01 Amazon Adventure Read online

  Presently the rampart ahead seemed to dissolve and a pass was visible. But what a pass! Great precipices frowned on either side of it. Couldn’t the plane go higher and clear all this danger? Hal looked at the altimeter. It registered almost seventeen thousand feet. That meant that they were jammed up against the ceiling.

  Suddenly even the ceiling failed them. The needle on the altimeter began to spin.

  ‘Hey! That won’t do,’ exclaimed Terry, trying to nose up the dropping plane.

  They got out of the dangerous downdraught, but it left them only six hundred feet above the rocky bottom of the pass. In vain Terry tried to bring the plane up. So much banking and wheeling was necessary to avoid the cliffs that the little plane had no energy left for climbing. There was nothing to do but to follow all the twists and turns of the canyon and trust to luck that there would not be another downdraught. S turns and angles continually appeared ahead. Nobody was studying a map now. Roger’s eyes popped as crag after crag rushed up to the windows and skimmed by with little to spare.

  But a polo player would have been proud to manage his horse as Terry rode his plane. Hal thought of Ben Hur and his chariot race. Terry did not look like Ben Hur and he was not standing on a careering chariot but sitting quietly in the pilot’s seat. But there was something of the heroic of all ages in the way he steered his irresistible motor around immovable objects. They melted away at his command. The impossible became possible.

  Now, thank heaven, the floor of the canyon was falling a little. The savage walls were dropping back, beaten. With a final triumphant burst of speed the Bonanza swept out into a new world.

  Gone were the arid, sandy wastes of the Pacific coast where rain almost never falls. Below stretched brilliant green forests that never lacked for water. Winding streams made silver alleys through the green.

  ‘Look at the pink cloud,’ exclaimed Roger, hardly believing his own eyes.

  Sure enough, a coloured cloud drifted over the forest.

  ‘Butterflies,’ said Terry. ‘Just a few billion of them. And there’s another cloud — parakeets. You get your clouds in all colours in this country — green, yellow, red, and mixed. Wait till you see the parrots and toucans. You’ll think you’re looking at a picture in technicolour.’

  ‘What’s this stream beneath us?’ That, my dear sir, is the Amazon. Or at least it’s the Patate which becomes the Pastaza which becomes the Maranon which becomes the Amazon.’

  ‘And to think,’ said John Hunt, ‘that here within a hundred miles or so of the Pacific Ocean, the water turns its back on the Pacific and starts on a three-thousand-mile hike to the Atlantic’

  ‘And we’re starting on the same hike,’ said Hal. There was a thrill in that thought but a certain amount of fear too. The mystery of the unknown lay ahead. No other region on earth had so many secrets locked in its heart.

  Presently the Patate joined hands with the Chambo to form the Pastaza, river of the Jivaro headhunters. A little frontier post called Topo passed beneath, then Mera, then Terry prepared to come down at a jungle village called Puyo.

  Hal was referring to his guidebook: ‘Here the known world ends and the Amazonian wilderness begins. Penetration beyond Puyo is not possible even on horseback… .’

  It would have been possible by plane, but the plane was going back to Quito. The only other way was by boat. No westerner had ever gone down the Pastaza, and on John Hunt’s American Geographical Society map it was marked with a dotted line, meaning unexplored.

  If this expedition were successful, that dotted line would be made solid. More than that, the animal life of a new region would be revealed. That was what most interested the three wild-animal collectors. A waterfall appeared below, a hanging bridge across the river, then a clearing. Terry was nosing down into it.

  ‘What’s your stalling speed?’ asked Hal.

  ‘Sixty-five.’

  It seemed a very small field to strike at a speed of more than a mile a minute. And no brakes!

  At the far end of the field were a number of thatched huts. The plane plunged across the field, crushed the straw wall of a large hut, and came to a halt in the living-room-dining-room-bedroom among the members of a very startled household.

  That was the introduction of the Hunts to the headhunters. Luckily none of the Indians was hurt, or four new heads might have been added speedily to the brown ones on the shelves.

  Chapter 4

  Headhunters

  Even so, for a moment it looked like rough going. The Indians snatched up spears and knives. Others came running into the hut and everyone was armed. The place resounded with the screams of women, the cries of children, and the menacing shouts of the warriors.

  Then the smiling Irishman stuck his head out of the cockpit door. He called a merry greeting to an old man who turned out to be the chief. The angry chatter turned into a noisy welcome. These people knew Terry. This had been an outpost for the gatherers of cinchona, source of quinine, and Terry had been there many times.

  Terry introduced his friends. The Indians conducted their guests in a triumphant procession through the village to the chiefs house. The Hunts were astonished at the fine appearance of the village.

  ‘Lucky we struck a straw hut instead of one of these,’ said Hal. Most of the houses in the village were well-built of solid timbers. There were plots of corn, beans and bananas. Inside the houses could be seen looms on which cotton cloth was woven. On the shore of the swift Pastaza River were boats skillfully hollowed out of logs.

  ‘They’re a very clever people,’ said Terry, noting the surprise of his guests. ‘And very brave. The Incas never conquered them. The Spaniards ruled them for only a short time — then the Indians rebelled and threw the Spaniards out. The government of Ecuador gets along with them by leaving them alone.’

  ‘Where do they get these skirts and shorts they are wearing?’ asked Hal.

  ‘They make them. But when they go to war they strip off their clothes and paint their bodies in bright colours.’

  Even in shirts and shorts, some of the men looked a bit wild. ‘They need haircuts,’ remarked Roger. Their hair was black, long and flowing, and decorated with toucan feathers.

  ‘In every Jivaro there are two persons,’ said Terry, ‘one civilized and the other a savage. And you never know which one you are going to meet. That’s what makes them interesting.’

  In the chiefs house, the walls of which were hung with blowguns, spears, bows and arrows, and the skins of magnificent tigres and panthers, they were served a strange lunch.

  ‘I never saw such large eggs,’ said Roger. ‘The chickens here must be giants.’

  ‘The chicken that laid those eggs,’ Terry told him, ‘was ten feet long and had teeth like a sausage grinder. You’re eating alligator’s eggs. How do you like them?’

  Roger made a wry face. ‘I liked them until you told me that.’

  ‘And what’s this steak?’ asked Hal. ‘Surely they don’t have cattle down here.’

  ‘That’s from the tail of an iguana. It’s an enormous lizard, five or six feet long, that is plentiful in these woods. You’ll probably want one of them for your collection. And that other meat that tastes like veal — it’s a slice of mountain lion. But never mind, you’ll eat stranger things than these before you get done with the Amazon.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said John Hunt who knew from former trips to the lower river what experiences the boys were in for. He ate heartily, but the boys were very easily satisfied. It would take them a little time to get used to Amazonian cookery. Their appetites were not improved by a glance at a grim row of heads on a high shelf. One head was perched alone over the door.

  ‘That one seems to have the place of honour,’ said John Hunt.

  The old chief did not understand the English words but he saw that his guest was talking about the head over the door. He spoke to Terry and Terry translated.

  ‘He says that’s his grandfather. You see, this preservation of heads isn’t qu
ite as barbarous as most people suppose. Didn’t the Egyptians use to keep not only the heads but the entire bodies of their kings, mummified so that they would last? This is more or less the same idea. The chief says he was very fond of his grandfather and wants to keep him nearby always. It’s the Jivaro way of showing respect.’

  Hal objected, That’s all right for friends and relatives, but why do they preserve the heads of enemies? Surely that’s not to show respect.’

  ‘Yes it is,’ Terry insisted. ‘They believe that by keeping the head of a strong man they get his strength. They don’t bother to shrink the heads of weaklings — it’s a long, hard job and they don’t consider it worth while.’

  ‘Unless they are making them for sale as curiosities to tourists,’ put in John Hunt.

  ‘Yes. But it they are making them to keep in their own huts, they preserve only the heads of fine warriors.’

  Then we ought to feel honoured if they decide to tan and pickle us,’ said Roger.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Hal. They won’t mistake your bean for something wise and powerful.’

  ‘Oh, is that so?’ fumed Roger. ‘I bet they’ll take mine first.’

  ‘Have it that way if you prefer,’ said Hal.

  ‘I wonder if the chief would explain how they shrink these heads,’ John Hunt suggested. ‘It must be quite an art.’

  Terry passed on the question to the chief who nodded gravely and began to explain, Terry translating.

  ‘Everything must be done according to ceremony,’ said the chief, ‘otherwise the virtue of the hero is lost. The medicine man performs certain religious rites. That is to comfort the spirit of the dead man so that it will not be disturbed by

  what follows. We sew the lips together so that the spirit may not escape. Then we make a slit in the back of the scalp and take out the skull. Of course we could not shrink the head if the skull remained in it. The shrinking is done by filling the head with hot sand. When it cools it is taken out and more hot sand put in. Night and day for three days — sometimes for a week if we wish the head to be very small. That is all. It is simple.’

  ‘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?

  Chapter 5

  The Condor’s Shadow

  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.