetown I had been told many stories of its depraved tastes and its disgusting attacks on innocent chickens, but the result was that I began to feel a sneaking regard for this animal that, though harried and hunted and killed wherever found, still managed to earn a bandit’s living in the city.
On arrival in Adventure I had questioned the local hunters on the subject of Didelphys opossums, and when I told them I was willing to buy specimens of this despised animal they looked at me as though I was mad. An English farmer would wear much the same expression if some foreigner evinced great interest in (and willingness to buy) specimens of the common rat. However, business is business, and if I was mad enough to pay good money for uwaries (uwaries, mark you!), then the hunters were not going to destroy what appeared to be a heaven-sent market for creatures that had, hitherto, appeared to be completely useless vermin.
The first Didelphys opossums turned up early one morning. Bob and Ivan had gone for a walk along the canals to see what fish and frogs they could catch, and I had stayed behind to clean and feed our now considerable collection of animals. A hunter arrived with three of the opossums in a sack and explained at great length and with vivid pantomime how he had captured them at considerable risk to himself in his chicken run the previous night. On looking into the sack all I could see was a lot of brownish-yellow fur, and from the inside arose a chorus of whining screams and cat-like spittings. I decided that it would be prudent not to remove the creatures for examination until I had a cage ready to put them into, so I told the hunter to come back in the evening for his payment. Then I set to work and converted a wooden box into a suitable crate for the beasts. Meanwhile an ominous silence reigned in the sack, broken only by an occasional cracking sound. I had just put the finishing touches to the cage, and was donning a large pair of leather gauntlets before moving the opossums into it, when Bob and Ivan returned from their walk.
‘Ha!’ I said proudly. ‘Come and see what I’ve got.’
‘I hope it isn’t another anaconda,’ said Bob.
‘No, it isn’t. It’s three uwaries.’
‘Uwaries, sir?’ asked Ivan, looking at the sack. ‘Are they all in there?’
‘Yes. Shouldn’t they be in a sack, or something?’
‘Well, sir, I’m afraid they may fight. They are very bad-tempered animals,’ said Ivan lugubriously.
‘Oh, they haven’t been fighting,’ I said gaily, ‘they’ve been as quiet as anything.’
But Ivan still looked sceptical, so I made haste to open the sack. Now I don’t know the exact length of time those animals had been in that sack, but it had been quite long enough. I found that the two large ones had whiled away their captivity by decapitating the smallest, and they were busy having a gory cannibalistic orgy. It took us a long time to get the two survivors into the cage, for they seemed to resent being interrupted in the middle of such a fine meal. They attacked us viciously, screaming and hissing
with open mouths and making things more difficult by winding their prehensile tails round everything they could with a grip like ivy. At last we got these bloodstained horrors into the cage, and I gave them the corpse of their companion to finish off, which they did during the night to the accompaniment of much hissing and snarling. The next morning I found them sparring round each other with murderous expressions on their faces, so, to prevent my opossum collection from being reduced to one, I had to divide the cage with a stout plank of wood. Having heard so many stories in Guiana of the way in which opossums will eat anything and everything, I decided to experiment and see how true this was, for, according to massive natural history tomes I had consulted, they lived on a delicate fairy-like diet of fruit and insects, with an occasional egg or baby bird thrown in. For three days, therefore, I filled the opossum’s cages with a revolting assortment of food ranging from cold curry to decomposed corpses, and they ate every bit. Apparently the more disgusting the substance the better they liked it. After three days’ intimate association with these creatures I began to think that probably all the stories I had heard were true. I had to discontinue my feeding experiments as both the uwaries were developing a strong and pungent smell, and Bob complained that he did not see why he should get diphtheria in the cause of zoological research.
Quite apart from its disgusting habits the Didelphys opossum is not, I admit, a very attractive creature to look at. The animal is about the size of a small cat, clad in a thick, untidy pelt in fawn, cream, and chocolate brown. It has short feet, pink and naked and capable of a strong grip, and a long scaly tail, grey at the base and decorated at the tapering end with pink blotches like birthmarks. Its face, I am afraid, tells even the most casual observer all he wants to know about its character: a long and naked pink nose and a weak drooping underjaw conceal a mouth full of large, sharp teeth. The eyes are brown, with a rather evil expression. From the shaggy fur on its head stick a pair of naked and almost transparent, donkey-like ears that quiver and twitch with every movement. When disturbed they would open their mouths wide and hiss at you; as the top and bottom jaws were long and narrow and full of large teeth this action made them look rather like furry crocodiles. If you took no notice of their warning hiss, they would give a deep moaning wail, reminiscent of a tom-cat’s serenade, and then rush forward and chop with their jaws.
I confess that I was very disappointed with the uwaries; I found nothing in their character, habits, or appearance that I could wholeheartedly praise. I had expected this Public Enemy Number One to be a more swaggering, flamboyant character, and instead I found that it was an evil looking, moaning creature with depraved tastes and not even the compensation of an attractive personal appearance. I was complaining about this one evening when Ivan said something that set me on the trail of one of the Didelphys’s relatives.
‘I think, sir,’ said Ivan, with the traditional air of Jeeves choosing a suit, ‘I think you would prefer the moonshine uwarie.’
‘What on earth’s a moonshine uwarie?’ I asked.
‘It’s another kind of uwarie,’ said Ivan lucidly. ‘It’s smaller than those you’ve got, sir, and it hasn’t got such bad habits.’
‘Moonshine uwarie is a delightful name,’ said Bob. ‘Why do they call them that, Ivan?’
‘They say that they only come out when the moon is shining, sir.’
‘I must get some,’ I said firmly. ‘They sound charming.’
‘They certainly couldn’t be worse than those dreadful ghouls you’ve got in there,’ said Bob, indicating the stinking Didelphys opossums’ cage, ‘but if you do get some I implore you not to try any feeding experiments on them, or I shall have to sleep outside.’
That night, when the usual crowd of hunters turned up with the day’s spoils, I questioned them closely about the moonshine uwarie. Yes, they all knew it well. Yes, there were plenty about. Yes, they could easily get me some. So I sat back and waited patiently for a sackful of moonshine uwaries to make their appearance, but nothing happened. A week passed, and still no result. I questioned all the hunters again. Yes, they had all been trying for moonshines, but for some obscure reason there did not seem to be any about. I raised the price and implored them to try harder. The longer I waited the more desirable these elusive opossums seemed.
One evening, however, we had an arrival that temporarily drove all thoughts of moonshine uwaries out of my head. We were in the middle of a cup of tea when a man appeared carrying the inevitable sack over one shoulder. He undid the neck of it and calmly proceeded to tip the contents out at our feet, an action that caused Bob, who was nearest, to shy like a horse and spill tea all down his shirt. There was some reason for his alarm, for the occupant of the sack turned out to be a large and extremely angry two-toed sloth. He lay on the floor looking like a small bear, hissing with open mouth and lashing round with his arms. He was about the size of a large terrier, and was clad in coarse, brown fur, very shaggy and unkempt-looking. His arms and legs, in proportion to his body, looked very long and slender, and each ended in a bunch of long, sharp claws. His head was very bear-like, with two small, circular, reddish eyes that stared out of his face with an angry expression. But what amazed me was that his mouth was full of large, sharp-looking teeth, of the most unpleasant yellowish colour. I would not have associated these massive fangs with anything so ardently vegetarian as a sloth.
When I had paid for him we pushed him back into the sack, and I set about making a cage. Half-way through this operation I discovered, to my wrath, that I had run out of wire netting, and so I had to go through the laborious business of cutting wooden strips and nailing them across the front of the cage to act as bars. Then, when I had furnished it with a suitable branch, we tumbled the sloth inside and watched him hoist himself up until he hung from the branch by his grappling-iron claws. I supplied him with a large bunch of bananas and an armful of leaves to browse on and left him for the night.
I awoke at two o’clock in the morning and heard weird noises coming from the animal room: scrunching sounds, interspersed with hissings and indignant peetings from Cuthbert. My first thought was that one of the larger anacondas had escaped and was making a meal off some of the other specimens. I shot out of my hammock and hastily lighted the tiny hurricane lamp, which I always kept by me at night for just such emergencies. It gave little more light than an anaemic glow-worm, but it was better than nothing. Arming myself with a stick I went into the animal room. I glanced around in the dim light and saw Cuthbert sitting on a tier of cages, managing to look mentally defective and indignant at the same time. As I stepped further into the room something long and thin whipped out from behind the door and ripped my pyjama trousers from knee to ankle with one effortless slash. The attack came from behind, and I was precipitated into the room with some alacrity. Recovering my balance I moved cautiously round until I could see behind the door by the light of my hurricane lamp. I was convinced that the creature, whatever it was, was not one of my specimens. None of them, so far as I knew, had the strength or speed to perform such a startling attack. Very carefully I poked the door closed with my stick, and there behind it, spreadeagled on the boards like a great hairy starfish, was the sloth.
At this point I feel it necessary to explain that a sloth on the ground is, in some ways, as helpless as a newborn kitten. His legs are designed to hang from, not walk on, so when he is on the ground his only means of progression is to reach forward with his long arms; get his claws hooked round something, and then pull himself forward. This is a laborious process, and anyone seeing it for the first time may be pardoned for thinking that the creature is suffering from paralysis or a broken back. But if you approach too close to those great claws or that tooth-filled mouth you will soon find that the animal is not quite so helpless as it first appears.
The sloth lay there with a vague expression on his face, blindly reaching out with his claws to find something to hook on to and finding nothing on t
he bare boards. Feeling that he was safe for the moment I turned my attention to his cage, for I was curious to discover how he had escaped. I found that two of the wooden slats I had nailed across the front had been ripped apart, nails and all, thus leaving a gap large enough for the sloth to squeeze through. How he had accomplished this feat I couldn’t tell, but I supposed that he must have used his great claws as jemmies to lever the bars apart. While I was examining the damage Cuthbert came flapping over and attempted to alight on my shoulder. I imagine he thought it was the safest place in the room. To his annoyance I pushed him off and went in search of hammer and nails. While I repaired the cage, Cuthbert came and sat on top of it and peered into my face with a worried expression, peeting vigorously. The noise I was making soon woke Bob, who came striding majestically into the room to inquire what the hell I thought I was doing, hammering at that hour of night.
‘Mind the sloth,’ I said, for he was standing just inside the door.
As I spoke the creature rolled over and lashed out at him, missing his leg by a fraction of an inch. Bob leapt into the far corner of the room with remarkable agility and then turned and glared at the sloth.
Three Singles to Adventure Page 5