In The Rainy Season The
Trees Stand Out Of A Sea-Like Expanse Of Steaming Water, And One May
Wade Through This For Twenty Miles Without Finding A Dry Place For
Bivouac.
Ant hills, ten and fifteen feet high, with dome-shaped
roofs, dot the wild waste like pigmy houses, and sometimes they are
the only dry land found to rest on.
The horses flounder through the
mire, or sink up to the belly in slime, while clouds of flies make
the life of man and beast a living death. Keys rust in the pocket,
and boots mildew in a day. At other seasons, as I know by painful
experience, the hard-baked ground is cracked up into fissures, and
not a drop of water is to be found in a three days' journey. The
miserable savages either sit in utter dejection on logs of wood or
tree roots, viewing the watery expanse, or roam the country in search
of yingmin (water).
Whereas the Caingwas may be described as inoffensive Indians, the
inhabitants of the Chaco are savages, hostile to the white man, who
only here and there, with their permission, has settled on the river
bank. Generally a people of fine physique and iron constitution, free
from disease of any kind, they are swept into eternity in an
incredibly short space of time if civilized diseases are
introduced. Even the milder ones, such as measles, decimate a whole
tribe; and I have known communities swept away as autumn leaves in a
strong breeze with the grippe.
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