Before sunrise this morning my horse was saddled, and a number of
natives had assembled. Hananui had disappeared, but the man who
lent me his bare-backed horse yesterday was ready to act as guide.
My boots could not then be found, so I adopted the native fashion of
riding with bare feet. We again rode up the river in that slow and
solemn fashion in which horses walk in water, galloped over a
stretch of grass, crossed a bright stream several times, and then
entered a dense jungle of Indian shot, plantains, and sadlerias,
with breadfruit, kukui, and ohia rising out of it. There were
thousands of plantains, a fruit resembling the banana, but that it
requires cooking. The Indian shot, the yellow-blossomed variety,
was of a gigantic size. Its hard, black seeds put into a bladder
furnish the chic-chac, which in many places is used as an
accompaniment to the utterly abominable and heathenish tom-tom.
Here guavas as large as oranges and as yellow as lemons ripened and
fell unheeded. Sometimes deep down we heard the rush of water, and
Paalau got down and groped for it on his hands and knees; sometimes
we heard a noise as of hippopotami, but nothing could be seen but
the tips of ears, as a herd of happy, unbroken horses, scared by our
approach, crashed away through the jungle.
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