334 ANNUAL REPORT SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION, 19 3 9 



The mammals and reptiles of the river are equally interesting. 

 The waterhass, rather like a large guinea pig, reputed to be the 

 largest living rodent, is occasionally seen swimming. The otter or 

 Indian water dog, noisy and inquisitive, is a fine swimmer with a 

 beautiful pelt. The lucky traveler may surprise a tapir or a puma 

 crossing, or even a small adouri swimming bravely between long 

 rests on a moca-moca leaf or tacuba, in constant fear of being 

 attacked by perai or hymara from below or the cayman on the 

 surface. 



The water kamoodie or American python sleeps between meals, 

 his distended body coiled in a nest surrounded by the bones of 

 former repasts. One we shot was over 18 feet long. They are 

 easily killed by a well-aimed bullet in the head, but there is always 

 danger of mistaking the tail for the head when the snake is coiled 

 in sleep. The cayman, in spite of his ferocious appearance, is a 

 great coward; those encountered did not exceed 8 feet from snout 

 to tail, although bigger ones are said to exist on the coast. 



The iguana is a truly extraordinary beast, who usually advertises 

 his presence by dropping unexpectedly from a high tree over the 

 river with a mighty splash. His only defensive weapon is his tail, 

 which also propels him when swimming. The iguana lays a clutch 

 of some 24 shell-less eggs, the size of marbles. Both flesh and eggs 

 are excellent to eat when properly curried. 



Bathed in brilliant sunshine and bounded by perpendicular green 

 walls of tlie creeper-hung forest, the river gives a first impression 

 of tranquility. Watch it for some time and one is conscious of the 

 constant movement of teeming life — the pitiless war which is waged 

 day and night for survival. Here a sudden darting furrow betrays 

 the attack of a perai on the smaller fish in the shallows; there a 

 large white heron, until now motionless, pounces on his fishy prey; 

 or a family of otters on the far bank chase some unwelcome intruder, 

 following it downstream with loud doglike barks. 



At some seasons of the year a continuous procession of small 

 white and yellow butterflies passes across the river. They emerge 

 from the forests on one side and drifting northwesterly disappear 

 in the forest on the far side. They fill the air for 20 feet above 

 the water as far as the eye can see up and down stream, giving the 

 effect of a mild snowstorm. Wliere they go and from whence they 

 come is a mystery, but they are always headed northwest. 



The forest itself is not at peace. Aloft the trees sag under their 

 weight of creeper, trees and parasites struggling to present their 

 leaves to the sunshine. Where the last floodwater has washed away 

 the bank, the cross section shows a solid snarl of roots, twisted. 



