OVER the Caburi Falls we found a broad expanse of still water, smooth and, while the current was fairly swift, by no means like the treacherous rapids below.

“Better navigating now, until almost up to the Big Bend, sir,” said Captain Peter.

The “Big Bend” was a name to conjure with for Lewis and me, for away up the Mazaruni were the diamonds, where the river makes a sharp bend and begins to almost double in its tracks. This is due to the hilly formation and the lowlands between the hills.

“This is the Indian territory,” added the captain, whereupon I became instantly alert, for I was anxious to see the real natives of this wild country.

Our blacks are called “Native Blacks,” but in truth they are no more native to British Guiana than are the negroes of the United States native to North America. They all had the same ancestors, the blacks of Africa who were brought over in slave ships to be sold.

The reason the Indians live in the upper reaches of the river was plain enough, for here the water was smooth and navigable for their peculiar light dugouts and their eggshell-like woodskins, canoes made of bark.

We had no more than swept around the first great bend in the broad expanse of still water above the falls than we saw a canoe loaded down with an Indian family and their possessions.

“Good!” exclaimed Captain. “We will get them to hunt for us and have plenty of fresh meat and good fish. I will call them.”

Then he did a peculiar thing. Instead of shouting to them, and they were surely nearly half a mile away, he called in a very low tone of voice, softer by far than he would use in speaking to the bowman on our own craft.

“Yoo-hoo. Yoo-hoo,” he said, over and over, a dozen times.

“They’ll never hear you. Let me show you how to shout to them,” I said.

“No-no,” warned the captain. “A great shout will frighten them. Their ears are so well trained to every sound of the river and jungle that they can hear almost every sound. A loud noise startles them.”

“Yoo-hoo,” he repeated again, in a low tone.

The Indians heard, turned their heads and studied us and then began to paddle toward us. Gradually our boats came together and I studied them eagerly. It was a strange sight to me, the first really uncivilized people I had ever seen. Before they got to us one of the men stopped paddling and called, in a low tone:

“Me-a-ree! Me-a-ree!”

“Me-a-ree!” repeated Captain Peter.

“What does that mean?” I demanded.

“It is a form of greeting, sir. It means a combination of ‘How do you do?’ and ‘We are friends.’ Always use it when you meet the native Indians.”

They talked in low mutterings but the captain seemed to be able to understand them. Later they talked in a sort of pidgin English that I could understand fairly well myself.

At first I was a bit bashful about staring at them, thinking that they would be embarrassed or consider me rude, and that it might affect their modesty. I laugh now every time I think of that. In the first place, they do not know the meaning of the word “modesty.” Not that they are immodest, but that they go about with scarcely any clothes, which seems quite all right to them. And as for embarrassing them by staring at them, they consider it an honor to be stared at, to have someone take an interest in them.

To me they were a great curiosity. The entire family was crowded in their small canoe, the old grandfather with a gray tinge to his hair although with bright eyes and strong muscles, as his paddling showed; his son, son’s wife, their son, who was quite a youth; two younger boys and several babies. Then there were several tame parrots, a large blue and yellow macaw that croaked incessantly and a worried little flea-bitten dog much mauled by the babies.

And packed in about them in their none too safe canoe I saw a dozen chunks of smoked meat, lying about like so much firewood to be walked over, a dozen or more very stiff and black smoked fish, several baskets of queer vegetables, a bunch of small bananas, bows and arrows, blowpipes and bundles of the dangerous poisoned blowpipe arrows with tips wrapped, fish spears, game spears and a large iron pan which was originally used for washing gold, but used by this Indian family—who prized it above all their worldly goods—as a kettle, stove, frying pan and griddle.

In the center of the boat on a large piece of wet and noninflammable bark, lay a heap of glowing coals, to be used for their cooking fire wherever they might camp or upon their return to their home. From this I figured it out that matches in the jungle were not to be had for the asking.

We gave each man cigarettes, which at once made us friends. The captain began to dicker with the men about securing game for us, and as they talked I made a study of them. One thing is certain, they are not bothered by the high price of clothing. I looked at the big boy, he was about sixteen I should judge—about the age when I got into long trousers and had plenty of difficulties in keeping them pressed, when I worried about the right style and fit of collars and the proper tie to go with my shirt, when collar buttons and scarf pins and cuff links were important to me and I craved silk socks and kept my shoes polished and my clothes brushed. It was a serious matter in those days, as every boy knows, getting up in the morning, getting properly dressed and off to school in time. And I looked at this big boy. He wore a red loin cloth which was about a foot long, suspended from a “belt” made of some wild vine. That was all the clothing that he possessed in the world, all that he needed and I’m sure every boy will envy him his comfort, if nothing more. The men, too, wore loin cloths, red, and about two feet long, tucked into vine belts.

The women wore smaller loin cloths, called an apron or “queyu.” These were decorated with beads and held on by a string of beads instead of vines. The smaller children wore nothing at all. Some of the women wear necklaces made of shells, animal teeth or beads or all three. Some have bright dried beans for beads and most of them wear strings of beads around their legs just below the knees.

The men seemed fairly well built. Their light, copper-colored skin was smooth and remarkably clean. Their hair was jet black and as straight as that of our own North American Indians, and their features slightly resembled those of our Indians at home, although not so strong and picturesque. Some of them, men and women, are tattooed and also decorated with “beena,” done by cutting into the arm and letting the scars heel deeply in queer designs. This “beena,” I learned, is believed by them to be a charm against all sorts of evil and, on the women’s arms (women mostly use this “decoration”), they think that it helps them to weave hammocks and to make their everlasting cassava bread.

The parrots and the dog seemed very friendly, the birds walking over him and making queer, low, croaking sounds, the dog lazily watching them walk over him and now and then wagging his tail.

One peculiarity about their talk, the pidgin English, was something like that of the Chinese coolies I had met in the West. They substitute the letter “l” for the letter “r” and the letter “b” for the letter “v.” They say “belly good” instead of “very good.”

“So,” finished the captain to the head man, the grandfather, “you go hunt some game and shoot some fish for us.”

“Uh huh, me go hunt um. Shoot paccu, shoot maam, anything. Bring ’long to you bime by.” And the Indians then paddled off and were lost to view around the curve of the river.

“Will they do it? Will they come and find us?” I asked.

“They certainly will, sir. They want the sugar and kerosene and other things we shall trade with them for the game.”