Night soon asserted her sway. The blue vault of heaven, alive with
innumerable stars, was clear and diaphanous; no cloud was to be seen.
The evening noises died away, and the dead silence was only broken now
and then by a vague rumour wafted mysteriously through space—the wash of
waters on the shore, or possibly the lisp of forests by the river. We
gave up all hope of the other canoe arriving that night, and faced the
inevitable—no supper, no beds. As in our own canoe we carried a demijohn
of _aguardiente_, one or two generous draughts were our only supper. We
were not hampered by excess of riches or of comforts; as to the
selection of our beds, the whole extent of the beach was equally sandy
and soft; but, having slept for many nights on the shores of the Tua,
and knowing that we were at its confluence with the Meta, for the sake
of a change—a distinction without a difference—we stretched ourselves
full length on the side of the beach looking to the Meta River.
The water-course, practically unknown to civilization, appeared to me as
I lay there like a wandering giant lost amidst the forests and the
plains of an unknown continent. The surface of the waters sparkled in
the starlight like hammered steel. My thoughts followed the luminous
ripples until they were lost to sight in the darkness of the opposite
shore, or, wandering onwards with the flow, melted into the horizon.
Whither went those waters? Whence came they? What were their evolutions,
changes, and transformations? Idle questions! Flow of life or flow of
wave, who but He that creates all things can know its source and its
finality? Idle cavillings indeed!
Suddenly, as drowsiness had begun to seize me, a wonderful phenomenon
took place. There from the midst of the waters arose an indistinct yet
mighty figure; high it stood amidst the waters which parted, forming a
sort of royal mantle upon its shoulders; it gazed upon me with the
sublime placidity of the still seas, the high mountains, the unending
plains, the primeval forests, and all the manifestations of Nature,
great and serene in their power and majesty. And the figure spoke:
‘Listen to me, O pilgrim, lost in these vast solitudes; listen to the
voice of the wandering streams! We rivers bring life to forest and
valley; we are children of the mountains, heralds of continents,
benefactors of man. My current, powerful and mighty though it seems, is
but a tiny thread of the many streams that, mingled and interwoven, so
to say, go to form the main artery of whirling, heaving water called the
Orinoco. From north and south, from east and west, we all flow along the
bosom of the plains, after having gathered unto ourselves the playful
streamlets, the murmuring brooks that swell into torrents and dash down
the mountain-sides, filling the hills and the intervening valleys with
life and joy. They come from the highest slopes—nay, from the topmost
peaks crowned with everlasting snow, the sources of our life; down they
rush, and after innumerable turns and twists, after forming now
cataracts, now placid lakes, reach the plain, and in their course they
broaden the large streams which in turn merge with others in the huge
basin, and form the vast artery that drains the surface of a great part
of the continent, and bears its tribute to the Atlantic Ocean. Yea,
verily indeed, we rivers are as twin brothers of Time; the hours pass
and pass, ceaseless as our waves; they flow into Eternity, we into the
bosom of the great deep. This land, the land of your birth and of mine,
to-day an unknown quantity in the history of the world, is a destined
site of a mighty empire. The whole continent of South America is the
reserve store for the future generations of millions of men yet unborn.
Hither they will come from all parts of the world: on the surface of the
globe no more favourable spot exists for the home of mankind. Along the
coast of the Pacific Ocean runs the mighty backbone of the Cordillera
like a bulwark, high, immense, stately; above it, like the towers and
turrets in the walls of a fortified city, rise the hundred snow-capped
peaks that look east and west, now on the ocean, now on the
ever-spreading undulating plains, and south and north to the line of
mountains extending for thousands of miles.
‘In the very heart of the tropical zone, where the equatorial sun darts
his burning rays, are the plateaus of the Andes, hundreds of square
miles in extent, with all the climates and the multitudinous products of
the temperate zone. In the heart and bowels of the mountains are the
precious metals coveted by man’s avarice and vanity, those forming the
supreme goal of his endeavours; and the useful—indeed, the truly
precious—metals, coal, iron, copper, lead, and all others that are known
to man, exist in a profusion well-nigh illimitable. The trade-winds,
whose wings have swept across the whole width of the Atlantic Ocean,
laden with moisture, do not stop their flight when the sea of moving
waters ceases and the sea of waving grass begins. Across the plains,
over the tree-tops of the primeval forests, shaking the plumage of the
palm-trees, ascending the slopes of the hills, higher, still higher,
into the mountains, and finally up to the loftiest peaks, those winds
speed their course, and there the last drops of moisture are wrung from
them by that immeasurable barrier raised by the hand of God; their force
seems to be spent, and, like birds that have reached their native
forest, they fold their wings and are still. The moisture thus gathered
and thus deposited forms the thousand currents of water that descend
from the heights at the easternmost end of the continent, and convert
themselves into the largest and most imposing water systems in the
world. Thus is formed the Orinoco system, which irrigates the vast
plains of Colombia and Venezuela. Further south, created by a similar
concurrence of circumstances and conditions, the Amazon system drags the
volume of its wandering sea across long, interminable leagues of
Brazilian forest and plain. Its many streams start in their pilgrimage
from the interior of Colombia, of Ecuador, of Peru, and of Bolivia, and
these two systems of water-ways, which intersect such an immense extent
of land thousands of miles from the mouth of the main artery that
plunges into the sea, are connected by a natural canal, the Casiquiare
River, so that the traveller might enter either river, follow its course
deep into the heart of the continent, cross by water to the other, and
then reappear on the ocean, always in the same boat.
‘If the wealth of the mountains is boundless and virgin, if on the
slopes and on the plateaus and the neighbouring valleys all the
agricultural products useful to man may be grown—and the forests teem
with wealth that belongs to him who first takes it—if the rocks likewise
cover or bear immense deposits of all the metals and minerals useful to
man, the lowlands and the plains offer grazing-ground for untold herds
of cattle and horses, and further to the south beyond the Amazon,
running southward, not eastward like the Orinoco and the Amazon, the
Parana unrolls its waves, which, after leaving the tropic, enter the
southern temperate zone, irrigating for untold miles the endless pampas
of Argentina and Uruguay. In very truth, this continent is the Promised
Land.
‘In your pilgrimage along the waters of the Orinoco, you will see all
the wonders of tropical Nature. Now the forests will stand on either
bank close along the shores in serried file, and moving mirrors of the
waters will reflect the murmuring tops of the trees, noisy and full of
life as the winds sweep by in their flight, or else the frowning rock,
bare and rugged, will stand forth from the current like the wall of a
medieval castle. Now the trees will open a gap through which, as from
under a triumphal arch, the current of a river, a wanderer from the
mysterious and unknown depths of the neighbouring forests, pours forth
into the main stream and mingles with the passing waters, joining his
fate to theirs, even as the High Priest of some unknown creed might
issue from the temple and mingle with the passing crowd. Some rivers
that reach the main artery have had but a short pilgrimage, the junction
of their many waters having taken place at no great distance from the
main stream; others have had a long wandering, sometimes placid and
serene, sometimes amidst rocks and boulders, with an ever frenzied and
agitated course like the lives of men striving and struggling till the
last great trumpet sounds. The course of the river will be studded with
islands large enough for the foundation of empires, and before reaching
the sea the river will extend and spread its current into a thousand
streams, as if loth to part from the Mother Earth it sought to embrace
more firmly in its grasp, and our waters will flow into the unplumbed
deep, there to mingle with those of all the rivers, whether their course
has been through lands alive with civilization, swarming with multitudes
of men on their shores, laden with the memories of centuries and famous
in history, or whether they, like us, have wandered through vast
solitudes where Nature is still supreme in her primeval pride, as yet
unpolluted by the hand of man. There we all meet, and to us what men
call time and its divisions exist not, for all the transformations that
affect mankind are as naught to us who form part and parcel of Nature
itself, who only feel time after the lapse of æons which to the mind of
man are practically incomprehensible. Seek to learn the lesson of
humility, to acknowledge the power of the Creator, who gave to man what
we rivers and all other material things can never hope for—a future
beyond this earth, higher, brighter, infinite, eternal.’
The figure seemed to sink slowly under the mantle of waters that had
covered its shoulders; the sun was rising in the eastern horizon, the
rumour of awakening Nature filled the air with its thousand echoes, and
drifting rapidly towards us we saw Leal with the canoe that had remained
behind the night before.
On telling Alex, Raoul, and Fermin my experience, and asking in good
faith what they had thought of the visitation, they looked askance at
me. It seems that sleep had overpowered them; they had not seen the
river-god of the Meta, and irreverently set down the whole occurrence to
the quality of my supper the preceding night. It is ever thus with
unbelievers; they will seek some material or vulgar explanation for that
which they cannot understand and have not seen.
That very morning, after the necessary arrangements and the usual
morning coffee, we started down the Meta River. If we might have called
the navigation on the Tua somewhat amphibious, navigation on the Meta,
specially for such small craft as we possessed, seemed to us as on the
open sea. Our first care was to seek larger canoes. Leal guided us
through one of the neighbouring _caños_ to a cattle-ranch, where he
expected to suit our requirements. This _caño_ chanced to be famous for
its snakes, principally of the kind called _macaurel_, a dark brownish
species, varying from 2 to 4 and 5 feet in length, and from ¼ inch to 2
inches in diameter. When in repose they coil themselves around the
branches of the trees, and their bite, if not cured immediately, is
fatal. Leal shot one of the horrible reptiles in the body; the linking
of the rings that take the place of vertebræ being thus unloosened, the
coils became wider, the animal lost its grip and fell into the water,
staining it with a blue-greenish reflection of a metallic hue. It seems
that one shot of the smallest size is sufficient to kill these snakes,
provided it breaks one of the rings above mentioned. I shuddered as we
passed under the trees, knowing that many of these dreaded reptiles must
be above our heads. The _caño_ in some parts was so narrow and the
forest so dense that it was impossible to avoid the overhanging
branches, and when I thought that we should have to go over the same
route next day, disgust and a feeling of dread took possession of me. By
the time we reached our destination, after a journey of eight or ten
miles, over twenty of these creatures had been brought down. We obtained
two large canoes, which seemed to us like veritable ships or floating
palaces compared to the little craft we had used for so many days. We
turned to the river Meta, and did not feel safe until we had left the
_caño_ behind, and could breathe once more in the open air on the bosom
of the large river, with only heaven above our heads.
The Meta River, which flows entirely upon Colombian territory, describes
large winding curves in its course eastward towards the Orinoco. Its
banks are high and well defined, its channel fairly steadfast even in
the dry season. This is not common, most of these rivers often shifting
their course, to the despair of pilots and navigators. Both sides of the
Meta we knew were occupied, or, rather, frequently visited, by various
wild tribes. Now and then Leal would point out a part of the shore,
stating that it belonged to some ranch, but how he could know was a
mystery to us, as no visible difference existed.
The temperature, though quite hot in the middle of the day, was
agreeable, and even cool, in the early morning and a greater part of the
night. The trade-wind, which blows steadily every day during the dry
season, at times gathered such force that we were compelled, going
against it as we did, to wait long hours for it to subside. Our canoes
were not so arranged as to enable us to hoist sail and tack against the
wind.
On the river Meta we observed a large species of fish, which, had we
been at sea, we should have identified at once as porpoises. The men
told us that they were called _bufeos_, and in reality came from the
sea, having ascended the waters of the Orinoco for thousands of miles,
and branched off into the Meta River. One of the men, illiterate like
all his fellows, but versed in forest, mountain and plain lore, stated
that those _bufeos_ were the friends of man; that they loved music and
song; that they would follow a boat or canoe whence the echoes of
singing or of some musical instrument could be heard for miles and miles
at a time; that when they were present in the water the alligators and
all the other enemies of man kept away, or were driven away by the
_bufeos_; and that whenever by chance the fishermen caught one of these,
he would at once release it in remembrance of their friendship for
mankind. These were, therefore, our old-time friends the porpoises.
The simple tale of the man, one of our paddlers, who had never been in a
city in his life nor seen any of the wonders of our times, to whose mind
such words as civilization, Fatherland, and religion, as well as many
others that form the glib vocabulary of modern man, were mere empty
sounds or air, could not but set me a-thinking—first, as to the value of
those words. Fatherland, our country, his and mine, yet how different
the conception, and how those consecrated, holy words are abused by the
tricksters, great and small, who control and exploit mankind for their
own benefit! Patriotism should consist in justice and equality of rights
and tolerance to all, whereas, in fact, it is but a mask for the greed
and avarice of the strong. My countryman is he whose ideals are
identical with mine. What makes another being my fellow-man and my
brother is an identity of ideals, not a concurrence of geographical
conditions of birth. If he who is born ten thousand miles away in an
unknown climate and in a different latitude shares with me the love of
justice and of freedom, and will struggle for them even as I would, why
should we be separated by conventional distinctions which benefit
neither him nor me nor justice nor freedom as ideals?
I thought, are these lands and this vast continent still virgin in the
sense that humanity has not exploited them? are they to be the last
scene of the stale criminal imposture now called civilization? Are men
to come by thousands and by millions to these plains and these
mountains, and settle on the shores of these rivers, bringing with them
their old prejudices, their old tyrannical conventionalities, the
hatreds that have stained history with blood for hundreds and for
thousands of years, rearing on these new lands the old iniquities,
calling them fatherlands, baptizing their crimes with holy words, and
murdering in the name of patriotism? If such is to be the future of
these lands, far better were it that the mighty rivers should overflow
their course and convert into one immense lake, twin brother of the
neighbouring sea, the vast plains, the endless mysterious forest; and
that the immense bulwark of the Andes, aflame with a thousand volcanoes,
should make the region inhospitable and uninhabitable to man: for of
iniquity there is enough, and no more should be created under God’s
heaven.
But the tale set me also a-thinking of the power of tradition and the
beauty of song. If my memory plays me no trick, Arion, homeward-bound
from the Court of Corinth, and laden with gifts of a King who worshipped
song, was seized and thrown into the sea by the crew, but the listening
dolphins or porpoises, grateful for the heavenly message thus delivered
by him, bore him ashore and saved his life. So, more or less, runs the
classical tale; and here in the wilds of America, from the lips of an
unlettered woodman, the same beautiful conceit, clothed in simple words,
had rung in my ears. The power of song, the beauty of the legend, had
filtered itself through hundreds of generations from the days of our
mother Greece, the mother of art and of beauty, across the mountains and
the years and the seas and the continents, and the legend and the
allegory were alive in their pristine and essential characteristics in
the forests of tropical America. This gave me hope. If the power of
things ideal, of things that have in them the divine charm of undying
force, overcomes time and distance, why should not the ideal of
righteousness, of liberty, and of justice prevail? And the vast
continent of South America, why should it not be the predestined home of
a happy and regenerate humanity? The trade-winds which come from the old
world and across the ocean are purified on the heights of the
Cordilleras. Even so humanity in that pilgrimage that is bound to take
place ere long, as the ancient world begins to overflow, may regenerate
itself and establish liberty and justice in that new world. If these be
dreams, awakening were bitter.
We soon heard that it was easy to reach one of the affluents of the
Vichada by crossing the plains for about a mile overland, and, all
things considered, decided to abandon the Meta River, even though the
journey might be longer than we had at first intended. Thus, on the
fourth day of navigation down the Meta we stopped, and at a place known
as San Pedro del Arrastradero, where we found quite a large settlement,
about 150 people, we left the Meta behind us and at once made ready for
our journey through the Vichada, as large as the Meta, we were told, and
inhabited by numerous savage tribes. This gave additional interest to
the journey, and we looked forward to it with pleasure.