Майн Рид
Odd People: Being a Popular Description of Singular Races of Man
Other quadrupeds, constituting a portion of the Digger’s food, are several species of “gophers,” or sand-rats, ground-squirrels, and marmots. In many parts of the Great Basin, the small rodents abound: dwelling between the crevices of rocks, or honeycombing the dry plains with their countless burrows. The Digger captures them by various wiles. One method is by shooting them with blunt arrows; but the more successful plan is, by setting a trap at the entrance to their earthen caves. It is the “figure of 4 trap,” which the Digger employs for this purpose, and which he constructs with ingenuity, – placing a great many around a “warren,” and often taking as many as fifty or sixty “rats” in a single day!
In weather too cold for the gophers to come out of their caves, the Digger then “digs” for them: thus further entitling him to his special appellation.
That magnificent bird, the “cock of the plains,” sometimes furnishes the Digger with “fowl” for his dinner. This is a bird of the grouse family (tetrao urophasianus), and the largest species that is known, – exceeding in size the famed “cock of the woods” of northern Europe. A full-fledged cock of the plains is as large as an eagle; and, unlike most of the grouse kind, has a long, narrow body. His plumage is of a silvery grey colour – produced by a mottle of black and white, – no doubt, given him by a nature to assimilate him to the hue of the artemisia, – amidst which he habitually dwells, and the berries of which furnish him with most of his food.
He is remarkable for two large goitre-like swellings on the breast, covered with a sort of hair instead of feathers; but, though a fine-looking large bird, and a grouse too, his flesh is bitter and unpalatable – even more so than that of the sage-hare. For all that, it is a delicacy to the Digger, and a rare one; for the cock of the plains is neither plentiful, nor easily captured when seen.
There are several other small animals – both quadrupeds and birds – inhabiting Digger-land, upon which an occasional meal is made. Indeed, the food of the Digger is sufficiently varied. It is not in the quality but the quantity he finds most cause of complaint: for with all his energies he never gets enough. In the summer season, however, he is less stinted. Then the berries of the buffalo-bush are ripe; and these, resembling currants, he collects in large quantities, – placing his rabbit-skin wrapper under the bush, and shaking down the ripe fruit in showers. A mélange of prairie crickets and buffalo-berries is esteemed by the Digger, as much as would be the best specimen of a “currant-cake” in any nursery in Christendom!
The Digger finds a very curious species of edible bug, which builds its nest on the ledges of the cliffs, – especially those that overhang a stream. These nests are of a conical or pine-apple shape, and about the size of this fruit.
This bug, – not yet classified or described by entomologists, – is of a dark-brown colour, about the size of the ordinary cockroach; and when boiled is considered a proper article of food, – not only by the unfastidious Diggers, but by Indians of a more epicurean goût.
Besides the yampa and kamas, there are several other edible roots found in the Digger country. Among others may be mentioned a species of thistle (circium virginiarum), – the root of which grows to the size of an ordinary carrot, and is almost as well flavoured. It requires a great deal of roasting, or boiling, before it is sufficiently cooked to be eaten.
The kooyah is another article of food still more popular among Digger gourmands. This is the root of the Valeriana edulis. It is of a bright-yellow colour, and grows to a considerable size. It has the characteristic odour of the well-known plant; but not so strong as in the prepared substance of valerian. The plant itself does not grow in the arid soil of the desert, but rather in the rich fertile bottoms of the streams, or along the shores of marshy lakes, – in company with the kamas and yampa. It is when these roots are in season, that the Shoshokees most frequent such localities; and, indeed, this same season is the time when all other articles of Digger food are plenteous enough, – the summer. The winter months are to him the “tight times.”
In some parts of the desert country, as already observed, grow species of pines, with edible cones, – or rather edible seeds which the cones contain. These seeds resemble nuts, and are about the size of the common filberts.
More than one species of pine produces this sort of food; but in the language of the Spanish Californians and New Mexicans, they are all indifferently termed piñon, and the seeds simply piñones, or “piñons.” Where these are within the reach of the Digger, – as they are in some districts, – he is then well provided for; since the piñons, when roasted, not only form an agreeable and nutritious article of food, but can be stored up as a winter stock, – that will keep for a considerable time, without danger of spoiling, or growing too stale.
Such is the commissariat of the Digger Indian; and, poor in quality though it be, there are times when he cannot obtain a sufficient supply of it. At such times he has recourse to food of a still meaner kind, – to roots, scarce eatable, and even to the seeds of several species of grass! Worms, grubs, the agama comuta, or “horned-frog of the prairies,” with other species of lizards, become his sole resource; and in the search and capture of these he occupies himself from morning to night.
It is in this employment that he finds use for the long sapling, with the hooked end upon it, – the hook being used for dragging the lizards out of clefts in the rocks, within which they have sought shelter. In the accomplishment of this, the Digger displays an adroitness that astonishes the traveller: often “jerking” the reptile out of some dark crevice within which it might be supposed to have found a retreat secure from all intruders.
Many other curious habits might be related of this abject and miserable race of human beings; but perhaps enough has been detailed, to secure them a place in the list of our “odd people.”
Chapter Fourteen.
The Guaraons, or Palm-Dwellers
Young reader, I may take it for granted that you have heard of the great river Orinoco, – one of the largest rivers not only of South America, but in the world. By entering at its mouth, and ascending to its source, you would have to make a journey of about one thousand five hundred miles; but this journey, so far from being direct, or in a straight line, would carry you in a kind of spiral curve, – very much like the figure 6, the apex of the figure representing the mouth of the river. In other words, the Orinoco, rising in the unexplored mountains of Spanish Guiana, first runs eastward; and then, having turned gradually to every point of the compass, resumes its easterly course, continuing in this direction till it empties its mighty flood into the Atlantic Ocean.
Not by one mouth, however. On the contrary, long before the Orinoco approaches the sea, its channel separates into a great many branches (or “caños,” as they are called in the language of the country), each of which, slowly meandering in its own course, reaches the coast by a separate mouth, or “boca.” Of these caños there are about fifty, embracing within their ramifications a “delta” nearly half as large as England! Though they have all been distinguished by separate names, only three or four of them are navigable by ships of any considerable size; and, except to the few pilots whose duty it is to conduct vessels into that main channel of the river, the whole delta of the Orinoco may be regarded as a country still unexplored, and almost unknown. Indeed, the same remark might be made of the whole river, were it not for the magnificent monument left by the great traveller Von Humboldt, – whose narrative of the exploration of the Orinoco is, beyond all comparison, the finest book of travels yet given to the world. To him are we chiefly indebted for our knowledge of the Orinoco; since the Spanish nation, who, for more than three centuries, have held undisputed possession of this mighty stream, have left us scarce a line about it worth either credit or record.
It is now more than half a century, since the date of Humboldt’s “Personal Narrative;” and yet, strange to say, during all that period, scarce an item has been added to our knowledge of the Orinoco, beyond what this scientific traveller had already told us. Indeed, there is not much to say: for there has been little change in the river since then, – either in the aspect of nature, or the condition of man. What change there has been possesses rather a retrograde, than a progressive character. Still, now, as then, on the banks of the Orinoco, we behold a languid commerce, – characteristic of the decaying Spano-American race, – and the declining efforts of a selfish and bigoted missionary zeal, whose boasted aim of “christianising and civilising” has ended only in producing a greater brutalisation. After three centuries of paternosters and bell-ringing, the red savage of the Orinoco returns to the worship of his ancestral gods, – or to no worship at all, – and for this backsliding he can, perhaps, give a sufficient reason.
Pardon me, young reader, for this digression. It is not my purpose to discuss the polemical relations of those who inhabit the banks of the Orinoco; but to give you some account of a very singular people who dwell near its mouth, – upon the numerous canos, already mentioned as constituting its delta. These are the “Guaraons,” – a tribe of Indians, – usually considered as a branch of the Great Carib family, but forming a community among themselves of seven or eight thousand souls; and differing so much from most other savages in their habits and mode of life, as fairly to entitle them to the appellation of an “Odd People.”
The Orinoco, like many other large rivers, is subject to a periodical rise and fall; that is, once every year, the river swells to a great height above its ordinary level. The swelling or “flood” was for a long time supposed to proceed from the melting of snow upon the Cordilleras of the Andes, – in which mountains several of the tributaries of the Orinoco have their rise. This hypothesis, however, has been shown to be an incorrect one: since the main stream of the Orinoco does not proceed from the Andes, nor from any other snowcapped mountains; but has its origin, as already stated, in the sierras of Guiana. The true cause of its periodical rising, therefore, is the vast amount of rain which falls within the tropics; and this is itself occasioned by the sun’s course across the torrid zone, which is also the cause of its being periodical or “annual.” So exact is the time at which these rains fall, and produce the floods of the Orinoco, that the inhabitants of the river can tell, within a few days, when the rising will commence, and when the waters will reach their lowest!
The flood season very nearly corresponds to our own summer, – the rise commencing in April, and the river being at its maximum height in August, – while the minimum is again reached in December. The height to which the Orinoco rises has been variously estimated by travellers: some alleging it to be nearly one hundred feet; while others estimate it to be only fifty, or even less! The reason of this discrepancy may be, that the measurements have been made at different points, – at each of which, the actual height to which the flood attains, may be greater or less than at the others. At any one place, however, the rise is the same – or very nearly so – in successive years. This is proved by observations made at the town of Angostura, – the lowest Spanish settlement of any importance upon the Orinoco. There, nearly in front of the town, a little rocky islet towers up in the middle of the river; the top of which is just fifty feet above the bed of the stream, when the volume of water is at its minimum. A solitary tree stands upon the pinnacle of this rock; and each year, when the water is in full flood, the tree alone is visible, – the islet being entirely submerged. From this peculiar circumstance, the little islet has obtained the name of “Orinocometer,” or measurer of the Orinoco.
The rise here indicated is about fifty feet; but it does not follow from this, that throughout its whole course the river should annually rise to so great a height. In reality it does not.
At Angostura, as the name imports, the river is narrowed to less than half its usual width, – being there confined between high banks that impinge upon its channel. Above and below, it widens again; and, no doubt, in proportion to this widening will the annual rise be greater or less. In fact, at many places, the width of the stream is no longer that of its ordinary channel; but, on the contrary, a vast “freshet” or inundation, covering the country for hundreds of miles, – here flooding over immense marshes or grassy plains, and hiding them altogether, – there flowing among forests of tall trees, the tops of which alone project above the tumult of waters! These inundations are peculiarly observable in the delta of the Orinoco, – where every year, in the months of July and August, the whole surface of the country becomes changed into a grand fresh-water sea: the tops of the trees alone rising above the flood, and proclaiming that there is land at the bottom.
At this season the ordinary channels, or caños, would be obliterated; and navigation through them become difficult or impossible, but for the tree-tops; which, after the manner of “buoys” and signal-marks, serve to guide the pilots through the intricate mazes of the “bocas del Orinoco.”
Now it is this annual inundation, and the semi-submergence of these trees under the flood, that has given origin to the peculiar people of whom we are about to speak, – the Guaraons; or, perhaps, we should rather say, from these causes have arisen their strange habits and modes of life which entitle them to be considered an “odd people.”
During the period of the inundation, if you should sail up the southern or principal caño of the Orinoco, – known as the “boca de navios,” or “ships’ mouth,” – and keep your face to the northward, you would behold the singular spectacle of a forest growing out of the water! In some places you would perceive single trees, with the upper portion of their straight, branchless trunks rising vertically above the surface, and crowned by about a dozen great fan-shaped leaves, radiating outwards from their summits. At other places, you would see many crowded together, their huge fronds meeting, and forming close clumps, or “water groves,” whose deep-green colour contrasts finely as it flings its reflection on the glistening surface below.
Were it night, – and your course led you through one of the smaller canos in the northern part of the delta, – you would behold a spectacle yet more singular, and more difficult to be explained; a spectacle that astounded and almost terrified the bold navigators, who first ventured to explore these intricate coasts. – You would not only perceive a forest, growing out of the water; but, high up among the tops of the trees, you would behold blazing fires, – not the conflagration of the trees themselves, as if the forest were in flames, – but fires regularly built, glowing as from so many furnaces, and casting their red glare upwards upon the broad green leaves, and downwards upon the silvery surface of the water!
If you should chance to be near enough to these fires, you would see cooking utensils suspended over them; human forms, both, of men and women seated or squatting around them; other human forms, flitting like shadows among the tops of the trees; and down below, upon the surface of the water, a fleet of canoes (periaguas), fastened with their mooring-ropes to the trunks. All this would surprise you, – as it did the early navigators, – and, very naturally, you would inquire what it could mean. Fires apparently suspended in the air! human beings moving about among the tops of the trees, talking, laughing, and gesticulating! in a word, acting just as any other savages would do, – for these human beings are savages, – amidst the tents of their encampment or the houses of their village. In reality it is a village upon which you are gazing, – a village suspended in the air, – a village of the Guaraon Indians!
Let us approach nearer; let us steal into this water village – for it would not be always safe to enter it, except by stealth – and see how its singular habitations are constructed, as also in what way their occupants manage to get their living. The village under our observation is now, – at the period of inundation, – nearly a hundred miles from shore, or from any dry land: it will be months before the waters can subside; and, even then, the country around will partake more of the nature of a quagmire, than of firm soil; impassable to any human being, – though not to a Guaraon, as we shall presently see. It is true, the canoes, already mentioned, might enable their owners to reach the firm shores beyond the delta; and so they do at times; but it would be a voyage too long and too arduous to be made often, – as for the supply of food and other daily wants, – and it is not for this purpose the canoes are kept. No: these Guaraons visit terra firma only at intervals; and then for purposes of trade with a portion of their own and other tribes who dwell there; but they permanently reside within the area of the inundated forests; where they are independent, not only of foreign aggression, but also for their supply of all the necessaries of life. In these forests, whether flooded or not, they procure everything of which they stand in need, – they there find, to use an old-fashioned phrase, “meat, drink, washing, and lodging.” In other words: were the inundation to continue forever, and were the Guaraons entirely prohibited from intercourse with the dry land, they could still find subsistence in this, their home upon the waters.
Whence comes their subsistence? No doubt you will say that fish is their food; and drink, of course, they have in abundance; but this would not be the true explanation. It is true they eat fish, and turtle, and the flesh of the manatee, or “fish-cow,” – since the capturing of these aquatic creatures is one of the chief occupations of the Guaraons, – but they are ofttimes entirely without such food; for, it is to be observed, that, during the period of the inundations fish are not easily caught, sometimes not at all. At these times the Guaraons would starve – since, like all other savages, they are improvident – were it not that the singular region they inhabit supplies them with another article of food, – one that is inexhaustible.
What is this food, and from whence derived? It will scarce surprise you to hear that it is the produce of the trees already mentioned; but perhaps you will deem it singular when I tell you that the trees of this great water-forest are all of one kind, – all of the same species, – so that here we have the remarkable fact of a single species of vegetable, growing without care or cultivation, and supplying all the wants of man, – his food, clothing, fuel, utensils, ropes, houses, and boats, – not even drink excepted, as will presently be seen.
The name of this wonderful tree? “Itá,” the Guaraons call it; though it is more generally known as “morichi” among the Spanish inhabitants of the Orinoco; but I shall here give my young reader an account of it, from which he will learn something more than its name.
The itá is a true palm-tree, belonging to the genus mauritia; and, I may remark, that notwithstanding the resemblance in sound, the name of the genus is not derived from the words “morichi,” “murichi,” or “muriti,” all of which are different Indian appellations of this tree. Mauritia is simply a Latinised designation borrowed from the name of Prince Maurice of Nassau, in whose honour the genus was named. The resemblance, therefore, is merely accidental. I may add, too, that there are many species of mauritia growing in different parts of tropical America, – some of them palms of large size, and towering height, with straight, smooth trunks; while others are only tiny little trees, scarce taller than a man, and with their trunks thickly covered with conical protuberances or spines.
Some of them, moreover, affect a high, dry soil, beyond the reach of floods; while others do not prosper, except on tracts habitually marshy, or annually covered with inundations. Of these latter, the itá is perhaps the most conspicuous; since we have already stated, that for nearly six months of the year it grows literally out of the water.
Like all its congeners, the itá is a “fan-palm;” that is, its leaves, instead of being pinnately divided, as in most species of palms, or altogether entire, as in some few, radiate from the midrib of the leaf-stalk, into a broad palmated shape, bearing considerable resemblance to a fan when opened to its full extent. At the tips these leaflets droop slightly, but at that end where they spring out of the midrib, they are stiff and rigid. The petiole, or leaf-stalk itself, is long, straight, and thick; and where it clasps the stem or trunk, is swollen out to a foot in width, hollowed, or concave on the upper side. A full-grown leaf, with its petiole, is a wonderful object to look upon. The stalk is a solid beam full twelve feet in length, and the leaf has a diameter of nearly as much. Leaf and stalk together make a load, just as much as one man can carry upon his shoulders!
Set about a dozen of these enormous leaves on the summit of a tall cylindrical column of five feet in circumference, and about one hundred in height, – place them with their stalks clasping or sheathing its top, – so that the spreading fans will point in every direction outwards, inclining slightly upwards; do this, and you will have the great morichi palm. Perhaps, you may see the trunk swollen at its middle or near the top, – so that its lower part is thinner than above, – but more often the huge stem is a perfect cylinder. Perhaps you may see several of the leaves drooping downward, as if threatening to fall from the tree; you may even see them upon the ground where they have fallen, and a splendid ruin they appear. You may see again rising upward out of the very centre of the crown of foliage, a straight, thick-pointed column. This is the young leaf in process of development, – its tender leaflets yet unopened, and closely clasped together. But the fervid tropical sun soon produces expansion; and a new fan takes the place of the one that has served its time and fallen to the earth, – there to decay, or to be swept off by the flood of waters.
Still more may be noticed, while regarding this noble palm. Out of that part of the trunk, – where it is embraced by the sheathing bases of the petioles, – at a certain season of the year, a large spathe will be seen to protrude itself, until it has attained a length of several feet. This spathe is a bract-like sheath, of an imperfect tubular form. It bursts open; and then appears the huge spadix of flowers, of a whitish-green colour, arranged along the flower-stalk in rows, —pinnately. It will be observed, moreover, that these spadices are different upon different trees; for it must be remembered that the mauritia palm is diaecious, – that is, having the female flowers on one tree, and the male or staminiferous flowers upon another. After the former have glowed for a time in the heat of the sun, and received the fertilising pollen wafted to them by the breeze, – carried by bee or bird, or transported by some unknown and mysterious agency of nature, – the fruits take form and ripen. These, when fully ripe, have attained to the size of a small apple, and are of a very similar form. They are covered with small brown, smooth scales, – giving them somewhat the appearance of fir-cones, except that they are roundish instead of being cone-shaped. Underneath the scales there is a thinnish layer of pulp, and then the stone or nut. A single spadix will carry carry several hundreds – thousands, I might say – of these nuts; and the whole bunch is a load equal to the strength of two ordinary men!
Such is the itá palm. Now for its uses, – the uses to which it is put by the Guaraons.
When the Guaraon wishes to build himself a habitation, he does not begin by digging a foundation in the earth. In the spongy soil on which he stands, that would be absurd. At a few inches below the surface he would reach water; and he might dig to a vast depth without finding firm ground. But he has no idea of laying a foundation upon the ground, or of building a house there. He knows that in a few weeks the river will be rising; and would overtop his roof, however high he might make it. His foundation, therefore, instead of being laid in the ground, is placed far above it, – just so far, that when the inundation is at its height the floor of his dwelling will be a foot or two above it. He does not take this height from guesswork. That would be a perilous speculation. He is guided by certain marks upon the trunks of palm-trees, – notches which he has himself made on the preceding year, or the natural watermark, which he is able to distinguish by certain appearances on the trees. This point once determined, he proceeds to the building of his house.
A few trunks are selected, cut down, and then split into beams of sufficient length. Four fine trees, standing in a quadrangle, have already been selected to form the corner-posts. In each of these, just above the watermark, is cut a deep notch with a horizontal base to serve as a rest for the cross-beams that are to form the foundation of the structure. Into these notches the beams are hoisted, – by means of ropes, – and there securely tied. To reach the point where the platform is to be erected – sometimes a very high elevation – ladders are necessary; and these are of native manufacture, – being simply the trunk of a palm-tree, with notches cut in it for the toes of the climber. These afterwards serve as a means of ascending and descending to the surface of the water, during the period of its rise and fall. The main timbers having been firmly secured in their places, cross-beams are laid upon them, the latter being either pieces of the split trunks, or, what is usually easier to obtain, the petioles of the great leaves, – each of which, as already stated, forms of itself a large beam, twelve feet in length and from six to twelves inches in breadth. These are next secured at both ends by ropes of the palm fibre.
Next comes a layer of palm-leaves, the strong, tough leaflets serving admirably as laths to uphold the coating of mud, which is laid thickly over them. The mud is obtained from below, without difficulty, and in any quantity required; and when trowelled smooth, and dry, – which it soon becomes under the hot sun, – constitutes an excellent floor, where a fire may be kindled without danger of burning either the laths or joists underneath.
As yet the Guaraon has completed only the floor of his dwelling, but that is his principal labour. He cares not for walls, – neither sides nor gables. There is no cold, frosty weather to chill him in his tropical home, – no snow to be kept out. The rain alone, usually falling in a vertical direction, has to be guarded against; and from this he secures himself by a second platform of lighter materials, covered with mats, which he has already woven for the purpose, and with palm-leaflets, so placed as to cast off the heaviest shower. This also shelters him against the burning sun, – an enemy which he dreads even more than the rain.
His house is now finished; and, with the exception of the mud floor, is all of itá palm, – beams, cross-timbers, laths, ropes, and mats. The ropes he has obtained by stripping off the epidermis of the full-grown leaflets, and then twisting it into cordage of any thickness required. For this purpose it is equal to hemp. The mats he has made from the same material, – and well does he, or rather his wife – for this is usually the work of the females – know how to plait and weave them.
Having completed the building of his aerial dwelling, the Guaraon would eat. He has fish, which has been caught in the neighbouring caño, – perhaps turtle, – perhaps the flesh of the manatee, or the alligator, – for his palate is by no means of a delicate fineness, and will not refuse a steak from the tail of the American crocodile. But when the flood time is on, fish become scarce, or cannot be had at all, – no more can turtles, or sea-cows, or alligators. Besides, scarce or plenty, something else is wanted to vary the diet. Bread is wanted; and for this the Guaraon has not far to go. The itá again befriends him, for he finds, upon splitting open its trunk, a large deposit of medullary pith or fecula; which, when submitted to the process of bruising or grating, and afterwards stirred in water, forms a sediment at the bottom of the vessel, a substance not only eatable, but equal in excellence to the well-known produce of the sago palm.
This farinaceous pith, formed into cakes and roasted over the fire, – the fuel being supplied by leaves and leaf-stalks, – constitutes the yuruma, – the daily bread of the Guaraon.
The yuruma, or rather the sago out of which it is made, is not obtainable at all times. It is the male palm which produces it; and it must be extracted just as the tree is about to expand its spadix of flowers. The same curious fact is observed with regard to the maguey, or great American aloe, which produces the drink called “pulque.” To procure the sap in any considerable quantity, the maguey must be tapped just on that day when the flower-stalk is about to shoot upward from among the leaves.
The Guaraon, having eaten his yuruma, would drink. Does he have recourse to the water which flows in abundance beneath his dwelling? No. On ordinary occasions he may quench his thirst in that way; but he wishes for some beverage more cheering. Again the itá yields it without stint, and even gives him a choice. He may tap the trunk, and draw forth the sap; which, after being submitted to a process of fermentation, becomes a wine, – “murichi wine,” a beverage which, if the Guaraon be so inclined, and drink to excess, will make him “as drunk as a lord!”
