01 Amazon Adventure (3 page)

‘He is modest,’ smiled John Hunt. ‘But the truth is that no other tribes on earth have been able to do it as well. A good many have tried it.’

‘And it’s a lot more complicated than he says,’ Terry added. There’s a tanning process in a secret liquid made of herbs and spices, and a boiling process, and smoking, and night and day all during the hot-sand process the face must be stroked with a smooth stone. They model it just as a sculptor would model clay or wax. It takes a real artist to do it so as to keep the natural appearance of the features.’

John Hunt was examining the heads on the shelf.

‘The American Museum of Natural History wants one for its anthropology collection. Will you ask him if we may buy one?’

At first the chief shook his head. But Terry was eloquent. He explained about the museum. It was one of the greatest in the world. Thousands of people came to it daily. When they saw this exhibit they would respect the skill of the Jivaros. Was there not some great hero he would like to honour? There was no better way he could honour him than by placing him in this great museum.

The chief looked up at his grandfather. But no, he could not part with him. He took down another fine head.

This was one of our noblest warriors, and a wise and good man. He will go to your country.’

‘What was his name?’

The chief gave a name that sounded something like Charlie. And so on all the rest of their journey the Hunt’s silent little travelling companion was called Charlie.

Terry negotiated. The chief fixed the price at twenty-five dollars. John Hunt paid fifty dollars.

‘Why pay him more than he asks?’ said Terry.

‘It’s only fair. After all, the museum will pay several hundred dollars for this specimen.’

And so Charlie was launched on his adventures.

‘And now will you tell him of our plan to go down the Pastaza?’ Terry did so, but the chief protested strongly.

Terry looked serious. ‘You’d better give up this scheme. He says you’d be killed. He and his people are friendly. But he can’t speak for the people down river. They are very savage and they have never made peace with the white man.’

But Hunt was not to be swerved from his purpose. ‘They have no guns,’ he said.

‘No, but they have blowpipes with poison darts, and spears and poison-tipped arrows. And they know how to use them.’

‘Yes, but I’m hoping we can make friends with them.’

‘Perhaps they’ll shoot before you can make friends.’

‘We’ll have to take that chance. It’s important. I’ve promised the American Geographical that I’d make a try at exploring the lower Pastaza. And there’s the chance that we’ll come upon some new varieties of animals. Ask the chief if he can supply us with a boat.’

The chief gloomily agreed. But he insisted that his guests should stay with him overnight.

‘Where would we sleep?’ asked Hal.

‘On those wooden platforms.’

They look a bit hard.’

‘You’ll be too tired to notice.’

Roger was not too keen about staying. ‘More alligator’s eggs,’ he moaned.

‘Boys,’ their father said, ‘you wanted to come on this trip. If you’ve changed your minds you can fly back with Terry.’

The words had effect. The very idea of giving up their great adventure reconciled the boys to platform beds and alligator’s eggs.

But there were no alligator’s eggs for supper. Instead there was a very delicious slab of tender white meat that tasted a little like fish and a little like chicken. Roger ate it with great relish and never thought to ask what it was until he had finished.

The chief explained that it was a slice of a large boa constrictor that had recently invaded the village. Roger turned green. ‘You mean they eat snakes?’

‘Why not?’ said Terry. Wasn’t it good?’

‘Yes, but nobody eats snakes.’

His father smiled. ‘By ‘nobody’ I suppose you mean none of your neighbours on Long Island. But you’re going to learn that other people have other ways, and they are often quite as good as ours. If Frenchmen can eat snails, and Chinese can eat birds’ nests, and Japanese can eat seaweed, and hill tribes in India can eat grasshoppers, and Long Islanders can eat slimy living oysters, why shouldn’t the Amazon people eat the foods that nature has provided for them?’

‘I know,’ said Roger, determined to show as much stamina as his father. ‘If you can eat it, I can. Pass the snake, please.’

He helped himself to another generous slice and manfully ate it. ‘Good stuff!’ he said, smacking his lips. But he was still a little green around the gills. That night, tossing on his wooden bed, he dreamed that he had turned into a boa constrictor and a human giant was swallowing him. He thrashed his tail vigorously, but the giant got him all down and then smacked his lips and said, ‘Snakes are very good to eat.’

Terry had flown back to Quito in the afternoon. They were sorry to see him go. He and his plane seemed like the last links with civilization. Hal woke towards dawn and lay listening to the unearthly howls, screams, and coughs that rose from the surrounding forest. Yes, they had come to the right place for animals! He was glad that they were sleeping inside four walls. But how about tomorrow night, and many nights to come?

But Hal did not think much about the dangers that lay ahead — he had camped in the wilds before. His thoughts went back to a face in Quito, a face illuminated in the glow of his flashlight and now stamped upon his memory. But why worry? They had left that face far behind. The following shoes could hardly follow into the Amazonian jungle. Or could they?

At dawn he was out at the river’s edge, loading the boat. It was an Indian-made canoe, hollowed out of a single log. Hal reckoned the length of it to be about twenty feet, and its beam was a little better than two feet. It was just the right size for three or four men and their kit.

The interior of the log had been chipped and burned out with great skill so that all that was left was a shell about an inch thick. Hal admired the Indians’ handiwork. It must have taken pretty nice judgement to make that wall just thick enough and not to cut through it at any point.

The boat would slide over the water like rain over a duck’s back. The only trouble was that it would slide sideways as well as lengthways, for it had no keel. Of course it would clear the bottom more easily without a keel.

‘But well have to part our hair in the middle,’ Hal reflected. The utmost care would be necessary to keep the craft from rolling over.

The first job was to pack the kit evenly, distributing its weight so that the balance would be perfect. Working room must be left for the paddlers. The surface of the baggage must be flat so that it would be easy to crawl or jump over it in case it was necessary to change places. Guns must be where they could be reached quickly. But both the guns and other objects too heavy to float must be secured under a thwart or tied so that they would not sink in the event of an upset.

Hal went to work. When the others came out he had everything stowed to his own satisfaction.

His father looked over the job critically.

‘You haven’t forgotten Canada,’ was his way of commending Hal. They had canoed together on many northern rivers. But Roger was without experience. This would be his initiation into river travel.

Hal and his father went back to the house but had no sooner reached it than they were startled by a yell from the river. They looked back to see the newly packed boat already upside down in the middle of the stream and Roger’s head bobbing beside it. They were not worried about Roger. He could swim. But the boat was being carried swiftly downstream. Soon it would be in the rapids, and farther down were falls.

They ran to the river and plunged in. In this swift current there were not likely to be crocodiles, stingrays, or anacondas. They joined Roger who was already manfully trying to push the boat towards shore. In a few moments they had it beached. Roger crawled up on to the bank dripping and crestfallen.

‘I just wanted to try her out.’

Hunt eyed his younger son with disapproval but could not help grinning at his sorry appearance.

‘Your middle name is Mischief,’ he remarked.

‘Everything stayed in the boat,’ Hal said, inspecting his packing. Most of the bundles were fairly waterproof, but all the kit was put out on the bank to dry in the hot sun and was then repacked.

Roger was very quiet for a while but as his clothes dried out his spirits revived.

‘We’re off!’ he whooped an hour later as they left the shore. The chief and his warriors stood on the bank making gestures of farewell. One of their number was in the boat. He would accompany the explorers to the edge of hostile country. More than that he would not promise. But John Hunt hoped that he could be persuaded to go on down the unknown part of the Pastaza, the river of the dotted line.

There was nothing to suggest any danger ahead. The sun shone gloriously, the monkeys chattered in the treetops, parrots and macaws made waves of brilliant colour, and far off to the west over the green forest loomed the snowy head of twenty-thousand-foot Chimborazo, looking down towards the Pacific on one side and, on the other side, to the travellers on their way to the Atlantic.

A bend in the stream, and the friendly Jivaro village disappeared. Dense jungle closed in on both sides. The river was about a hundred feet wide. The water was glassy smooth but was hurrying forward as if eager to get to an appointment. The four paddles had little to do except to keep the boat straight.

‘Look at the birds,’ cried Hal.

Roger looked up.

‘No, look down. Down in the water.’

Sure enough, at the bottom of the clear, shallow stream small dark birds were fluttering about, seeking food.

There was no time to watch them, for the boat sped on.

‘Water ouzels,’ Hunt said.

‘But they were flying under water.’

‘You might call it flying. They beat their wings to help them move through the water. They’re hunting for snails and water insects. They can stay down two or three minutes.’

A shadow as of a small black cloud seemed to pass over the water. They looked up to see a wonder above as great as the wonder they had just seen below.

‘A condor,’ exclaimed Hunt. It easily measured ten feet from tip to tip.

The Indian was much excited. ‘Very bad,’ he said out of his little store of English acquired from serving American cinchona men. He made passes over his head as if to put a protective charm over himself.

‘The Indians are very superstitious about the condor,’ Hunt said. ‘I’m afraid he thinks its a bad omen for our trip. You see, the condor hangs around where anything is dead, or where he thinks something is going to be.’

‘Here he comes back. Well see who’s dead.’ And Roger grabbed his .22.

‘Save your ammunition. The bird isn’t doing any harm and it’s no good to eat. Besides, you couldn’t hurt it with that popgun.’

‘He’s immense,’ murmured Hal as the bird made another circle.

‘The world’s largest flying bird,’ said Hunt. ‘And although it is so heavy, it can fly higher than any other bird. It can get along without eating for forty days if necessary, but when a condor does get a chance to eat, he can put away eighteen pounds of meat at a sitting.’

‘I know,’ Roger said. ‘They carry away lambs and babies.’

‘Not exactly. They’re not afraid to attack anything large, even a horse, if he looks weak or sick. But they never fly away with their food. Their talons are too weak to lift a heavy load.’

The condor sailed away, discouraged, but he left behind him a very much disturbed Indian.

‘No good, no good,’ he insisted, backwatering vigorously with his paddle. ‘We go back, we go back.’

But it was impossible to go back at the moment, for a powerful current had seized the boat, making argument quite unnecessary.

From around the bend came the hollow roar of rapids. Whirling, boiling eddies burst up around the boat, as if sticks of dynamite were being set off at the bottom of the stream. Choppy waves began to bob up.

They swept around the curve, and the full roar of angry waters struck their ears. Ahead, the river was full of dancing white figures. Sharp rocks sent fountains of spray into the air. Over rounded rocks the water rolled in big humps.

Napo, the Indian, was in the bow, John Hunt in the stern. Napo pointed to a chute between two big rocks. All the paddles joined forces to speed the boat like an arrow through the narrow passage. The faster the better. In water like this it was necessary to have plenty of steerage way. The boat must go faster than the current if it was to be successfully steered around rocks.

The water humped itself into a ridge as it shot through between the rocks. The canoe rode the hump like a cowboy on horseback. The spray thrown up by the rocks soused everybody on board.

No one noticed the wetting. The paddles were going like mad. The boat rolled and darted, dodged and plunged. A rollercoaster was tame compared with this.

Roger let out a whoop and the others joined him, regardless of age. This was the sort of thing that would make boys out of greybeards. The blood coursed swiftly and the spine tingled. Rocks fled past.

The boat plunged into a hollow and Napo disappeared. The bow seemed to be pointed straight towards the bottom. John Hunt and Hal backwatered powerfully to bring the bow up, and there was Napo no worse for wear. But his next yell had a watery gurgle in it.

The dugout was performing acrobatic feats. It seemed miraculous that a boat cut out of a single log could be so nimble. It almost seemed to snake through between rocks or to draw in its stomach when it went over them. Like its passengers, it would shout with joy if it could.

Now it shot downhill in a last victorious sweep and then ran out under its own momentum, paddles idle, into a smooth, broad basin.

It was pleasant to relax and to look back at the boiling staircase down which they had come.

‘There’s a lot of that sort of thing in these Amazon rivers,’ Hunt said. ‘I suppose you know the origin of the word Amazon?’

‘Doesn’t it have something to do with a tribe of warrior women that the first explorers discovered?’ Hal said.