The Moving Picture Boys at Panama: Stirring Adventures Along the Great Canal

IN DIRE PERIL

A small launch had been provided for the use of Blake and Joe in going into the jungle, the first part of their trip being along the Chagres River.  The tug on which they had come thus far was not suitable.

Accordingly they had transferred what baggage they needed to the launch, and with their moving picture cameras, with shelter tents, food, supplies and some West Indian negroes as helpers, they were prepared to enjoy life as much as possible in the jungle of the Isthmus.

“You boys don’t seem to mind what you do to get pictures,” commented Mr. Alcando, as they sat in the launch, going up the stream, the existence of which made possible Gatun Lake.

“No, you get so you’ll do almost anything to get a good film,” agreed Blake.

“This is easy compared to some of the things we’ve done,” Joe remarked.  “You’ll become just as fascinated with it as we are, Mr. Alcando.”

“I hope so,” he admitted, “for I will have to penetrate into a much wilder jungle than this if I take the views our company wants.  Perhaps I can induce you to come to South America and make films for us in case I can’t do it,” he concluded.

“Well, we’re in the business,” remarked Blake with a smile.  “But you’ll get so you can take for yourself just as good pictures as we can.”

“Do you really think so?” asked the Spaniard, eagerly.

“I’m sure of it,” Blake said.

The little suspicions both he and Joe had entertained of their companion seemed to have vanished.  Certainly he neither did nor said anything that could be construed as dangerous.  He was a polished gentleman, and seemed to regard the boys as his great friends.  He often referred to the runaway accident.

As for the odd, ticking box, it seemed to have been put carefully away, for neither Blake nor Joe saw it, nor had they heard the click of it when they went near Mr. Alcando’s possessions.

The first night in the jungle was spent aboard the boat.  It was pleasant enough, mosquito canopies keeping away the pests that are said to cause malaria and yellow fever, among other things.  But, thanks to the activities of the American sanitary engineers the mosquitoes are greatly lessened in the canal zone.

“And now for some real jungle life!” cried Blake the next day, as the little party set off into the forest, a group of laborers with machetes going ahead to clear the way.

For several miles nothing worth “filming” was seen, and Blake and Joe were beginning to feel that perhaps they had had their trouble for nothing.  Now and then they came to little clearings in the thick jungle, where a native had chopped down the brush and trees to make a place for his palm-thatched and mud-floored hut.  A few of them clustered about formed a village.  Life was very simple in the jungle of Panama.

“Oh, Blake, look!” suddenly cried Joe, as they were walking along a native path.  “What queer insects.  They are like leaves.”

The boys and Mr. Alcando saw what seemed to be a procession of green leaves making its way through the jungle.

“Those are real leaves the ants carry,” explained the guide, who spoke very good English.  “They are called leaf-cutting ants, and each one of them is really carrying a leaf he has cut from some tree.”

On closer inspection the boys saw that this was so.  Each ant carried on its back a triangular leaf, and the odd part, or, rather, one of the odd features, was that the leaf was carried with the thin edge forward, so it would not blow in the wind.

“What do they do with ’em?” asked Joe.  “Eat ’em, or make houses of ’em?”

“Neither,” replied the guide.  “The ants put the leaves away until they are covered with a fungus growth.  It is this fungus that the ants eat, and when it has all been taken from the leaves they are brought out of the ant homes, and a fresh lot of leaves are brought in.  These ants are bringing in a fresh lot now, you see.”

“How odd!” exclaimed Blake.  “We must get a picture of this, Joe.”

“We sure must!” agreed his chum.

“But how can you take moving pictures of such small things as ants?” asked Mr. Alcando.

“We’ll put on an enlarging lens, and get the camera close to them,” explained Blake, who had had experience in taking several films of this sort for the use of schools and colleges.

A halt was called while the camera was made ready, and then, as the ants went on in their queer procession, carrying the leaves which looked like green sails over their backs, the film clicked on in its indelible impression of them, for the delight of audiences who might see them on the screen, in moving picture theaters from Maine to California.

“Well, that was worth getting,” said Blake, as they put away the camera, and went on again.  “I wonder what we’ll see next?”

“Have you any wild beasts in these jungles?” asked Mr. Alcando of the Indian guide.

“Well, not many.  We have some deer, though this is not the best time to see them.  And once in a while you’ll see a—­”

“What’s that?” suddenly interrupted Blake, pointing through the thick growth of trees.  “I saw some animal moving then.  Maybe it was a deer.  I’d like to get a picture of it.”

There was a movement in the underbrush, and a shouting among the native carriers.

“Come on!” cried Joe, dashing ahead with a camera.

“Better wait,” advised Mr. Alcando.  “It might be something dangerous.”

“It’s only some tapirs, I think,” the guide said.  “They are harmless.”

“Then we’ll film them,” decided Blake, though the mere fact of harm or danger being absent did not influence him.

Both he and Joe had taken pictures of dangerous wild animals in Africa, and had stood at the camera, calmly turning the handle, when it seemed as though death was on its way toward them in horrible form.  Had occasion demanded it now they would have gone on and obtained the pictures.  But there could be no danger from the tapirs.

The pictures obtained, however, were not very satisfactory.  The light was poor, for the jungle was dense there, and the tapirs took fright almost at first, so the resultant film, as Blake and Joe learned later, when it was developed, was hardly worth the trouble they took.  Still, it showed one feature of the Panama jungle.

All about the boys was a wonderful and dense forest.  There were many beautiful orchids to be seen, hanging from trees as though they really grew, as their name indicates, in the air.  Blake and Joe took views of some of the most beautiful.  There was one, known as the “Holy Ghost” which only blooms twice a year, and when the petals slowly open there is seen inside them something which resembles a dove.

“Let’s get some pictures of the next native village we come to,” suggested Blake, as they went on after photographing the orchids and the tapirs.

“All right, that ought to go good as showing a type of life here,” Joe agreed.  And they made a stop in the next settlement, or “clearing,” as it more properly should be called.

At first the native Indians were timid about posing for their pictures, but the guide of the boys’ party explained, and soon they were as eager as children to be snapped and filmed.

“This is the simple life, all right,” remarked Blake, as they looked at the collection of huts.  “Gourds and cocoanut shells for kitchen utensils.”

That was all, really, the black housekeeper had.  But she did not seem to feel the need of more.  The Panama Indians are very lazy.  If one has sufficient land to raise a few beans, plantains and yams, and can catch a few fish, his wants are supplied.  He burns some charcoal for fuel, and rests the remainder of the time.

“That is, when he doesn’t go out to get some fresh meat for the table,” explained the guide.

“Meat?  Where can he get meat in the jungle, unless he spears a tapir?” asked Blake.

“There’s the iguana,” the guide said, with a laugh.

“Do they eat them?” cried Joe, for several times in the trip through the jungles he had jumped aside at a sight of the big lizards, which are almost as large as cats.  They are probably the ugliest creatures in existence, if we except the horned toad and the rhinoceros.

“Eat them!  I should say they did!” cried the guide.  “Come over here.”

He led the way toward a hut and there the boys saw a most repulsive, and, to them, cruel sight.  There were several of the big iguanas, or lizards, with their short legs twisted and crossed over their backs.  And, to keep the legs in this position the sharp claw of one foot was thrust through the fleshy part of another foot.  The tail of each iguana had been cut off.

“What in the world do they do that for?” asked Blake.

“That’s how they fatten the iguanas,” the guide said.  “The natives catch them alive, and to keep them from crawling off they fasten their legs in that manner.  And, as the tail isn’t good to eat, they chop that off.”

“It’s cruel!” cried Joe.

“Yes, but the Indians don’t mean it so,” the guide went on.  “They are really too lazy to do anything else.  If some one told them it was work to keep the lizards as they do, instead of just shutting them up in a box to stay until they were needed to be killed for food, they’d stop this practice.  They’d do anything to get out of work; but this plan seems to them to be the easiest, so they keep it up.”

“Is iguana really good eating?” asked Joe.

“Yes, it tastes like chicken,” the guide informed them.  “But few white persons can bring themselves to eat it.”

“I’d rather have the fruits,” said Mr. Alcando.  The boys had eaten two of the jungle variety.  One was the mamaei, which was about as large as a peach, and the other the sapodilla, fruit of the color of a plum.  The seeds are in a jelly-like mass.

“You eat them and don’t have to be afraid of appendicitis,” said the Spaniard with a laugh.

Several views were taken in the jungle “village,” as Joe called it, and then they went farther on into the deep woods.

“Whew!  It’s hot!” exclaimed Joe, as they stopped to pitch a camp for dinner.  “I’m going to have a swim.”  They were near a good-sized stream.

“I’m with you,” said Blake, and the boys were soon splashing away in the water, which was cool and pleasant.

“Aren’t you coming in?” called Blake to Mr. Alcando, who was on shore.

“Yes, I think I will join you,” he replied.  He had begun to undress, when Blake, who had swum half-way across the stream, gave a sudden cry.

“Joe!  Joe!” he shouted.  “I’m taken with a cramp, and there is an alligator after me.  Help!”