The evening camp-fire, the glare of
which lit up and made more hideous still my savage followers,
gorging themselves until covered with filth and gore.
The times when,
from sheer hunger, I have, like them, torn up bird or beast and eaten
it raw. The draughts of water from the Indian hole containing the
putrefying remains of some dead animal; my shirt dropping off in rags
and no wash for three weeks. The journeys through miles of malarial
swamps and pathless wilderness. The revolting food, and the want of
food. Ah! the memory is a bad dream from which I must awake.
The other side, you say? Yes, there is another. A cloudless blue sky
overhead. The gorgeous air-flowers, delicate and fragrant. Trees
covered with a drapery of orchidaceae. The loveliest of flowers and
shrubs. Birds of rainbow beauty, painted by the hand of God, as only
He can. Flamingoes, parrots, humming-birds, butterflies of every size
and hue. Arborescent ferns; cacti, thirty feet high, like huge
candelabra. Creeping plants growing a hundred feet, and then passing
from the top of one ever-vernal tree to another, forming a canopy for
one from the sun's rays. Chattering monkeys. Deer, with more
beautiful eyes than ever woman had since Eve fell. The balmy air
wafting incense from the burning bush; and last, but oh, not least,
the joy in seeing the degraded aborigine learning to love the "Light
of the World"! Yes, there are delights; but "life is real, life is
earnest," and a meal of algarroba beans (the husks of the prodigal
son of Luke XV.) is not any more tempting if eaten under the shade of
a waving palm of surpassing beauty.
The mission station previously referred to lies one hundred miles in
from the river bank, three hundred miles north of Asuncion, among the
Lengua Indians. As far as I am aware, no Paraguayan has ever visited
there. The missionaries wish their influence to be the only one in
training the Indian mind. The village bears the strange name of
Waikthlatemialwa (The Place Where the Toads Arrived). At the
invitation of the missionaries, I was privileged to go there and see
their work. A trail leads in from the river bank, but it is so bad
that bullock carts taking in provisions occupy ten and twelve days on
the journey. Tamaswa (The Locust Eater), my guide, led me all during
the first day out through a palm forest, and at night we slept on the
hard ground. The Indian was a convert of the mission, and although
painted, feathered and almost naked, seemed really an exemplary
Christian. The missionaries labored for eleven years without gaining
a single convert, but Tamaswa is not the only "follower of Jesus"
now. During the day we shot a deer, and that evening, being very
hungry, I ate perhaps two pounds of meat. Tamaswa finished the rest!
True, it was only a small deer, but as I wish to retain my character
for veracity, I dare not say how much it weighed. This meal
concluded, we knelt on the ground. I read out of the old Book: "I go
to prepare a place for you," and Locust Eater offered a simple prayer
for protection, help and safety to the God who understands all
languages.
My blanket was wet through and through with the green slime through
which we had waded and splashed for hours, but we curled ourselves up
under a beer barrel tree and tried to sleep. The howling jaguars and
other beasts of prey in the jungle made this almost impossible.
Several times I was awakened by my guide rising, and, by the light of
a palm torch, searching for wood to replenish the dying fire, in the
smoke of which we slept, as a help against the millions of mosquitos
buzzing around. Towards morning a large beast of some kind leaped
right over me, and I rose to rekindle the fire, which my guide had
suffered to die out, and then I watched until day dawned. As all the
deer was consumed, we started off without breakfast, but were
fortunate later on in being able to shoot two wild turkeys.
That day we rode on through the endless forest of palms, and waded
through a quagmire at least eight miles in extent, where the green
slime reached up to the saddle-flaps. On that day we came to a
sluggish stream, bearing the name of
"Aptikpangmakthlaingwainkyapaimpangkya" (The Place Where the Pots
Were Struck When They Were About to Feast). There a punt was moored,
into which we placed our saddles, etc., and paddled across, while the
horses swam the almost stagnant water. Saddling up on the other side,
we had a journey of thirty miles to make before arriving at a
waterhole, where we camped for the second night. I don't know what
real nectar is, but that water was nectar to me, although the horses
sniffed and at first refused to drink it.
At sunset on the third day we emerged from the palm forest and
endless marshes, and by the evening of the fourth day the church,
built of palm logs, loomed up on the horizon. Many of the Indians
came out to meet us, and my arrival was the talk of the village. The
people seemed happy, and the missionaries made me at home in their
roughly-built log shanties. Next morning I found a gift had been
brought me by the Indians. It was a beautiful feather headdress, but
it had just been left on the step, the usual way they have of making
presents. The Indian expects no thanks, and he gives none. The women
received any present I handed them courteously but silently. The men
would accept a looking-glass from me and immediately commence to
search their face for any trace of "dirty hairs," probably brought to
their mind by the sight of mine, but not even a grunt of satisfaction
would be given.
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