Black White/Chapter 9
IX
THE next day we left the black men at their caño and tramped on. The day after that we left the sabana and entered the jungled sierra in which the Ventuari is born. And on the third day we reached the first round house of the Maquiritares.
With a canoe, we could have done in two days what we did in three; for as soon as the open lands ended we had to move slowly. We worked along the bank of the river, following its windings to keep from losing it and also to stay on fairly level ground; and we had to cut much of our way, for there was no path. It was tiring work. But the Maquiritares told us that on the other side of the river, not far above, opened a caño on which was a house of their people. And about noon on that third day we found that opening.
At the mouth of the caño stood a little ranchería used as a port by the Indians when on fishing trips, but no canoe was there, nor were any men about. So, in order to cross, we had to go some distance farther up and make little balsas, or rafts, and cut rough paddles from thin tree-roots. Each balsa held four of us; and with paddles going fast and the current shoving us down, we swung into the mouth of the caño handsomely.
From the pole hut at the port a well-marked path led inland. And when we had eaten our noon meal I sent the Maquiritares and two of the Macos to tell the people of this caño that Loco León and another blanco were coming. It is always well to do something of this sort when first approaching a Maquiritare settlement, so that no bad mistakes will result from their suddenly seeing a stranger with a gun walking among them.
We waited about half an hour before following them, White spending most of the time fussing with his zancudo sore, which now had passed the worst stage and was beginning to improve, but which had left the usual raw red hole. He wanted to shave, too, but I would not wait for that; and when the rest of us started he was wise enough to go with us.
For the next three hours we walked steadily along the winding trail, seeing no where any sign of men except the path itself and the footprints of our own Indians. Then we came out on the bank of the caño again, and on the farther side we saw a canoe with a couple of Maquiritare lads in it. Their faces were new to me, but I knew they had been sent there to wait for us. So I called, and they brought the curial across.
On the other side the path climbed a stiff slope, and among the trees at the top I looked for the usual round house with wattle-and-mud walls and conical palm roof. But it was not there. Only a small open shelter stood there, and we had to walk nearly half an hour longer through the green-barked forest before we came into the clearing.
“These chaps certainly live far enough in,” grumbled White. “Apparently they don’t care for visitors.”
“They do not,” I agreed. “Two or three hundred years ago all the Caribs suffered cruelly from the Conquistadores seeking El Dorado, and they have never forgotten.”
When we reached the house, however, there was no sign of the long memory I spoke of—except that no women were in sight. A number of light-skinned men, carrying no arms, came forward from the door, smiling and giving us silent welcome. Among them I saw two faces which looked familiar, and presently I recalled them as those of young fellows who had worked balata for me on the Padamo. This was good luck. I foresaw at once that I should have little difficulty in getting men here to gather gum in my new district down the river.
If the people here had already heard from our messengers the tale of the Yabarano fight—and I felt quite sure that they had—they gave no hint of it in their faces. They looked at White in the frank, steady way of their nation, and when they had seen him from hat to boot-soles they turned their eyes back to me with no change of expression. Soon we were led into the big central room which forms the men’s quarters in every Maquiritare house, and there we were shown hammocks and invited to rest.
Looking at the faces round about, I asked who was capitân here. One of the men who formerly had worked for me said the chief was not here; he had left that morning on a hunting trip, and would not return for four days. This was a little disappointing, as I had meant to talk with the leader about the balata work. But there would be time enough for that later. So, swinging slowly in a hammock and resting, I told them I had thirst and asked whether the assehi palm grew here. At once I was told that it did. I said that I should like some yucuta assehi. Two lads picked up gourds and went out.
This assehi palm, señores, bears at the top of its straight stem a great cluster of round red fruits about as wide as my thumbnail, with a large stone inside. When these are peeled and pulped in a gourd of water a drink is formed which is very refreshing and is the color of pale blood. By putting into it a handful of loose manioc one has drink and food together. And, since yucuta is manioc and water, the same thing with those red fruits added is yucuta assehi—or, as we call it commonly, yucut’ ’sehi.
Perhaps if I should offer you some of it now, in this hotel, you would not care for its flavor. But when you have been for months in the wilderness, living on very rough food and drinking warm dirty river-water, it tastes very good indeed.
While I waited for this drink to be made I talked lazily to all the men around me, giving them such news of matters outside the hills as would interest them. Knowing that they wished also to hear something from me about White, although they asked no questions, I said he was a Norte Americano who had traveled on the Caura and now was returning to that river, and that we were going together to the Maquiritare settlement highest up on the Ventuari, from which the two Maquiritares now with us had come. From there, I said, he would cross to the Caura, then go down to the Orinoco, and return to his own country.
At this I saw several of them glance at one another; and I thought they looked a little relieved, as if they felt it would be well for all if this man left their country. There was no doubt in my mind now that they had heard of the trouble on the Manapiare.
Then one of my former Padamo men asked whether I too intended going down the Caura. I told him no, I planned to remain on the Ventuari, and to remain there a long time. Faces brightened at this. Men smiled, and one said—
“Bueno!”
This pleased me much; for I doubt if there is another blanco in all Venezuela whom the Maquiritares would be glad to have on their river. But I kept my pleasure to myself. Talking on, I let them know that I wished the Norte Americano to journey unharmed out to the Orinoco, and that I wanted a curial and men to carry us both to the top of this stream.
When I was ready, I said, I would come down again, and then I would speak to their capitân about a matter of business. Those who understood Spanish nodded, as if knowing already that my business would be that of the balata. And one said that whenever I wished to go on up the river the canoe and men would be ready.
Then came the red drink. There were two gourds of it. One was given to me, the other to White, who had said not a word. I drank half of mine at once, for my throat was dry. Then I asked White:
“What is the matter?”
He was looking down with narrowed eyes at the blood-colored mixture. He had not tasted it.
“What is this stuff?” he demanded. “Don’t like its looks.”
“Yucut’ ’sehi, and very good,” I said. And I told him how it was made. “Try it,” I urged him, “and you will find it most refreshing.”
“Hm! It’s a new one to me. This yucut’ stuff, now—remember what those black fellows said a few nights ago? Blood in yucut’—remember? This looks bloody enough. I’m not drinking it.”
I stared. Then I laughed loud.
“Valgame Dios! Of what have you fear?” I scoffed. “That this harmless drink will make you a negro? I have drunk it many a time, and I am even more white than you. Have you traveled so long with these faithful Maquiritares only to fear them now?”
He reddened angrily.
“I’m not afraid of anything!” he growled. “I simply don’t like the looks of this stuff and I don’t want it. That’s all.”
I stopped laughing and answered him very coolly.
“Very well, señor. But you might at least taste it for the sake of courtesy, unless you think it unnecessary to be courteous to those who are trying to be courteous to you. It has taken some work for these people to make the drink for you, and they hoped you would be pleased with it. But do as you like.”
And I drank more of my own with great relish.
The Indians watched him. One said something, and several others snickered in a way that made White’s eyes glitter. Then one of my Padamo boys, grinning, said—
“No es sangre.”
“You see, señor,” I said. “He says ‘It is not blood.’ The others think you are afraid of anything that looks like blood.”
“Oh, they do! Well, just to show ’em”
He lifted the gourd and drank off all the liquid.
“And if they still think so,” he added in a hard tone, “I’ll take on any three of ’em right now, bare-handed, and show ’em how much I’m afraid of blood.”
I laughed again, as if the whole thing were a joke. The Indians, not understanding his words and seeing me laugh, smiled also.
“Es bueno?” asked one.
“Hm! It doesn’t taste so bad, at that,” White admitted. “Si—muy bueno—very good. Gracias.”
And before handing back the gourd he scooped up the manioc remaining in the bottom and chewed it.
I ate mine also, and then for a little while longer we lay in the hammocks and smoked. Some of the Maquiritares lounged near us in friendly silence. Others drifted away to talk with the Macos and begin the slow bargaining for the basket of curare poison they had brought to trade. One of the small boys who had been standing about and watching everything decided to leave us, and did so by disappearing through the bark wall. White, who seemed to have recovered his temper, saw him go and spoke.
“Just how do these people arrange the family quarters?” he asked. “I’ve been in these houses of theirs before, down on the Caura, but only in the men’s room, like this. I know the married folks live between the walls—there’s no other place for them—but how do they arrange things?”
“I will show you,” I promised.
Speaking to one of the older Maquiritares, I told him I would like to show my friend the whole house, and that if there was no good reason why we should not do so we would soon walk into the other part of it. He looked a little doubtful, but went to the bark and slipped through it as the boy had done. While we waited for him to return I described the plan of the place.
Since you have not seen these houses, señores, perhaps I had best describe them to you also. They are, as I have said, perfectly round, the outer wall being of poles and woven sticks plastered with mud. This wall makes a big circle. Inside it is a smaller circle made of great slabs of bark, which are attached to one another and to upright poles. This is the inner wall, which forms a partition between the central room occupied by the bachelors and the part used by the married ones. These married ones, with their children, live side by side in the ring between the walls, their little homes being divided from one another only by a few poles, a half-made hammock, or some such marker.
In the outer wall are four small doors. Two lead through passages into the men’s room; the other two open into the married quarters. There are also tiny windows, through which the children, and sometimes the women, squeeze in and out when it is more convenient than using the doors. In the bark wall are slabs having one side unattached, which can be used as entrances to the central room; these snap back into place by their own stiffness, making the wall seem solid. The married men can come and go by any entrance they like, either inside or outside; but the unmarried men must use only their own doors, and the girls must keep out of the men’s room.
Over all is the circular palm-thatch roof, coming to a point, with a large smoke-hole protected by a sort of hood which throws off rain. Because of this great sloping roof, we call the Maquiritare houses paraguas—umbrellas.
In such a house as this may live forty or more people. In a smaller paragua, housing only a few, there may be no inner wall, all living together in one room. A man roving as I do about the Parimas often finds little houses of this kind, but they are usually old and empty.
All this I told White. Then the Maquiritare came through the bark again and stood waiting. When we arose he held the rough slab aside for us, and as we passed through the opening he followed us. The bark snapped shut like the jaws of a trap.
We stepped along slowly, finding hammocks slung across the way, fringes of cotton strings hanging from rafters, and now and then a low pole barring us until we straddled over it. There were very few women in the place: too few. Those who were there were nursing very young babies or cooking food in clay vessels over tiny fires. They paid no attention to us, at least while we were looking their way; and we gave very little attention to them. In fact, we looked less at the women than at the dogs we found lying here and there—the usual small black-haired, cruel-eyed hunting-dogs of the Maquiritares—and the setting hens crouching against the walls. In one little “apartment,” as White called it, we found also a tame pauji which, our guide said, had been caught when a very young bird, and which followed us a few steps.
When we found ourselves back at the place where we had started White yawned.
“Let’s get some air,” he said.
We went outside through the nearest doorway. And there we saw the rest of the women.
They had left the house while we talked within, and now they were busy at their usual task—making cassava bread. Some were pulping the roots on the graters which they make for the purpose, others pressing the poisonous juice from the pulp in the long baskets, and some sifting the pressed grains in their open-work guapas, or trays.
As usual, they wore only the square bead aprons, hanging from low on the hips almost to the knees. They looked at us, but only for a moment; then went on with their work. I knew they had been told by their men that all was well. Otherwise not one of them would have been in sight.
From the corner of my eye I watched White. He glanced at the women, but seemed more interested in their work than in them. Soon he turned his back on them and looked at the round house.
“He is learning sense,” I thought.
“It’s a regular circus,” he said. “You know, I’ve noticed before that these houses were shaped just like the round circus-tents up home. But now that I’ve seen the rest of the works it’s all the more so. Two rings, and dogs and hens and a peacock and women and kids—a two-ring circus with its animals. Lord, what a way for human beings to live! Interesting to look at, of course, when you know you’re going out. But to live this way year in and year out—I’d go clean off my nut if I knew I had to do it!”
In later years I was to think often of that careless remark.