The Bridge in the Jungle Read Online Free PDF
Author: B. Traven
putting on her very best for the great event.'
6
The night is thick with blackness. None of the stars that are so bright in the tropics is visible.
At the river-bank we have to feel our way to the bridge. From the opposite bank the pump-master's lantern gave us a vague indication of our way. After some groping, more with our feet than with our hands, we finally hit the heavy planks.
'Christ!' I suddenly yelled. 'That surely was a narrow escape from a bath in the river. Seems to me, one has to be as careful here as if walking a tightrope. Only an inch to the left and I would have toppled off that damn bridge.'
Sleigh showed no excitement about my adventure. He only grumbled passionlessly: 'Yes and God knows you have to be extremely careful at night trying to make the bridge. If you're drunk you have no chance. There is no rail you know.'
'How deep do you think the river might be here near the bridge?'
'Between eight and fifteen feet. The banks are low. On the average I should say it is eight feet deep. Right in the middle of the stream, if you want to call that lazy current a stream, it is about fifteen feet.'
'Deep enough to disappear forever,' I said, 'and even suppose you are a good swimmer, if it is as pitch dark as it is tonight, you can swim around in a circle without realizing it and never reach either bank.'
Talking to Sleigh and thus not paying much attention to how I was walking, I had marched straight ahead, when all at once I saw right beneath the tips of my boots another light. This surprised me so much that I halted with a jerk to examine that great marvel of a light in the water. However, my surprise was shortlived, for I quickly realized that the light in the water was but the reflection of the pump-master's lantern. My right foot had struck the rim, which was about six inches wide and six inches high — just high enough to prevent a truck from gliding off the bridge when the planks were covered by slimy mud during the rainy season. Had I walked a bit faster I would undoubtedly have lost my balance on striking the rim and I would have tumbled over and into the river.
On reaching the end of the bridge we found several Indian youngsters sitting on the planks. They were singing Mexican songs, and also American ones translated into Spanish. Their legs dangled over the edge, swinging in time to the tunes they sang. Mostly they stayed within a range of only seven notes. Yet presently and without warning their voices jumped up two full octaves. As they could not sing notes that high, they shrilled them at the top of their voices. Anywhere else under heaven such singing would have sounded insane. But here in a warm tropical night, surrounded by a black and forever threatening jungle, noisy with thousands and thousands of voices, whispers, melodies, and tunes blended with the gentle sound of the river, their singing seemed proper and in harmony with the whole universe.
To the left of the bridge was the pump-station. To the right was a wide, open sandy place, with very coarse grass trampled down in patches. A pack-mule caravan had arrived only ten minutes before and was now camping on this site. It consisted, as I learned later in the evening from one of the mule-drivers, of sixteen pack mules, three riding mules, and one horse. The caravan brought merchandise from the depot to villages in the jungle and in the sierra beyond the jungle. The muleteers were Indians, of course. There were three of them, who at the time we arrived were unloading the mules, while a boy of twelve was building a fire.
The pump-master's place looked a bit more colourful and lively than it had an hour ago. The pump-master was cleaning another lantern and when he thought it fine enough he hung it to a second post of the portico.
The music had not arrived. Every hope that it might still come had vanished by now. In the meantime, though, many men, women, and girls had appeared.
All the women were gaily dressed in bright-coloured muslin
6
The night is thick with blackness. None of the stars that are so bright in the tropics is visible.
At the river-bank we have to feel our way to the bridge. From the opposite bank the pump-master's lantern gave us a vague indication of our way. After some groping, more with our feet than with our hands, we finally hit the heavy planks.
'Christ!' I suddenly yelled. 'That surely was a narrow escape from a bath in the river. Seems to me, one has to be as careful here as if walking a tightrope. Only an inch to the left and I would have toppled off that damn bridge.'
Sleigh showed no excitement about my adventure. He only grumbled passionlessly: 'Yes and God knows you have to be extremely careful at night trying to make the bridge. If you're drunk you have no chance. There is no rail you know.'
'How deep do you think the river might be here near the bridge?'
'Between eight and fifteen feet. The banks are low. On the average I should say it is eight feet deep. Right in the middle of the stream, if you want to call that lazy current a stream, it is about fifteen feet.'
'Deep enough to disappear forever,' I said, 'and even suppose you are a good swimmer, if it is as pitch dark as it is tonight, you can swim around in a circle without realizing it and never reach either bank.'
Talking to Sleigh and thus not paying much attention to how I was walking, I had marched straight ahead, when all at once I saw right beneath the tips of my boots another light. This surprised me so much that I halted with a jerk to examine that great marvel of a light in the water. However, my surprise was shortlived, for I quickly realized that the light in the water was but the reflection of the pump-master's lantern. My right foot had struck the rim, which was about six inches wide and six inches high — just high enough to prevent a truck from gliding off the bridge when the planks were covered by slimy mud during the rainy season. Had I walked a bit faster I would undoubtedly have lost my balance on striking the rim and I would have tumbled over and into the river.
On reaching the end of the bridge we found several Indian youngsters sitting on the planks. They were singing Mexican songs, and also American ones translated into Spanish. Their legs dangled over the edge, swinging in time to the tunes they sang. Mostly they stayed within a range of only seven notes. Yet presently and without warning their voices jumped up two full octaves. As they could not sing notes that high, they shrilled them at the top of their voices. Anywhere else under heaven such singing would have sounded insane. But here in a warm tropical night, surrounded by a black and forever threatening jungle, noisy with thousands and thousands of voices, whispers, melodies, and tunes blended with the gentle sound of the river, their singing seemed proper and in harmony with the whole universe.
To the left of the bridge was the pump-station. To the right was a wide, open sandy place, with very coarse grass trampled down in patches. A pack-mule caravan had arrived only ten minutes before and was now camping on this site. It consisted, as I learned later in the evening from one of the mule-drivers, of sixteen pack mules, three riding mules, and one horse. The caravan brought merchandise from the depot to villages in the jungle and in the sierra beyond the jungle. The muleteers were Indians, of course. There were three of them, who at the time we arrived were unloading the mules, while a boy of twelve was building a fire.
The pump-master's place looked a bit more colourful and lively than it had an hour ago. The pump-master was cleaning another lantern and when he thought it fine enough he hung it to a second post of the portico.
The music had not arrived. Every hope that it might still come had vanished by now. In the meantime, though, many men, women, and girls had appeared.
All the women were gaily dressed in bright-coloured muslin