Limekiller!

Going upstream a bit, close to the north bank, I observed the covert of the bamboo thickets to be alive with dragon. no wonder Mr. Chocho (or Mr. Ranq’el) called it “bamboo chicken”! Santiago stood in the prow with his lance poised: a young Tashtego. Often his fingers tightened, his muscles tensed. Then he relaxed, murmuring, “Es macho. macho. tambien. ” We seemed to see nothing but males. Had they sent the females to the rear? Were all the ladies in hiding? Shame, if so. since they are all members of the Lucy Stone League. Or is it that the larger size and greater strength of the males stands less in need of protective coloration? Or do the females need it most now because they are with egg? Perhaps when the eggs are laid, when the dry time comes, when the rivers droop and the grass grows sere, perhaps then the garobo would be as near-invisible as the iguana now.

Meanwhile, Mr. Chocho has been thinking things over for himself. “Next garobo you see, Viejo” he says, companionably to young Sanchez; “you can strike for me. We feast him tonight at the velorio. Yes, yes. ” The idea clearly pleases him, he comes to a visible and audible decision; and, with exactly the same firm tone of an Englishman ordering a brace of grouse from his poulterer, “Put me up two. ” So first one garobo is “struck” for the festal pot, then another. As these are not destined to live long, Santiago is under less need to be particular about his aim — Tomas, too, who takes the harpoon for the second strike (we had grappled for the sunken staff, in the river beneath The Tree, unsuccessfully: but Tomas knows just where it fell, and I have no doubt will recover it later, in his own good time). A big garobo is lanced next, the dory grounds, Santiago leaps ashore and reels him in, chopping away bush, but being careful not to chop line as well. Big — but not as big as mine. The barb has sunken deep behind the coin-shaped mark above the wattles. Santiago saws at the barb with his machete, and I wince — probably needlessly, for, although the brute receives the treatment with a good deal of sullenness, he doesn’t so much as hiss.

And, finally, after a second festal bamboo chicken is secured, a fine green iguana, perhaps a third of her promessi sposo’s bulk, is taken. “En la pierna!” cries the boy, pleased at having not pierced the trunk. “Good!” Mr. F.Z. declares. “Now they have someone to talk to, each of them.” But Mr. Chocho’s attitude is perhaps a shade less philanthropic, “She have red egg in her,” he says, and he eyes her hungrily.

The catch or prey is trussed as described before, and we slip downstream, dropping off Tomas first, then Santiago; their fee for a good two hours of incredible dexterity being so low I am ashamed to record it here. Down the broad river once again. “There is Bul,” says Mr. Zuniga. “You want to see Bul?” I say, so let me see Bul. The dory noses up the crumbly bank and I hop gingerly ashore. intrigued, frankly, at the prospect of getting ten acres of cleared land planted in fruit trees and improved with a several-roomed thatched house, for S300. As a bargain, it’s hard to beat. “Oranges ready to reap,” says my guide, waving his hand. “Oranges here, banana and plantains there. Cassava: make good bread, good eating by self. Over there, [alligator] pears. This one tree is star- apple.” Or was it rose-apple? Anyway, no resemblance to lichee at all: pulpy fruit, custardy, with limp seeds: odd, but not bad at all.

I allowed myself to fall into neo-colonial reveries and dreams. Devise ways to net and snare iguana and garobo, more saving both of their lives and of the time involved: ship them to the U.S. for sale. Use Bul Farm as a focal point, hire Indians to grow rice and pay them in milpa land-use. With profits, hire them further to clear bush from surrounding Crown lands available on location ticket. Grow coffee, hire Indian woman to roast and pound and package in bark “bags” such as they make for other uses: drive Nescafe from its pre-emptive position.

Float good building stone down from San Antonio along Mafredi Creek to Black Creek and thence along the Moho, using barges fabricated of rafts and empty gasoline-drums (Drums Along The Moho): make sound foundations and two-storey walls thereof, with beams and maybe roof of Santa Maria wood, and panels of cedar — adopt local use of partitions of pole and palm to allow internal circulation of air. Furniture of mahogany, of course, — locally so cheap that it’s often left to rot. Maya girl. Creole girl. East Indian girl. Spanish, Carib girls. Each with own small but sufficient plantation. Knocked-up and barefooted. Cattle gotten cheap and one by one, grazing in the rice paddy-lands after the harvest of grain. Patriarch. Marry grandchildren/cousins to each other, create new not-totally-dusky race. Populate Toledo with my seed.