POPAYÁN AND THE CERRO MUNCHIQUE
After spending a few weeks in and about the Cauca Valley, Richardson
and I started southward, while the two other members of the expedition
began the homeward journey. I had looked forward very eagerly to my
visit to southern Colombia because I knew that the country, towns,
and even the people were different from those we had seen heretofore.
But, above all, because ahead of us lay a vast region little known
zoologically, and we hoped to penetrate into at least the mountain
fastnesses west of Popayán in our insatiable search for the rare and
interesting wild life that haunted that remote wilderness.
We left Cali at noon, May 13, well provided with riding and pack
animals, and half-breed _arrieros_, and started on the well-beaten
trail that leads toward the south.
At first there was no appreciable change in the valley, but by degrees
the stretches of absolutely level-appearing land increased in size;
instead of extensive cultivated areas there were pastures of large
size, covered with a luxuriant growth of grass. Thousands of head of
cattle were sprinkled over the velvety turf. We rode an hour through
one of these ranches just before reaching the river Jamundi. This
estate is the property of one Angel Mario Borreo, who is reported to be
one of the most influential men in the Department of Cauca, and is only
one of his sixteen similar holdings.
The Jamundi is not over one hundred and fifty feet wide at the point of
crossing, and is spanned by a steel and brick bridge; dense jungles of
bamboo line both banks. Just beyond lies the little town bearing the
same name.
A tent-show had been billed to appear here at some time within the near
future, and the arrival of our pack-train was mistaken for that eagerly
awaited event. The news spread rapidly and before long the populace had
turned out en masse in the hope of getting a glimpse at the wonders our
trunks and duffel-bags were supposed to contain. Not until we had taken
refuge in the little _posada_ or inn could they be convinced of their
error and induced to return to their homes; but another surprise was in
store for us.
The many and enervating tasks of the day called for our early
retirement, and eight o’clock found us in our cots. Great was our
surprise to be awakened an hour later by the sound of music at our very
door. One of our men was sent to the door to learn the cause of the
serenade and was told that the mayor of the town, with a delegation
of the chief officials and the band, had come to pay us a visit. Of
course, there was but one thing to do, and half an hour later found
us out on the special seats that had been prepared, in full view of
the visitors and perhaps half of the villagers who had accompanied
them. Then followed speeches, singing, music, and a few native dances,
interspersed with short intervals for smoking, drinking (a goodly
supply of _aguardiente_ had been brought along), and conversation.
The visitors remained until one in the morning; a rather lengthy
call, to be sure, but a pleasant one, and quite characteristic of the
friendliness of the Colombians.
The next day’s ride of ten hours’ duration brought us to Buenos Aires,
a very pretty little town nestling among and almost obscured by gardens
of flowers and orchards of fruit.
A heavy rain during the night had filled all the sink-holes in the road
with water, making progress slow on the following day. We rounded Mount
Saint Ignacio early in the morning, and shortly after had our first
view of the volcano Purace; we were to learn more of this mountain in
the not distant future. Soon after, the _lomas_ or great barren hills
appeared; they form a kind of connecting-link between the Coast and
Central Ranges. These gently rounded mounds are bare except for a kind
of worthless, wiry grass that in some unaccountable way draws enough
sustenance from the red-clay soil to maintain its meagre growth. These
hills gradually increase in height, but the ascent is by such slow
degrees that one is scarcely conscious of any rise at all. There are
few houses, and the small number of inhabitants seem to be as sallow
and lifeless as the hills themselves. A party of people had gathered
at one of the Philippine-like structures near the roadside; they were
chatting excitedly and drinking a good deal of _chicha_. When we
dismounted we found that a child had died and was being prepared for
burial. It sat propped up in a small, rudely made chair, covered with a
piece of white cloth. No one seemed greatly concerned over the death,
least of all the parents; on the contrary, they were proud of the
_angelito_, and of the attention the event attracted from the people of
the neighboring country.
In perfect accord with our expectations, there was little bird-life on
the cheerless _lomas_. A few blue tanagers and _Veinte-vi_ flycatchers
(_Pitangus_) lived in the bushes that lined the infrequent rivulets
trickling through narrow gullies between the hills. The _Veinte-vi_ was
an old acquaintance; its cheery call is one of the first bird-notes to
greet the ear of the visitor to tropical South America. Its local name
varies with the locality, and is an attempt by the natives to imitate
the bird’s cry. Thus it ranges from _Kiss-ka-dee_ and _Veinte-vi_
to _Dios te di_ and _Christi fui_. This flycatcher is of a rather
vivacious disposition, and pairs of them frequently may be seen singing
together and beating their wings on the branches.
As a general rule these birds are of peaceful habits, except when
nesting; but I have frequently seen them in pursuit of a carrion hawk
at which they darted viciously and continued to follow until lost to
view.
The diet of the _Veinte-vi_ is varied, and the bird is most versatile
in capturing its prey. Thus it will sit on a perch above a brook and
plunge in after small fish or tadpoles, somewhat in the manner of a
kingfisher; it may hover over a field and drop upon an unsuspicious
mouse, lizard, or small snake; beetles, grasshoppers, and other insects
are overtaken and captured on the wing. When a victim of some size has
been captured, it is beaten rapidly upon a branch until its life is
hammered out. It also hops about in fields looking for worms and grubs.
The nest is a huge domed structure, made of grasses and often wool, and
placed in the branches of a tree six to fifteen feet up. Entrance is
gained through an opening in one side, near the top. On account of the
great size of the structure, being about twelve or fifteen inches high
and eight to ten inches thick, it is very conspicuous; the exterior is
carelessly made, with grasses and streamers of nesting material hanging
down on all sides.
The eggs, two to five in number, although four seem to constitute the
usual set, are long and pointed, cream-colored, and lightly spotted
with chocolate-brown and purple blotches--mostly on the larger end.
Besides these species, there were ground-doves, lapwings, and an
occasional sparrow-hawk. The latter is so similar to our common little
terror of the air that it is hard to distinguish between the two.
Shortly after noon we encountered one of the most terrific tropical
storms imaginable. Hour after hour a perfect deluge of rain poured down
upon us from which rubber _ponchos_ afforded little protection. Flashes
of lightning pierced the semiblackness with blinding shafts of light,
followed by deafening crashes of thunder--an indication that we were
approaching the high zone of bleak mountain slopes and paramos.
That night we reached Morales, at an elevation of five thousand nine
hundred feet. Fortunately there was no demonstration of any kind to
interfere with our much-needed rest. Early the next morning, however,
we experienced the thrill inseparably linked with the sudden display
of one of those hidden forces of nature that forever and inalterably
control our destiny.
From out of the gray and penetrating mist that seemed to envelop
all the world there rose a low, ominous rumbling, distant, yet of
thunderous volume; and the mud-walled, grass-thatched inn shuddered
violently in unison with the trembling earth.
Through the open door of the adjoining room I heard the scratching
of matches and saw the flicker of yellow light reflected on the
whitewashed wall. A moment later the pious _señora_, surrounded by her
little ones, was kneeling before the shrine of the Virgin, chanting
a litany in low, monotonous tones. Two tapers flickered hazily. The
gaudy tinsel flowers that decked the image gleamed in the uncertain
light, but the pitiful squalor, ignorance, and general misery of the
surroundings were mercifully left in darkness.
Without, all was silent, save for the barking of a pack of stray
mongrels which had been asleep on the door-steps of Morales. The
village again slumbered, and the chill, damp fog clung to the earth.
Alone I made my way up the only street, through the mud, to the
eminence on which the adobe church stands, overlooking the valley and
affording a view of the tremendous range on each side; for it was
nearly the hour of daybreak and the sun rising above the lofty peaks of
the Andes presents a scene of matchless beauty.
With the first faint glow of light in the east the banks of vapor
became dissipated and gradually disappeared. Peak after peak reared
its head above the ocean of snowy whiteness. First of all was Purace,
the hoary monarch that dominates the southern part of the Cordillera
Central and spreads terror through the land with threats and warnings
similar to those we had just experienced. This great volcano has been
active for untold ages. A huge column of smoke and vapor ascends
continually straight into the clouds, and this, reflecting the light
of the rising sun, makes a magnificent picture. Occasionally at
night the eternal fires within the gaping crater may be seen tinting
the low-hanging clouds and the snow that crowns the summit, fourteen
thousand five hundred feet high, with rosy red. All about, the great
barren lomas are strewn with black boulders, some of immense size,
that serve to remind the wayfarer of the cataclysms of bygone ages.
Everywhere they dot the hillsides and tower above the trail that winds
among them.
Just below rises the silent mass of Sotará, crowned with the snow of
centuries; the precipitous slopes are seamed and worn by the frequent
slides of ice and stones from above, and deep, snow-filled gashes
extend far down below the glittering dome in a ragged fringe. At night
the moonlight steals softly up the frigid heights and reverently bathes
the ancient head in a halo of dazzling splendor.
As the sun mounted higher and higher the peaks of the Western
Range appeared one by one, like islands in mid-ocean, led by the
awe-inspiring Munchique and followed by his lesser satellites. Between
the two ranges, in the fruitful valley of the Cauca, Popayán still
slumbered beneath a blanket of billowy softness.
By six o’clock the _arrieros_ had corralled the mules and
riding-horses, and half an hour later we were on the march.
Replacing the dry and barren _lomas_, we now found a bush-covered
country with occasional long strips of low forest in the hollows; but
the trail was an exceedingly difficult one, owing to the rocky nature
of the country and the great boulders that obstruct the way. Frequently
a small stream had to be crossed, such as the Rio Piendano, which is
spanned by an arched bridge built of large, hand-made bricks, a curious
relic of olden Spanish days. Down goes the trail five hundred feet
or more at an angle of forty-five degrees, and then up again on the
other side, the mules snorting and puffing as they creep along at a
snail’s pace. All the rivers seem to flow through deep gorges. Only
sure-footed mules are of service on this trail, each carrying not more
than two hundred pounds.
The distance from Morales to Popayán is not great; without cargo-mules
it is an easy day’s ride, but with a caravan of tired, heavily laden
animals that have come all the way from Cali it is the part of wisdom
to spend the night at the little _posada_ La Venta and ride into the
city early the next morning. Here a room and a good meal can usually
be had on short notice, but one must carry his own cot and bedding, as
luxuries of this kind are not furnished in Colombian inns except in the
larger cities.
We were up and on our way early the next morning, for it was
market-day--the day when the inhabitants from miles around flock to
the city to buy and sell and to have a good time generally. It was our
first visit and we could not afford to miss such an interesting and
typical sight.
While still several miles distant from Popayán we began to meet small
parties of Indians that dotted the trail, slowly wending their way
toward the Mecca of the Upper Cauca. By the time we had reached Belen,
a settlement of about twenty houses, the trail had widened into a
beautiful thoroughfare and was crowded with oncoming hordes. These
Indians are probably descendants of the ancient Guanacas, while some
are doubtless the offspring of the tribe of Paeces which inhabits the
Cordillera Central to the north. Many, no doubt, still preserve the
original purity of the old stock, but the vast majority have mingled
and intermarried with the native Colombians until one finds every
possible stage of intergradation.
Before us passed the motliest crowd imaginable, each bearing the fruit
of his toil, to be appraised and sold in the public plaza. There were
small family parties, the man leading a decrepit mule that threatened
to collapse at every step, laden with fruit and vegetables, fire-wood,
hemp ropes and bags, calabashes, pottery, or any one of a hundred
different things. The wife, acting as auxiliary beast of burden,
carried the surplus. A band passed over the forehead supported the
heavy pack; usually a small child was carried in a sling at her side,
while several larger children clung to her skirt or trudged behind. As
she walked she worked, spinning from a bunch of wool or cotton tucked
under her arm, the spindle, a sharpened stick with a potato stuck on
the end, dangling from her hands. The most characteristic occupation of
the women is the making of small fibre bags, or _muchilas_, from hempen
cord. They are meshed entirely by hand as the overburdened worker trots
along, and when completed somewhat resemble a lady’s shopping-bag. If
the meshes are close it requires weeks to finish one which would fetch
forty or fifty cents.
The men are dressed in loose white-cotton trousers that come below the
knee; then there is the inevitable square of homespun woollen cloth,
usually brownish, gray, or blue, called _ruana_; the head is thrust
through a hole in the centre so that it drapes down to the waist,
the corners often touching the ground and giving the same effect as
the toga of a Roman senator. At night the _ruana_ takes the place
of a blanket under which the whole family sleeps. A broad-brimmed,
high-crowned straw hat completes the outfit. The women are fond of
dark-blue skirts (also the product of their industry), pink waists, and
shawls of almost any color so long as they have fringes. Their hats
are similar to those worn by the men. The feet of both sexes are, of
course, bare.
Half an hour after leaving Belen we were cantering across the great
brick bridge that spans the Cauca and forms the entrance to Popayán.
This bridge is really a marvel of ancient Spanish architecture, five
hundred feet long, forty feet wide, and supported by a series of arches.
Popayán is one of the oldest and most picturesque of Spanish-American
cities, though by no means the largest. I doubt if its population
exceeds ten thousand. The early history of the city is full of
interest, and from it one gains an insight into the conditions
attendant upon the conquest and colonization of a large part of
South America. Spurred on by the love of adventure and the lust for
treasure, the _Conquistadores_ overran vast portions of the continent,
establishing depots here and there from which they could start anew in
search of El Dorado, which they were destined never to find. In this
manner Popayán was founded in the year 1536 by Sebastian de Belalcazar,
the son of a peasant from the border of Estremadura and Andalusia, in
the south of Spain.
After founding Popayán, Belalcazar extended his raids down the river
and formed the settlement which to-day is Cali, the largest and most
important city in the Cauca. Being a fair example of the usual type
of Conquistador, he showed no mercy toward the Indians, but nearly
exterminated them; the country which had been a fruitful province was
turned into a famine-stricken waste. In the meantime Pizarro had sent
an officer, Lorenzo de Aldana, to arrest his erstwhile lieutenant; but
Belalcazar, satisfied with his conquests, set sail for Spain in 1539
for the purpose of securing a charter before he could be apprehended.
The city lies high up on the level plain, more than six thousand feet
above the sea, surrounded by rugged peaks, some snow-capped, others
unbridled as yet by the hand of time, presaging catastrophe and
disaster; and still others covered with impenetrable growths of virgin
forest, untrodden by human foot, and known only to the wild creatures
that lurk within the dark recesses. Above all hang the fleecy clouds
that encircle the lofty pinnacles, dip low to meet the earth, and
then vanish again into space. About the city prevails an air of calm
repose; an air of sanctity and mysticism that radiates into every nook
and corner, permeating every fibre. The city is famous as a centre
of learning. Its colleges and university, conducted by the Order of
Maristas, attract the youths from all parts of the country. There
are numerous old churches, all very ancient, the gilded interiors
rankling with the damp of untold years. Bells of antique workmanship,
and covered with verdigris, dangle in open niches in the walls or in
the low, square towers, and hourly call the faithful to prayer in
monotonous cadence. The cathedral was completed in 1752 after many
years’ work. In one of the streets a delightful view may be had of
three successive chapels, one above the other, and of the streams of
pious penitents wending their way up the rocky path. There are also
the overgrown ruins of a house of worship, but I could never quite
decide whether the edifice had fallen into decay or whether the medley
piles of bricks and rubbish between the four crumbling walls were still
waiting to be placed in position. The streets, crooked and narrow,
are paved with cobblestones. The buildings are of the old adobe type,
one-story and whitewashed, with red-tile or sod roofs. Glass is not
used except in the churches, but the windows are heavily barred.
Recently a few modern brick structures have been erected. A look into
the corridors and inner courts, of which there may be several in one
house, conveys an insight into the domestic life of the people. The
front courts are very attractive with their flowers, shrubbery, and
trees, but the rear ones are anything but inviting, the dungeon-like
enclosures reminding one of the stories of atrocities and persecutions
carried on here in the turbulent times of the Spanish Inquisition.
On an average, the people are of a higher class, both intellectually
and physically, than in most Colombian cities of equal size;
comparatively few negroes are seen, and the good health and bright
looks of the inhabitants are the natural result of a cool climate and
pure mountain air.
One day, at noon, as I was photographing in the vicinity of Popayán,
after having ridden perhaps five or six miles from the city, I was
accosted by an elderly woman who invited me to stop at her humble
cabin, where she had prepared a really palatable lunch. Her reason for
doing this was that she had recognized me as a foreigner. During the
course of the meal she tearfully related that she had had a son, of
about my own age, who had gone to the States many years before. Had I
met him, and could I give her any tidings? I could have, but I did
not. By a strange and inexplicable coincidence I knew that her son had
not left the country. Instead of going to the coast he had engaged
in one of the revolutions common enough at that time and had been
captured and shot; but what right had I to remove the only support that
maintained the spark of life in her aged body? It was only the hope of
seeing her boy again that gave her the strength to resist the onslaught
of advancing years. Doubtless, she still waits, hoping against hope for
the message that will never come. Hers is the mother-love that never
despairs. How clearly it shows that human nature is very much the same
the world over, even among the lowly!
On June 23 I was fortunate enough, while in Popayán, to behold one of
the religious celebrations formerly all too numerous in Latin America.
It was the _Fiesta del Sagrado Corazón de Jesús_. Troops of soldiers
and bands were lined up in front of the cathedral; all were quiet and
orderly while the sacred rites were being performed within. Suddenly
the doors burst open, bells boomed and jingled, and the contents of the
vast church poured through the portals in a steady stream. First came
the altar-boys in white surplices and red cassocks, carrying gilded
crosses on long poles and lighted tapers in silver holders, followed
by the small children, the girls with tinsel wings, resembling tiny
angels. Then came the governor of Cauca, the prefect of Popayán and
their staffs, each bearing a standard. Next in line were the maidens,
covered with large black shawls, or _mantas_, with folded hands and
downcast eyes which, however, they were not averse to raising to meet
the admiring glances cast by some of the onlookers. The students from
the seminaries and a choir of singers preceded a life-size statue of
the patron of the feast, borne aloft on the shoulders of stalwart
youths; then came the archbishop and the higher ecclesiastics in tall
mitres and gorgeously embroidered and glittering robes. Those of the
general public who chose to march fell in line behind the bands that
followed, chanting prayers. The remainder knelt in the streets with
bowed, uncovered heads as the procession passed. All the buildings,
even the trees, were gayly decorated with banners, a mixture of the
papal and national insignia. Colombia is perhaps the only remaining
country in the New World in which religion still dominates the
government.
If we examine a map of Colombia we will find that the Cerro Munchique,
the highest of the mountains in the Western Range, lies directly
west of Popayán. There is an exceedingly difficult pass across the
Cordillera at this point, leading to a place called the Cocal, still
far distant from the coast. A trail was also being opened a short
distance to the south leading to the Rio Micai. When this is completed
it will require a four days’ journey on mules to the river; then two
days in canoes on the Micai, said to contain many rapids and to flow
through country inhabited by savage tribes, before the coast is reached.
A day’s ride from Popayán took us to El Tambo, and at noon the
following day we were in the Indian village of Chapa at the very base
of Munchique. A heavy electrical storm delayed our departure until
noon the next day. There were but a dozen or fifteen adobe huts in the
village, and during the height of the tempest one of these suddenly
collapsed into a heap of mud and straw; the occupants barely escaped by
fleeing into the deluge when the buckling walls apprised them of their
danger.
After the agitation had subsided the people erected an altar in the
plaza for the celebration of a mass of thanksgiving. Each one brought
some trinket--a few paper flowers, a picture, a bit of tinsel, or a
candle--with which to embellish the sacred structure. Then they all
knelt, with bared heads, and in deepest devotion assisted at the
religious service; that is, all but a plump Indian woman who boiled
_chontaduros_, or palm-nuts, in a huge kettle, in back of one of the
huts and sold them to the worshippers the moment devotions were over.
It required fully a half-day longer to reach the end of the mule
trail, and by that time we had reached an elevation of eight thousand
feet.
From this point up the mountains are covered with a dense growth of
primeval forest. Below this elevation there are occasional strips of
woods and patches of brush interspersed with clearings. Maize grows
splendidly up to an altitude of seven thousand feet; this was proven
by the few small fields cultivated by the Indians. The slope was also
dotted with areas planted in rice.
The ascent of Munchique is very abrupt; there are no streams near the
summit, as the top of the mountain is composed of solid rock that sheds
rain as soon as it falls. The highest pinnacle is a flat, bare rock,
about ten thousand feet above sea-level.
Robert Blake White states that from this spot one may “obtain a view
over more than fifteen thousand square miles of country. The whole of
the Central Cordillera, from the frontier of Ecuador to the confines of
the State of Antioquia, with the valleys of the Cauca and the Patia,
were visible to the north, east, and south; whilst, on turning to the
westward, the Pacific coast from the bay of Tumaco to the mouth of the
San Juan River seemed spread out like a map before us.
“A more gorgeous panorama cannot well be imagined. The belts of
bright-colored vegetation, marked by the valleys with their winding
rivers and streams, were backed with masses of the Cordillera with
their varied tints and snow-capped peaks. On the other hand, the
dark-hued vegetation of the virgin forests of the Pacific slopes
stretched down to the ocean’s margin, which with its thousand bays
and inlets and fringe of foam which was quite visible, looked like an
edging of lace. The island of Gorgona could be distinctly seen.
“The Cerro Munchique should be visited in the dry season, for its
peculiar prominence makes it a grand lightning conductor, as we clearly
saw from the shattered rock on the summit.”
[Illustration: Cerro Munchique.]
[Illustration: A deserted Indian hut on the Cerro Munchique.]
We discovered a deserted Indian hut in the centre of a large,
overgrown, abandoned plantation, and made it our headquarters for a
week or more. The site was ideal. Tall forest hemmed in the clearing
on all sides, and a rivulet of clear, icy water flowed near the
shack. The elevation was eight thousand two hundred and twenty-five
feet. Obviously, the place had been unoccupied for a number of years,
doubtless owing to the fact that maize and rice would not thrive at
this high altitude. However, these same conditions were most congenial
to a host of other vegetation. Blackberries and rhododendrons, with
lilac, red, white, pink, and yellow flowers formed a solid tangle,
acres in extent, and creepers entirely covered the tall, dead stubs,
and crowned them with a thick canopy of green leaves from which
clusters of orange and scarlet trumpetflowers drooped.
At night the temperature went down to about 45°, but this did not deter
giant hawk, owl, and sphinx-moths from appearing at dusk to feast
on the nectar of the myriads of flowers. The little stream was the
rendezvous for numberless frogs. One hardly suspected their presence
during the daytime unless a careful search was made of the rotting
wood that littered the ground, and of the tangled, snakelike stems
of second-growth sprouts and leaves; but at night the concert was
always sure to begin in startling volume. Some of the notes reminded
me of our own spring peeper; others were sharp and metallic, like the
twanging of a banjo-string; and others were low and mellow like the
murmuring of a ’cello. They all blended into a deafening chorus of
unflagging animation and unvaried monotony. At first the din was rather
disconcerting, but gradually there came to us the realization that this
was but the bubbling over of care-free little hearts rendering a song
of happiness and thanksgiving to nature for the pure, unsullied joy of
an unfettered existence.
Birds were not particularly plentiful in the forest. There were,
however, a number of interesting forms, particularly among the
tanagers. One species (_Psittospiza riefferi_) was about the size of
a robin and of a deep grass-green color, with a chestnut-colored face
and abdomen; these birds live singly and in pairs in the tall trees
and are of a wary disposition. Another tanager (_Sporathraupis_) has a
bright-blue head and olive-green back; the breast is deep, dull blue
merging into golden yellow on the legs. The natives called this bird
_jilguero_, a name applied to the solitaire in other localities. It
lives in the lower branches of trees, travelling in pairs or small
flocks and feeds on fruit; the song is not unpleasant, but cannot
compare with any solitaire known to me.
While collecting one morning my attention was attracted by a chorus
of chirps and screams, and following up the sounds I reached a tall
tree where a peculiar bird drama was being staged. A number of
California woodpeckers (_Melanerpes flavigularis_) had drilled numerous
holes in the tree-trunk, from which sap trickled in small streams.
A dozen or more buff-tailed hummers (_Boissonneaua flavescens_) had
apparently come for their daily jag, for the sap very evidently had an
intoxicating effect. Arriving in a bee-line, newcomers landed against
the trunk, where they clung like so many moths, the buff-colored tail
spread wide and against the bark for support. Their antics as the
different stages of hilarity were reached were most amusing. They
twittered, fought, turned, and tumbled in the air; others dozed on
small twigs, and several fluttered toward the ground in an exhausted
condition. This performance continued daily for a week, until the sap
suddenly ceased to flow; then the tree was deserted and silent, the
capricious band having no doubt sobered up from their debauch and gone
back to their normal and more profitable pursuits in life.
In getting water from the brook, one of our men discovered a narrow
trail under a giant log. We justly surmised that animals of some sort
used the runway in journeying to and from the water. A trap was set in
the path, and next morning a fine white opossum of large size had been
safely ensnared. In the days that followed we secured an even dozen of
the animals. They proved to be a form unknown to science that now bears
the name _Didelphis paraguayensis andina_. The cook said that they were
delicious eating, and prepared for us an unusually fat individual; but
we found the meat of rather strong flavor, and not very palatable. A
solitary weasel (_Mustela affinis costaricensis_) was also taken in the
same spot. It would be interesting to know whether this animal came
down to drink, or was in pursuit of some of the other creatures that
frequented the runway. Weasels are courageous, active, and bloodthirsty
little animals; their eyesight is poor, but their sense of smell is
keen and they will tirelessly follow their intended victim until it
falls into their clutches. I have frequently heard that they attack
and kill small deer by clinging to the neck and doggedly chewing their
way through the skin until the jugular vein is severed; this does not
seem probable to me, however, and it is far more reasonable to believe
that rats, mice, frogs, and other small creatures form the bulk of
their prey. On account of their slender proportions, they can trail the
quarry through small holes and crevices; in addition, they are also
expert climbers. On one occasion, while “squeaking” to attract a bird,
a weasel came instead, looking for the supposed helpless creature, and
ran over my feet without suspecting the fraud.
They will fight savagely to protect their nest, usually made in a hole
in the ground or hollow stump, and I know of one instance where one of
the animals sprang into the face of a native who had trapped its mate
at the mouth of a burrow.
Nearly a month had passed since we left Popayán, but the time had been
spent so pleasantly and profitably that it seemed scarcely longer than
a week. Our scheduled time for the region had been exhausted, however,
so we reluctantly retraced our steps to Popayán.