Above, a scene on the early reaches of the Chagres River.
"There
is nothing in the world comparable to these forests . . . The river,
broad, and with a swift current of the sweetest water I ever drank,
winds between walls of foliage that rise from its very surface . . .
From the rank jungle of cane and gigantic lilies, and the thickets of
strange shrubs that line the water, rise the trunks of the mango, the
ceiba, the cocoa, the sycamore and the superb palm."
"Blossoms
of crimson, purple and yellow, of a form and magnitude unknown in the
North, are mingled with the leaves, and flocks of paroquets and
brilliant butterflies circle through the air like blossoms blown away.
Sometimes a spike of scarlet flowers is thrust forth like the tongue of
a serpent from the heart of some convolution of unfolding leaves, and
often the creepers and parasites drop trails and streamers of fragrance
from boughs that shoot halfway across the river."
The
first stop after Chagres was Gatun—a village of bamboo huts on the
right bank of the river. At Gatun, the boatmen arranged for their
employers to spend the afternoon and the first hours of the night in
some of the native houses. A notched pole served as a ladder from the
common room downstairs to the sleeping loft under the thatch. Over the
cane floor were spread musty and ancient hides, the abiding place of
innumerable fleas.
