When the Singing Stops (23 page)

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 and 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.'

M
adi 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.

Madi was about to make a rude retort but the ground looked deceptive. She prodded a covering of dried leaves between two rocks,
where she planned to step, to take her weight and boost herself upwards. The stick disappeared through the leaves into thin air—a hidden crevice with a flimsy cover could have meant a broken ankle. She steadied her pace and decided to pay more attention.

Finally the climb lessened and the walking levelled out. Connor tapped Madi on the shoulder. ‘Listen.' Above the abuse of disturbed birds she heard a low drone, like an incoming plane.

She turned around to Connor, noting his flushed face and shortness of breath. She was glad that with the rivulets of perspiration between her breasts and the weight of her backpack and pulled calf muscles, she was not alone in her suffering. But that was soon forgotten as the steady drone registered. ‘It's the falls,' she whispered. ‘We're getting close.' With renewed energy she strode to where the rest of the group was sitting and catching their breath.

‘Johnson's Peak is where we have to get to, down this way,' said John.

They walked through slightly open country with water everywhere, running between the rocks and dripping from trees. They passed intriguing plants and three-metre-high bromeliads with bizarre spiky flowers. Suddenly Madi glanced down and gasped in delight, avoiding stepping on an exquisite cluster of wild orchids.

They ducked under an overhang of rock
where a small dry cave offered shelter to animals. Then just a few clambering steps and they emerged into the open onto a big flat rock. The sound of the falls was deafening. They had arrived.

Madi closed her eyes and turned her back to the sound. Shrugging off her backpack, she dropped it, and slowly turned around to face the falls.

She opened her eyes.

And there it was before her, a frontal view so close that she was overwhelmed by the realisation that all those millions of litres of water from the Potaro River were melting over the edge to the far away depths of the gorge. She thought she would be prepared for the sight she'd seen on postcards. But the grand scale, the momentum and gravity with which nature had created this spectacle with no outside influence was breathtaking. There was no indecision in the water's course, no wavering of the solid volume of river that slid effortlessly over the lip of the falls to crash into oblivion.

This was God's creation, but for what cause was this geological manifestation? The answer was too difficult to comprehend while her eyes were held by the sheer splendour and magnificence of it.

Connor's hand touched her shoulder, and Madi reached up, squeezed his fingers and felt a
wave of gratitude that he was there to share this unique experience with her.

‘Makes you feel pretty insignificant, doesn't it?' he murmured in her ear.

‘No. It makes me feel important because we are here and we can share this and realise together how wonderful nature is. I feel privileged,' said Madi firmly.

‘Well, it's nature's five-star standard up here. This is pretty amazing,' declared Connor. ‘No architect, landscaper or technocrat could have conceived or created this. It's the rawness of it, the sheer simplicity that knocks you.'

‘It's not a monument . . . yet it's a symbol. I wish I understood more why I feel the way I do,' said Madi.

The rest of the group were grinning at each other, sharing the delight of confronting this awesome sight.

‘Photo time,' said Sharee, delving for her camera.

Madi suddenly turned to Connor. ‘The frog. The gold frogs—I must see them.'

She gripped Connor's hand. ‘Remember last night I told you about Pieter? The ethnobotanist? He said if the gold frogs disappear, it will be a sign the planet is dying.'

‘Well, that sounds a bit extreme. Sounds a bit of a radical greenie . . . they're always forecasting the end of the world is around the corner.'

‘But Connor, we have to heed these little omens. You can't just go blindly forward,
tramping over everything, assuming all will be well. We've already messed up so much of the environment. When you come to a place like this it makes you realise how beautiful the world can be. That the songs of little gold frogs are important.' She spoke quietly but with great intensity. He held back the flippant remark that had sprung to his lips. He didn't want to dampen her enthusiasm and she was right, places like this were rare and special.

He pointed to the far edge of the flat rock that faced the falls. The gorge dropped away and on the edge of the rock were clumps of small waxy green bromeliads. Madi hurried to these as the group photographed each other with the falls as a backdrop. Connor crossed his fingers that the little frogs she seemed so keen about were actually there.

Cautiously Madi parted the fat succulent leaves, peering down the length of their spiky arms to the heart of the plant where a puddle of water had collected. The leaves were wet and looked slimy but they felt smooth and cool and she was reminded of snake skin. She detected a slight movement and looked closer. And there, balancing and clinging to the base of a leaf was a tiny flash of gold. As her eyes focused, Madi saw clearly the almost blinding glitter of the small frog. Sucker toes spread from each foot grasping the leaf. Its head tilted as if it was listening to her breathing. An eyelid blinked. ‘Hello, little frog,' said Madi softly. ‘I've come a
long way to see you.' The frog didn't move, and Madi parted several other leaves in the same bromeliad before she found its identical mate—gilt-dipped, as shiny bright as new gold, no longer than her thumb.

She felt Connor's breath on her neck and she moved her head as she held the leaves apart so he could see the brilliant little creature.

‘What do you suppose would happen if you kissed your frog prince?' he asked.

‘Trust you to think of that,' she admonished him.

‘They're pretty amazing though,' he admitted.

The rest of them came over and glanced at the frog and made admiring noises, but were more interested in moving on to the crest of the falls.

‘Connor, do you realise how significant these are?' said Madi. ‘These particular golden frogs aren't found anywhere else on the planet, just here in these plants in this place. It's like they are some sort of guardian angel.'

‘And you say the day they aren't here we're in deep shit?'

‘Sort of. Pieter said the Amerindians have a more poetic way of putting it.'

‘In Australia there are dozens of theories about why the frog populations have decreased, from removal of their habitats to the hole in the ozone layer, acid rain and pesticides washing into the rivers,' said Connor.

‘How do you know that? I didn't think such
things would interest you.' Madi sounded pleased.

‘I haven't lived in the rarefied corporate atmosphere or in Third World backwaters all my life. At home in Perth we had a green frog that lived in our letterbox for years. Mum used to make sure the birdbath next to it was always filled with rainwater. I wonder how many green frogs still live in the city suburbs to delight young boys and scare the girls?'

Madi kissed the tip of his nose. ‘Connor, that story is very endearing. I'm more impressed to know you cared for a little green frog, than the fact you talked the IFO into funding an agricultural water project in Africa.'