Up the Mazaruni for Diamonds — Story, Setting & Ideas
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For Up the Mazaruni for Diamonds — Story, Setting & Ideas, the stored edition analysis reports 28,610 words, 2 hr 5 min estimated reading time, and 4 detected text sections.
The text analysis averages about 18.8 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.
Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Guyana -- Description and travel,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.
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- Title & short description10 pts
- Source metadata20 pts
- Text length15 pts
- Chapters / structure15 pts
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Read the Text
was a queer, tent-shaped rig amidships of our big craft. Beneath this was room enough for us to stay sheltered during the heat of the day. White men can seldom stand the midday heat in British Guiana.
Packed all about us was the food. Jimmy climbed to the top of the pile. The captain took his position aft. The sturdy Boviander bowman took his place at the bow with his immense paddle, the twenty paddle men took their places in four groups of five, one group on each side, forward and aft of the cargo.
Then they shoved off and began their peculiar, noisy paddling.
The little town of Bartica fell away behind us as we slid out into the broad expanse of the old Mazaruni.
We were off at last, on our great diamond mining adventure!
"_IN THE LAND O' MAZARUNI_"
Eagerly I scanned the waters and either shore, determined that nothing should escape me, that I should see everything and enjoy all that there was to be enjoyed.
The captain sat, complacently smoking, at the stern of the boat, the great steering paddle, tied to the stern with thongs, in his hands. He looked as bored as if crossing the street to buy an evening paper. How could he, when there was such glorious adventure, I wondered. But afterwards I realized that twenty years of navigating the river had somewhat dulled the novelty of it for him. With him it was work, and nothing more.
To a boy used to paddling our own style of light canoes, the paddling methods of those black men seemed the most awkward in the world. Yet they "got there," and I doubt if any crew of white men, without years of practice, could have propelled the heavy craft as easily as they. Their method was to bend forward, holding the paddle horizontally and sliding it along the gunwale with a loud scraping noise, then suddenly lean over sidewise and dig the paddle viciously into the water, giving a sturdy backward tug with it, still scraping the paddle against the gunwales. At the end of this stroke they returned the paddle to the horizontal position with a loud thumping noise, sat up straight, then leaned forward and repeated the stroke.
They kept perfect time. No varsity crew boys ever worked in unison at the oars any better, and they were forever singing. It didn't matter whether they were paddling twenty feet across a narrow inlet or making an all day pull upstream, they always had music with their paddling.
They were crude songs, partly English that was scarcely understandable, partly native dialect and partly something else that may have been handed down to them from their ancestors who were captured in Africa so many generations ago and brought over by the early Dutch and English slave traders.
If the water was smooth and open, with no current, our twenty paddle men would sing as softly as the whispering of a summer breeze. But if there was a current they would sing louder. And the more difficult the paddling, the louder they would sing. In boiling rapids where it took every ounce of their strength and they had to take quick, short strokes to keep going, their voices arose to an almost howling crescendo.
Soon Bartica was lost to view around a point of land. For nearly six months we were to see no more civilization than Indian villages here and there, hidden far back from the river bank. As we swung up into the broad river where the current became strong enough to cause the paddlers to use a little extra "elbow grease" they broke into a queer song which I heard so many times after that, that it still rings in my ears. I cannot translate it. I do not know what it means, but imagine that it is some sort of love song to some dusky "Lena." This is the way it sounds:
"_San, Lena, chile, I do love yo'; Me know so, hear so, yes! Le, le, le, le, le, le, Blow, ma booly boy, blow! Califo 'ge 'ole! Splenty o'gol's for A've been tol' I' th' lan' o' Mazaruni!_"
William La Varre's Up the Mazaruni for Diamonds (1919) is structured as a chronological travelogue, but its movement between scenes reveals a deliberate pattern: the narrator repeatedly shifts from river travel to jungle encounters to village visits, each transition marked by sensory cues. The opening chapters establish a rhythm of departure, obstacle, and arrival, while later sections introduce ethnographic observations that interrupt the mining narrative. This structure mirrors the unpredictable nature of the expedition itself.
Rhythms of River and Jungle
The narrative alternates between two primary settings: the Mazaruni River and the surrounding jungle. River passages are described with attention to current, obstacles, and the labor of poling or paddling, as when La Varre notes a "fire boat" or the difficulties of navigating rapids. Jungle scenes, by contrast, emphasize stillness, heat, and the sudden appearance of animals or people. This back-and-forth creates a structural pulse that mirrors the expedition's alternating periods of exertion and waiting.
One recurring image is the "mystery gun"—the revolver that La Varre brandishes to assert authority. It appears in multiple scenes, always as a tool of psychological control rather than violence. The weapon's symbolic weight grows as the journey progresses, contrasting with the Indians' blowpipes and crude guns.
Village Encounters as Set Pieces
Each village visit follows a similar pattern: approach through swamp or forest, sound of a horn or dogs, arrival at a clearing, and a crowd of curious inhabitants. La Varre describes the "A-shaped roofs of reeds" and the communal house with a conical roof, noting the "mangiest, sorriest looking dogs" that howl and then hide. These set pieces allow him to contrast Indian life with American expectations, as when he imagines an American mother's reaction to babies crawling in mud.
The recurring detail of the "quevu" or tiny apron and the red loin cloth emphasizes the cultural gap. La Varre's own clothing—hat, coat, vest, trousers—becomes a source of wonder, a detail he repeats to underscore the asymmetry of curiosity.
The Foreword as Structural Frame
The book opens with a foreword by Anthony Fiala, which establishes La Varre as a prepared, hardworking explorer. This external endorsement frames the narrative as instructive rather than merely adventurous. Fiala's language—"hard work and preparedness," "love of the work"—sets expectations for the reader. The foreword also mentions La Varre's age (born 1898) and his scouting background, positioning him as a youthful but serious figure.
This framing influences how the subsequent chapters are read: the mutiny, the Fourth of July celebration, and the encounters with Indians all become evidence of La Varre's competence. The foreword's claim that "his diamond hunting trip was a success" is the only explicit statement of outcome; the narrative itself avoids declaring triumph.
Recurring Images of Control and Vulnerability
Throughout the excerpts, La Varre returns to images of control: the revolver, the pace of walking, the distribution of cigarettes. When Simon tries to lose him, La Varre pulls his revolver "with a great flourish" and the Indian immediately slows. The narrator's authority is maintained through these small acts of display. Yet vulnerability also surfaces: the "dismal swamp" where night falls, the "filthy ground" of the village, the babies crawling through "stagnant water."
These contrasting images—power and disgust—create a tension that runs through the narrative. La Varre is both the armed explorer and the man who shudders at what he sees. The structure of the book, moving from river to jungle to village and back, allows these moods to alternate without resolution.
Readers attentive to structure will notice how La Varre uses repetition—of setting, of gesture, of observation—to build a portrait of the Mazaruni region that is as much about the narrator's own perspective as about the landscape. The book rewards those who track these patterns rather than seeking a linear plot. The foreword and the chapter titles provide a map, but the real journey is in the details of movement and encounter.
Reading about La Varre’s slow drift along the Mazaruni, I recalled sitting on a grey porch years ago, turning pages of The Paris Sketch Book of Mr. M. A. Titmarsh; and the Irish Sketch Book while rain softened the street. Both books feel less like destinations than itineraries of noticing—the way a landscape becomes bearable when someone names its silt, its light. I wanted to stay inside that unhurried mood, where even failure casts a quiet shadow. There’s a tenderness in both expeditions, a willingness to be lost. The Paris Sketch Book of Mr. M. A. Titmarsh; and the Irish Sketch Book — A Reader’s Guide reminded me that wandering, even pointless, is its own small shelter.
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