When the Singing Stops

by Di Morrissey

  But creeping into her thoughts came the memory of Connor’s touch, the fresh smell of his skin, the fine red gold hairs on the back of his wide hands that were strong and bony like a bushman’s, but caressed so tenderly. Was she glad the stinging flies had rescued her from a situation that might have compromised their friendship? Or had she been saved from plunging into a ravine when she wasn’t ready?

  Madi finally fell asleep, thinking of the bewitching fireflies that had danced on the water and enjoying the growing sense of anticipation and excitement that welled in her knowing she was so close to achieving her goal. Her last thought was that out there in the darkness, above the gorge, the mighty Kaieteur was waiting for her.

  It scarcely seemed she’d been asleep a minute when a scream, an agonised wail, made her sit bolt upright in her bunk, banging her head on the ceiling. ‘What the devil . . . ?’

  Ann rolled over and mumbled, ‘Howler monkeys, they’ll stop soon.’

  Madi lay in the moonlight listening to the distant sobs and cries of the little rusty monkeys as they raced through the jungle canopy calling to each other—in warning, play or anguish, she couldn’t tell. Then, as though a conductor had raised his baton, they all stopped simultaneously. She waited, thinking it was like waiting for the other shoe to drop. But then she remembered nothing else until bright sunlight, sleepy voices and the tantalising smell of coffee and toast awakened her.

  Mr Bell and Captain Blaise decided after breakfast that the climb to the top of the falls should wait a day because clouds were moving in and it would rain during the afternoon. They predicted the following day would be ‘wash clean’.

  ‘Right. Rest day,’ announced John.

  Clothes were washed and spread on rocks to dry. They swam out to the little rocky islet and looked at the fast running current on the other side. Viti took Mr Bell’s small wooden canoe for a paddle into the creek. She came back remarking how pretty the start of the walk to the falls looked.

  ‘Let’s go for a walk after lunch even if it is raining,’ said Madi.

  But after their meal of pepperpot stew, enthusiasm for the walk dwindled. Hammocks had been strung between trees and under the outdoor eating area and Madi was tempted by the appeal of sleeping off lunch in the cool breeze.

  ‘I think hammock resting is going to be my greatest souvenir of Guyana. A comfortable soft hammock, a breeze and I’m out like a light,’ said Madi.

  ‘But you’re still going on the walk,’ said Connor.

  ‘Yep. Who’s coming?’

  Sharee and Viti were the only volunteers. The three girls put on their walking shoes and set off onto the shadowy track that wound along the creek before taking a right-angle turn towards the gradual incline. They could see it would get steeper as it wound to the top of the falls.

  They explored around the creek, Viti scratching at the gravel and pebbles with a stick and, deciding it held the possibility of gold, she filled her hat with mud and gravel to be washed in Mr Bell’s gold pan later.

  They came across small pretty blue flowers on a vine that weaved and trailed up and down trees and Madi picked a spray and tucked it in her hair.

  Sharee, who was staring intently at the ground, called to them. ‘Come and look at these amazing ants.’

  Madi didn’t see them for a moment, then she saw half a green leaf marching along the trail, followed by others. ‘Leaf cutter ants,’ cried Madi. ‘I read about them in Gwen’s book.’

  ‘I’ve always called them umbrella ants,’ said Viti. ‘It’s a bit like carrying an open tent on your head.’

  They followed the marching procession of munched-off green leaves along a distinct trail the ants had made to a hole where they disappeared beneath a bulge on the surface. Madi reached into her backpack and took out her camera to shoot a close-up of the ants’ nest and its parade of umbrella-carrying inhabitants.

  ‘Oh, I just happen to have Gwen’s book in my backpack. Let’s see if I can find the bit she wrote about ants.’ The other two good-naturedly rolled their eyes and while Viti continued to fossick with her stick, Madi and Sharee perched on a fallen log and Madi read from Gwen’s book:

  ‘Among the most remarkable forms of life are the ants, which differ from the English variety in having stings like wasps. The first I especially noticed were the Drogher or Cousis ants; they are small and harmless-looking enough, but in reality are a power to be reckoned with, as they are capable of cutting into and carrying off a half-bag of rice in one night. The Droghers I saw on Maripi Island were in a procession of millions; each one carried a piece of leaf several times its own size, and from the appearance it presents while doing this is often called “the umbrella ant”.

  The procession passed over a long trail, down into a hole that must have been already very deep, judging by the fat roll of earth that surrounded it; the excavation party was still bringing up large pieces to add to the fortification. I have often seen a bare patch about six inches broad worn by these ants right through the thick layer of leaves that covers the ground of the forest, a sort of Piccadilly of ant-land, only proportionately very much broader.’

  ‘Heavens, how fascinating and alarming!’ declared Sharee.

  ‘Ja. Quite so,’ agreed a strange voice from behind them and the three looked up in surprise to see a man emerge from down the track. He was tall and fair with a thick blond beard and pale blue eyes. He wore a grey shirt and brief shorts, thick socks, solid boots and a canvas hat. He hung on to a haversack on one shoulder and gave them a friendly wave with his free hand.

  ‘Good afternoon, I am Pieter Van Horen. The ants are interesting, yes? You know there are about ten thousand species of ant and none of them is genetically the same.’

  They introduced themselves and all shook hands. Their new friend squatted on a small rock beside Sharee and Madi.

  ‘You just climbed down from the top?’ asked Viti.

  ‘Ja. I have been camped up there for several days. I’m going back down the river to my second camp.’

  ‘How was the weather?’ asked Sharee.

  ‘Misty with clouds, but it will be fine tomorrow, I suspect. Are you going up soon?’

  ‘Tomorrow. I do hope it’s clear,’ sighed Madi.

  ‘You must stay there for the sunrise and the sunset. They are spectacular,’ said Pieter.

  He smiled a lot and had an enthusiastic manner of speaking with a strong Dutch accent. Madi warmed to him immediately.

  ‘Are you travelling about Guyana?’ asked Sharee.

  ‘In a manner of speaking. It’s part of my work.’

  ‘What do you do?’ asked Madi curiously.

  ‘I’m an ethnobotanist. I’m working for an institute in the US which is studying the benefits of plants used by the indigenous people here.’

  ‘You collect and classify specimens and send them back?’ said Madi.

  ‘That’s the botany part, ethnobotany involves studying the people of many races and how they use the plants for medical and other purposes. At the end of the day it means we can produce a product to help other people. Guyana’s Amerindians have lived in harmony with their land and we have much to learn from them.’

  ‘That’s like in Australia, where I come from,’ said Madi. ‘We are just starting to understand the rich knowledge our Aborigines have about caring for and using land. Spiritually and emotionally they understand it, as well as physically.’

  ‘What were you doing at the top of the falls? Are there special plants up there?’ asked Sharee.

  ‘All plants are special to me,’ chuckled Pieter. ‘I also investigate insects and snakes and toads and frogs. They too hold the answers to how mankind can protect itself and survive. There’s a marvellous secret here at Kaieteur . . . as well as spectacular plants.’

  ‘Do tell us what it is,’ said Madi. ‘This might be my only chance to get up there and I’d hate to miss it.’

  Pieter gave a good-natured laugh. He opened his haversack and emptied out its contents as he looked for a pen a
nd small sketch book. A camera, plant press, an all-purpose knife with lots of blades, small containers and bottles wrapped in cloth were put to one side as he fished out a little book and drew a rough map.

  ‘At the top you come out here, then there are two tracks to the falls. Take this one which is further back but it gives you a better look at the falls before getting to the actual top where the river drops over. This spot is very good for photographs,’ he added with a grin. ‘But here,’ he drew a series of small Xs, ‘along here is a row of bromeliads.’

  ‘Why are they special?’ asked Sharee.

  Viti was now peering over Madi’s shoulder at the sketch pad. ‘I know bromeliads. They’re those waxy, spiky plants.’

  ‘Yes, and they hold the little secret. They hold water from the mist of the falls and living in them is a tiny creature called Colostethus beebei. You only find them in these particular plants.’

  ‘What are they?’ asked Sharee.

  ‘A frog. A little gold frog. First named scientifically by G.K. Noble from the American Museum of Natural History in 1923.’

  ‘I saw an old documentary on the frogs on television!’ exclaimed Sharee. ‘That British nature series by . . . what’s his name . . . Sir Gavin Rutherford.’

  ‘Right,’ said Pieter. ‘So, now that I have checked my beebei friends, I can continue on.’

  ‘Why were you checking on the gold frogs?’ asked Madi.

  ‘Ah, there is a belief among scientists that these frogs—this handful of living gems—hold the timepiece to the future.’ He looked around the group who were listening with interest. ‘These frogs don’t croak as you would say in English. Instead they cry a sweet sad song. They sing of beauty and the balance of nature. While they sing, all is well with our world. They are the harbinger of the state of health of our planet. So you see, if the frogs stop singing, it means the planet and all that is on it is dying.’

  ‘Is there a chance that the frogs could die?’ asked Madi. ‘We worry about the hole in the ozone layer and acid rain and the fact some of our frogs in Australia are disappearing.’

  ‘We assume time is on our side, but we must use it wisely and try to make sense of the war between greed, politics, stupidity and ignorance,’ said Pieter. ‘Now I must be moving on, the day is waning. I have a small boat and outboard along a little further. I’m on my way back to my river camp, then I’m going down towards Brazil.’

  ‘Stop and have a cold beer first,’ said Sharee, ‘while we have kerosene to run the fridge. Mr Bell is running low.’

  ‘Thank you, but no. It’s getting late and I want to be back before dark. By the way, they sell kerosene at the pork-knockers’ village at the top of the falls,’ said Pieter. ‘It’s five times the price of anywhere else. That is, if you feel up to carrying it back down the track.’

  ‘We can manage that for the Bells,’ said Sharee.

  ‘There’s a village at the top?’ exclaimed Madi. She was a bit disappointed. Civilisation at Kaieteur didn’t fit in with her mental image of the remote falls.

  Pieter heard the disillusionment in her voice. ‘It’s just for the pork-knockers working the diamonds up the Potaro River. Don’t worry, there are no souvenir shops yet.’ He gave her a big grin. ‘I hope you enjoy the experience of Kaieteur. It is a special place. You know the legend?’

  When Madi shook her head he smiled at the three girls. ‘Old Kaie was an elderly Patamona tribesman living up the Potaro River. He had become a burden to his relatives, so they put him and his prized belongings into a woodskin canoe and launched him downstream. The old man was hurled to his end over the falls. Soon after, the Patamona say, his woodskin appeared in the shape of a sharp rock and to the west of the basin his belongings took the form of a huge square rock. You’ll see them from the top. So after he’d met this tragic fate they called the falls Kaieteur after him.’

  ‘How sad,’ said Sharee.

  ‘Imagine being pushed over the falls just because you’re old,’ said Viti.

  ‘It’s the way some still choose to die,’ said Pieter. Then seeing their sombre faces, he added, ‘But I know you’ll find that Kaieteur will stay in your hearts’.

  He picked up his haversack and turned back to Madi. ‘Be sure to say hello to my golden friends.’

  ELEVEN

  Madi didn’t go back to sleep after the howler monkey alarm just before dawn, but lay there excited and for some reason slightly apprehensive. At first light she heard one of the men lighting the gas in the kitchen. She slipped quietly from her bunk and picking up the bucket by the back door went down to the river and dipped it into the refreshingly cool water to wash herself.

  At breakfast everyone was slightly subdued and Madi sensed it was not the early hour. It was more a contemplative atmosphere as they prepared for this special day.

  Connor noticed it too. ‘Feels a bit like troops preparing for the day of battle,’ he whispered as he extracted a piece of toast from between the hand-held metal griller.

  ‘How would you know that?’ asked Madi.

  ‘Don’t be a pedant, my dear. Don’t you have days in your job where you know it’s going to be a war day?’

  ‘I’m unemployed,’ she reminded him, then grinned. ‘Yeah. I know what you mean.’

  The group assembled outside as Roy and Hilda Bell came to see them off. Mr Bell produced a gift for each of them. He had carefully chosen and smoothed branches from the surrounding forest which he’d whittled into walking sticks.

  ‘Walk with a stout stick and keep your eyes down and you be jist fine,’ he advised.

  Madi was touched at the old man’s gesture. ‘I’m going to keep this as my favourite souvenir of Kaieteur Falls,’ she said warmly.

  ‘Walk with a stout stick. That’s sound advice for life, Mr Bell,’ said Connor, shaking the old man’s hand.

  ‘Snakes, slippery rocks, loose footholds, steep sections. You’ll need dem stout sticks,’ said Captain Blaise, joining the Bells to see them off.

  John lifted the empty drum of kerosene. ‘We’ll bring you back a full one tonight,’ he promised.

  The sun was barely above the hills as they set off in straggling single file. The start of the walk was like a trail through English woods, a carpet of fallen polished wet leaves, lichen-crested logs, soft light hazing through misty straight trees climbing forty metres above. They crossed an ancient stone parapet across a docile stream gurgling over fat stones that looked as polished as gems.

  Ann reminded John of the last time they had done this when the stream had been a raging torrent forcing one burly fellow, a sufferer of vertigo, to crawl over on shaking hands and knees. ‘Needless to say, he didn’t hang over the edge of the falls when we got there,’ laughed Ann.

  ‘What was the point in his going up then?’ asked Connor.

  ‘You’ll see,’ said Ann.

  They lapsed into silence and as the discernible track had disappeared, it became a matter of picking where to place their feet as it got steeper. Twigs cracked under foot, birds called, and then came the faint whoosh of a stream for the next mile. In the enclosed humid atmosphere the heat rose and glimpses of the distant cool stream were tantalising.

  They wound upwards in S curves, taking even more care where feet were placed, grateful for the support of Mr Bell’s stout sticks.

  Madi paused to look at the varying stratas of growth that reached from ground to canopy crown. It had taken an adjustment period for her eyes to discern the subtleties of the rainforest growth. All her senses were engaged. She bent to study the almost aquatic minuscule world flourishing in dribbling rock at her feet. A miniature waterfall trickled alongside tiny ferns and flossy plants less than a finger long, where dwarf grasses and pearl-sized pebbles were scattered. Emerald moss sponged over a rock and Madi pressed her hand on it, collecting the cool water that oozed out to smooth over her heated face.

  The dimly lit life of the ground cover was thin but of immense variety. The dank rich mouldy smell and the rustle of unseen tiny
insects were fascinating and she knew if she stayed on her knees here for the rest of the day she wouldn’t tire of observing this miniature world. She lifted her eyes and studied the layers of plants on plants rising above her, each one a multitude of different textures and surfaces and shapes. The buttress roots of the massive trees formed walls around a world of rotting vegetation. Inside that was yet another eco system of plant and animal life, a nursery of shooting seeds and rich nutrients.

  Looking at the looping lianas that linked trees together, Madi imagined one tree damaged by termites could bring down several, ripping a hole in the solid canopy above. The entwined tree tops that formed the roof of the rainforest became a bed for the ardent vines and flowers that made it up the thick trunks to loll on the canopy and explode in bloom in the sunlight many metres above.

  Madi realised the others had gone ahead while she’d stopped to look at this verdant world and she felt suddenly fearful. Then turning around she saw the boat boy. The young Amerindian was waiting for her, a faithful shadow with a shy smile carrying the empty kerosene tin.

  Ten minutes later as she concentrated on a particularly tricky incline it levelled slightly and she saw Connor sitting on a rock. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to catch up. Are you okay?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely. I’ve just been so fascinated with it all. I keep looking at the plants and losing track of time.’

  ‘I don’t want to rush you, but the others are quite a way ahead.’

  Madi shifted the weight of her backpack, which seemed heavier. She determinedly brushed past Connor and strode forward, digging her walking shoes into a crevice and climbing up the hill to forge a shortcut. ‘No one waits for me.’

  Connor glanced back at the boy, grinned and followed Madi, eyeing her lean strong legs protruding from her cut-off jeans.

  ‘Madi, check where you’re putting your feet, this next bit seems unstable. Prod with your stick,’ advised Connor, who had stumbled slightly.