HISTORICAL BARTICA 37 



the El Dorado of Raleigh and ending today with the hum- 

 ble washing pan of the boviander. Instead of boats loaded 

 with gallant courtiers sweeping upriver to sands of pure 

 gold and rocks fretted with precious stones, I hear from 

 Kalacoon House the chanty of the black paddlers, and soon 

 around Bartica Point comes the bargeful of gold-diggers, 

 off on their half year's journey, happy if they can bring 

 back a little bagful of the glittering grains, or a few dozen 

 dull diamonds in the rough. 



Standing today on Kyk-over-al, in the shadow of the 

 old brick arch hung with vines and draped with orchids, we 

 have left British Guiana as the world knows it, far behind 

 us, along the distant sea-coast. Facing toward the great 

 hinterland we know that nothing but jungle lies before, with 

 two narrow Indian trails as the only means of entrance to 

 this unexplored, unmapped region, besides the alternative 

 of toilsome paddling against swift currents and laborious 

 portages around innumerable falls and rapids. 



Some day, motor tracks and a railroad will be pushed 

 inland, fretting this region, so tiny on the map of South 

 America, so tremendous when one stands deep hidden in its 

 jungles. Then the great wealth of the interior of British 

 Guiana will become apparent, whether it be to forester, min- 

 er, lapidarist or planter, or like ourselves, to mere seekers 

 after truth by way of the lives of beasts and birds and insects. 



