Kicking while in a hammock isn’t recommended. Maurício tumbled to the ground, and a well-nourished vampire bat flitted off.
Fall 1634
It was an awkward time to attempt to cross from the Takutu to the Rupununi. A few months earlier, the area was completely flooded, forming Lake Amuku, and Henrique and his companions would have had an easy time canoeing across. A few months later, at the height of the dry season, and they could have abandoned their canoe and just walked across the savannah. Unfortunately, this was the transition period. Paddle and carry; paddle and carry.
Visibility was surprisingly poor, given that they were in flat country outside the rainforest. The Rupununi savannah was pockmarked with “sandpaper trees,” each six to ten feet high, and appearing every twenty yards or so.
When they spotted it, they were already too close. What they had seen was a mound, a few feet from the edge of a creek. As Amazon dwellers, they immediately recognized it as a caiman’s nest. The question that came first to mind was, where’s Mama? Unlike, say, turtles, crocodilians were quite protective of their young.
Very, very softly, they set their canoe down on the ground. Kasiri climbed one of the trees, so she could see over the bank. After a few minutes, she spotted it. “Jacaré açu. Big one. Close.”
The black caiman. The largest crocodilian of South America. Unlike birds, caiman didn’t just sit on their nests. But if they left them, they didn’t go far off. Any suspicious movement, or sound, would be investigated. And Mighty Mama’s motto was, “bite first, ask questions later.”
They signed to Kasiri. “Leave?”
“No. Too close. Wait.” She would tell them when the caiman had moved far enough away that they could slip off unnoticed.
The three males kept watch on the mound. If the mother lay down on her nest, and went to sleep, that would work, too. They could pass, at a respectful distance. Even if their passage woke her up, she probably wouldn’t charge. Probably not.
What’s going on now? thought Henrique. He had seen a disturbance on the side of the mound. It’s too early for them to hatch, I thought.
A tegu, three feet long, emerged in a puff of dirt, a black caiman egg in its mouth. It did a little victory dance.
The last spasm of dirt movement had not gone unheard. Mighty Mama threw herself out of the creek, and saw the dastardly lizard. She—all fifteen feet of her—charged.
The tegu fled. Straight toward Henrique and his companions. With Mighty Mama in hot pursuit.
Maurício gallantly, and rapidly, decided to join Kasiri. He started climbing; Kasiri extended a helping hand. Coqui ran, at right angles to the track of the approaching behemoth, and then found himself a tree of his own.
Henrique hesitated for a minute. Could he grab the tegu and throw him back toward Mighty Mama? That would make a nice distraction.
It was also an insane idea. Henrique sprinted, picking the direction opposite Coqui’s.
The tegu ran past Maurício and Kasiri’s tree. Mighty Mama, still intent on the thief, ignored the humans’ scent and kept running. The tegu was normally much faster, but it refused to let go of its prize, and that slowed it down.
Maurício and Kasiri looked at the departing beasts, then at each other. In silent accord, they dropped to the ground and ran forward, in the party’s original direction. Mighty Mama, they hoped, was sufficiently distracted at this point.
The following day, the rest of their party showed up. First Coqui, then Henrique. Of course, there was one problem. No canoe. They had to circle back and, very stealthily, carry it off. It helped that they knew where the nest was, and, equally important, where Mighty Mama liked to lurk. This time, Mighty Mama was indeed asleep on her nest, and they took pains not to disturb her.
It wasn’t long before they wondered whether it had been worth the effort. The Rupununi fed into the Essequibo, as predicted. What they didn’t predict was what the descent of the Essequibo would be like. As the river dropped out of Guiana highlands, there had been a succession of falls and rapids. Most of which had to be portaged. In Kasiri and Coqui’s home country, they would have just left their canoe upriver and taken someone else’s canoe at the end of the rough water section. They couldn’t be sure that this convenient custom applied in the Guianas, unfortunately, so they had to carry their canoe whenever they couldn’t just unload it and line it down.
Eventually, they reached the calmer waters of the lower Essequibo and were able to paddle with fewer interruptions.
Soon, Fort Kykoveral came into sight, looming above Cartabo Point. It was really a glorified watchtower, with barracks, a magazine, a storehouse, and a few private rooms. It overlooked the confluence of the Essequibo with the Mazuruni and the Cuyuni.