CHAPTER XV

_HOSPITALITY OF THE JUNGLE FOLK_

In pidgin English we made the men understand that we wanted six of them to go up the river with us, some to help us hunt, some to build a "logie" for Lewis and myself.

They agreed to go, but when we suggested that we start right away, they declined. We must wait another day. They could not set out without a supply of cassava, which is to them what our bread is to us, the staff of life. And they declared it too late to venture into the jungle, so we had to arrange to stay with them over night.

This interested me, as the night trip was not to my liking and I wanted to see Indian life at close range. Among the Indians was one called "Abraham," who had been with Lewis on his previous trip. He was an honest chap, faithful and a hard worker and fond of Lewis because of his name. It seems that on his prospecting trip Lewis liked this chap and asked him his name. Alas, he had none. Indians are given names by their medicine men, called "Peiman," or by the chief of the colony, at birth, providing their parents can pay enough in Indian trade goods. When Abraham was born his parents had nothing to give, so he went without a name. This is considered a calamity among the Indians, as a nameless one is quite liable, so they believe, to meet up with all of the misfortunes possible to befall a human being. Lewis liked him so well that he at once assumed the role of a "Peiman" and solemnly bestowed upon him the name of "Abraham." For this Abraham would do anything for Lewis.

There was another Indian who interested us. He had but one eye, but was almost a giant in build. He always had a jolly grin and as we liked him and found him to be nameless, I gravely assured him that I could bestow names. He begged me to do so.

"Gi' me call by," he said.

"You shall henceforth be called by 'Lewis,'" I said, with a dramatic gesture, winking at Lewis, who grinned at the joke.

Soon I had taught him just how to speak the word "Lewis" and he was a very proud Indian.

Each "house" consisted of only a reed and palm-leaf roof supported on poles, there being no sides to any of them. The supply of household goods was pitifully small indeed. There were plenty of weapons, a few cassava-making implements, a rare metal dish or tin can and hammocks everywhere. The Indian women sit in these hammocks doing their weaving or bead work by day and all sleep in them by night. There was a fire at each hut, made of logs which were arranged like the spokes of a wheel, the inner ends, or "hub" being the fire. As the ends would burn away the logs would be pushed in toward the center and new ones added as the old ones burned up. These fires supplied plenty of heat for cooking and enough warmth for the night chill and they were never allowed to go out. In some places a village is not moved for a year or two, depending upon whether there is a death there, and a fire once started burns steadily on that spot all of the time.

We were tired and wet. We needed food and rest and told Abraham this, whereupon he promptly gave up his house to Lewis and myself and took his wife and flock of children over to the communal house with the conical roof.

We livened up the fire and decided to remove our wet clothes and dry them. We had just about as much privacy as a goldfish, and the villagers flocked about us in great excitement as we proceeded to strip off our outer garments.

We stripped down to our flannel underwear and decided to sit about our roaring fire and get dry while our clothes dried. But the natives eagerly asked the privilege of taking our clothes and drying them for us. There seemed no way out of it and I wondered if I was going to be left to travel through the jungle in nothing but underwear. But I should not have feared. They were honest enough. They merely wished to borrow our clothes to strut about in for a while. One big chap had my hat cocked on his head at the "tough guy" angle as if he had worn one all his life. Two giggling young women divided my big boots, each wearing one, and marched proudly about, the thong ties dragging. An old man put on my coat. But the trousers were too wet, so they escaped. Next morning they were returned, well dried and nothing whatever missing from the pockets.

I sat in a hammock, slung close to the fire, drying my wet socks and the legs of my underclothes, watching the women prepare a meal of eggs, venison, labbas and cassiri for us, and grinned at the picture we must have made.

"Not quite up to the etiquette of polite society at home," I said to Lewis.

"But we are overdressed, even now," he answered, "according to the style down here."

The houses are called "benabs." Abraham said he would bring the food over to our benab. This he did. It was smoking hot, heaped up in one big wooden dish, and with it a calabash, or gourd, of cassiri. This was a bright pink liquid, most sickening in appearance. The Indians all drank out of the same big gourd and seemed to enjoy it.

Lewis took a taste.

"Great," he said.

I didn't like his expression when he said it, but was determined to try anything once, so I tasted it.

"U-r-r-r-gh!"

Dud. Lewis had his back to me. I could see that he was shaking with laughter.

"For two cents I'd pour this pink slop down your neck!" I gasped.

The Indians looked on and grinned. I did not wish to be impolite, so I said, "Yaa! Cassiri too much humbug Yankee man's stomach!" and I hugged my stomach as if in pain and smiled to assure them of good feeling. They merely laughed.

This drink tasted like sour milk, long overripe strawberries, vinegar, pepper, sour yeast, cassava meal and whatever else they might have had left over to dump into it. But the venison was delicious and the labba, which is a sort of pig about the size of a rabbit, was as good meat as I ever tasted. The cassava is not bad at all and so we managed to make out a very good meal. But if I had taken a big swallow of that pink cassiri I am sure my stomach would have burned up or exploded.

It came time for us to get some sleep if ever we were to turn in. While we were fairly dry, there was a dampness in the air and we had only our underclothes. But the headman of the village brought out three strips of cotton cloth he had been hoarding in an old canister, another loaned a frayed old shirt he had got in some trade, another contributed a pair of red cotton trousers. My shirt and tunic were dry and with these, divided between Lewis and me, we turned in to our hammocks. We tried a fire of glowing coals under our hammocks as did some of the Indians, but the smoke was too much for us and we had to move the fire. Besides, I didn't want to have any more snake dreams and fall out in a bed of hot coals.

I lay there listening to the jungle noises and trying to guess what sort of beast, bird or reptile was making them, when it came time for the Indians to turn in. Just as the village became quiet and the babies stopped squalling and the kids stopped chattering, there came a native song.

"This is a great time to start singing!" I grumbled to Lewis.

"Go to sleep and don't mind it," he advised.

"I can't sleep until he stops that fool song," I insisted.

"Ha-ha," laughed Lewis, "you've got some fine little wait coming." He covered himself in his hammock and proceeded to sleep. I didn't understand what he meant at the time, but I learned, for I waited and waited for the singer to stop. But when he got tired, another singer took it up and then another and another.

They keep that song going _all night_ every night of their lives.

There was nothing for me to do but to remain in my hammock and listen to that terrible singing. The voices were not so bad, nor were they harsh, but there didn't seem to be much melody in what they sang and after you have heard the same gibberish sung over and over and over for about a million times (so it seemed to me) you certainly get good and tired of it.

It was no effort on my part to learn the song. I got so that I knew just what the next line would be and I found myself muttering it along with whichever Indian happened to be taking his "spell" at singing it.

"What does it mean?" I asked many. But the best answer I could get was that it was a "sort of song to keep danger away at night."

It also kept sleep away from me for several hours, although I finally did get to sleep in spite of it and did not awaken until daylight had come and the singing had ceased. I always wished that I could get a translation of the song, but I will repeat it as it sounded:

"_Ip phoo ke na, pagee ko, ip phoo ke na; Waku beku yean gee ma ta ne ke, ip phoo ke na pegge ko. Ip phoo ke na, ip phoo ke na pagee ko, Ip phoo ke na, ip phoo ke na pagge ko, Ip phoo ke na, ip phoo ke na._"

These Indians seemed the most restless people on earth. Before I fell asleep I watched them in the big communal hut which was within twenty feet of me. I learned afterwards that when going on a long trip they sit up most of the night and stuff themselves with food. They seemed to be eating all night here, and drinking that pink cassiri. They would wander about inside their shelter, sit in a hammock eating, walk over to the calabash and drink the cassiri and back to the hammock again.

"If that's the life of a British Guiana Indian, then I'm glad that I am not one of them. None of this free and untrammeled child-of-nature life for me," I told Lewis afterward.

"Wonder what they would say if they saw so many of our people back home sitting up until nearly daylight having banquets, dancing the fox-trot and one-step and hesitation and opening wine and smoking and having a regular night of it," was his quiet comment.

It was good food for thought. The more I figured it out, the more I wondered just where the line between "civilization" and "barbarity" was drawn. I am sure that they did not injure their health as much with their cassava cakes and fruits, eaten during the night, as so many of our so-called "sports" do with their all night dancing and drinking and smoking and eating of lobster a la king and other fancy and expensive foods.

Some of them were drinking a black liquid from a gourd. This was "piwarree."

"Don't drink it," warned Lewis.

"Thanks for the tip, old man," I answered, "but there aren't enough diamonds in South America to get me to touch it."

It was the most vile looking liquid I ever saw, yet the Indians seemed to enjoy it and it did not appear to intoxicate them, although there was probably alcohol in it, as it was made by a fermenting process. I had seen a number of women who wore a peculiar tattoo mark on their foreheads. I had thought it merely some sort of barbaric adornment, but it seems this was their "trade mark." It indicated that they were piwarree makers. These women, to make this drink, sit in a circle about a fire where cassava cakes are allowed to bake until they are burned through quite crisp and black. Each woman chews this burned bread until it is soft and pulpy with her saliva. This she strains through her teeth into a vessel in the center. When the vessel is full the contents are thrown into a large wooden trough and boiling water poured over it. It is allowed to ferment. When quite sour and black it is ready for drinking.