Whenever we started afresh in the morning, or after any temporary halt,
the man at the prow of the canoe would call out, ‘_Vaya con Dios_,’ and
the man on the stern, who steered with a paddle far larger than the
others, would reply, ‘_y con la Virgen_’ (‘God go with us,’ ‘and the
Virgin,’ respectively). The fair Queen of Heaven, being thus
commemorated, piety was wedded to chivalry.
The days followed each other in seemingly endless succession, like the
windings of the river. Familiarity with the ever-varying aspects of
Nature begot a sense of monotony and weariness. The forests and the
prairies, dawn and sunset, the whole marvellous landscape, passed
unheeded. We longed to reach the main artery; the Orinoco was our Mecca,
apparently unattainable. Fishing and hunting had lost zest, and become
simple drudgery, indispensable to renew our provender, as in the long
journey nearly all our stores were exhausted.
Raoul and Leal frequently shot at the alligators, which, singly, in
couples, or in shoals, basked in the sun in a sort of gluttonous
lethargy, with hanging tongues and half-closed eyes. The huge saurians,
when hit, would turn over and make for the water, except on rare
occasions when the bullet entered below the shoulder-blade, this being a
mortal wound.
We would sit listening to the even stroke of the paddles on the sides of
the canoe and the drowsy sing-song of the men.
Frequently, towards sundown, we heard the deep note of tigers in the
forest, and always the confused uproar of a thousand animals, frogs,
crickets, birds, ushering in the night.
Besides alligators and wild-boar, the only other large animals which we
frequently saw were the harmless tapirs.
Snakes are not abundant on the Vichada, yet it was on the shores of that
river that we came to quite close quarters with a water-snake of the boa
constrictor species. The reptile was found coiled not far from our
halting-place. Raoul at once fired his fowling-piece at short range,
blinding and wounding it. He then discharged the five bullets of his
revolver into the snake, and the men completed the work, beating it with
their paddles. When stretched out, it measured some 16 feet in length,
and was of corresponding thickness.
These snakes, though not poisonous, are dangerous if hungry. They lurk
at the drinking-places, and when a young calf, deer, or any other small
animal comes within reach, they coil themselves round it and strangle
it. They devour their prey slowly, and then fall into a sleep, which is
said to last for several days.
In all probability, the snake we had killed must have been at the end of
one of these periods. Much to our astonishment, notwithstanding bullets
and blows, the snake began to move in the direction of our hammocks. Had
this not been seen in time, it might possibly have coiled itself around
some unwary sleeper. More blows were administered, and this time the
animal seemed quite dead. However, it managed to roll into the river,
and on striking the water appeared to revive.
This was our only meeting face to face with a denizen of these forests
and rivers, and I can truly say we longed for no closer acquaintance
with them.
For obvious reasons of prudence, we soon made up our minds never to
pitch our night camp on beaches easy of access to the Indians settled
along the shores, but during the day we would frequently halt at their
settlements, and this enabled us to see a good deal of their mode of
life and peculiarities.
We found the tribes docile and friendly, rather inclined to be
industrious in their way than otherwise.
The Indians of the Vichada basin are the bakers, if I may so call them,
of that great region. The bread which they prepare is made from the
_mañoc_, or _yuca_, root, which grows in plenty along the banks of
rivers and streams. There are two kinds of _mañoc_, one sweet and
harmless, the other bitter and poisonous, yet it is from this latter
kind that the _casabe_ is prepared. The root, varying in length from 2
to 3 feet, with a thickness of from 1 to 3 inches, is grated on
specially-prepared boards of very hard wood. Thus a whitish pulp is
obtained, which is then compressed in a most primitive manner. A hollow
cylinder, made of matting of coarse and pliant straw, varying in length
from 4 to 6, and sometimes 8, feet, and in diameter from 5 inches
upwards, is filled with the pulp, sausage-wise. The cylinder is then
hung from the branch of a tree, or a beam conveniently upraised on a
frame; it is then stretched and twisted from below. The juice of the
pulp flows through the mesh of the matting. When all the juice has been
extracted, the pulp is emptied into large wooden basins, and is soaked
in water, which is run off, the operation being repeated several times.
The poisonous element, soluble in water, is thus eliminated, and the
pulp is ready. It is then spread on a slab of stone, thin and perfectly
even, called _budare_, which stands over a fire. The _casabe_ is soon
baked, generally in round cakes from 12 to 18 inches in diameter, and
from half an inch to an inch in thickness. After baking it is stored in
special baskets, called _mapires_, where it can be kept for months, as
it stands all weathers and is impervious to moisture. It has the taste
and the consistency of sawdust, and hunger must be very keen for any
novice to relish the food. Yet it is most nutritious, and after a while
replaces biscuit and bread, especially when these are not to be found!
Not only the Indians, but even the white men, or those who call
themselves civilized in that vast region, use _casabe_ exclusively.
Wheat flour is soon spoiled in that hot, damp atmosphere, where there
are no facilities for protecting it against moisture and vermin, and
though corn might be abundantly produced, there are no mills to grind
the meal. Population is so scarce, and the few inhabitants are so far
apart, that it would not pay to set up the necessary machinery. Nature
seems to overwhelm man, who drifts back easily into primitive conditions
of being.
The Indians also prepare _mañoc_ flour. The method is the same as in the
case of _casabe_, only that before baking the pulp is allowed to ferment
to a certain degree; after that it is baked and reduced to powder. This
powder, mixed with water, makes an acid, refreshing drink. If sugar or
molasses be available, they are added.
As I have said before, the Vichada Indians are expert weavers of
hammocks, and carvers or makers of canoes. They fell a large tree, and,
after months of labour, produce very fine canoes. The canoes, the
hammocks, and the _casabe_ and _mañoc_ are sold to traders who realize
large profits. A pair of trousers and a hat to the captain of a tribe
are deemed a good price for a small canoe. Such articles as a cutlass,
or an axe, are most highly prized by the Indians, and are paid for
accordingly. It is pitiful to learn how these poor savages are cheated,
when not robbed outright, by the pseudo-Christians who come in contact
with them.
They also manufacture torches from resinous substances extracted from
the forests. Some of these substances are excellent for caulking
purposes, and, as they are found in great abundance, should constitute
an important article of trade. A torch made from _peraman_ about 3 to 4
feet in length, lighted as night set in, would burn with a brilliant
yellow flame, and throw a strong glare over the camp in the small hours
when the bonfires had been reduced to embers.
We had been on the Vichada about twenty-five days, when one of us
developed symptoms of fever, and as these increased within the next
twenty-four hours, we looked about for some convenient spot where we
might rest for a few days, lest the attack might become really serious.
It was our intention to build up some sort of hut—a comparatively easy
matter, as some of our men were old hands at that kind of work.
Fortunately for us, however, we met coming from the mouth of the Vichada
a Venezuelan _mañoc_ trader, who was sailing to one of the Vichada
affluents, where he expected to receive a load of _mañoc_ and _casabe_.
The man’s name was Valiente. He had three canoes and ten men with him.
We were delighted to meet him, as it had been impossible for us to
gather correct information from the Indians.
He told us that we were still two or three days’ journey from the
Orinoco, advised us not to put up at any of the beaches, but to push on
to within a few hours of the mouth of the Vichada, where, on the left
bank, we would find an abandoned _caney_ that had been built by
cattle-ranchers some years previously. He had just been there. It was
possible, he added, that we might find some Indians in possession, in
which case we should enforce the right of the white man and drive them
out. At any rate, the _caney_ was on high ground, the forests around
were clear, and we should find it far more comfortable than anywhere
else in that neighbourhood.
Following his advice, we hurried on as fast as we could, promising to
wait for him at Santa Catalina, that being the name of the place.
Valiente thought that he would start back in six or eight days.
In due course we reached Santa Catalina. On the high bluff, about 300
yards from the shore, we saw the welcome outlines of a _caney_; it
showed unmistakable signs of having been built by white men. We could
see from the river that it was inhabited. This was not so pleasant, but
we had made up our minds that we would take possession of the _caney_
with or without the consent of its occupants. If soft words proved
insufficient, we were bound to appeal to the last argument of Kings and
of men at bay—force.
I really did not feel inclined to violence; peaceful means and
diplomatic parleying seemed to me preferable, but as we had no choice,
following the practice sanctioned by experience, of preparing for war if
you want to insure peace, we decided to make a great display of force,
even as the Great Powers, with their military and naval manœuvres—a show
of teeth and claws to overawe the occupants of the _caney_.
We moored on the bank near by. Notwithstanding my appearance, which, as
I have chronicled in these pages, had warranted the belief in others
that I belonged to the holiest of human professions, I was told off to
ascertain whether we should occupy the premises peacefully or by force.
I donned a red shirt, suspended from a broad leather belt a most
murderous-looking cutlass and a six-shooter, cocked my hat sideways in a
desperado fashion, and, full of ardour, advanced, flanked on either side
by Leal and one of our men, each of whom carried a rifle and the
inevitable _machete_. Verily, we looked like a wandering arsenal!
Remembering that the actor’s success is said to be greater the more he
lives up to his part, I endeavoured to look as fierce as possible, and
tried to call to mind scenes of dauntless courage, assaults of
fortresses, heroic deeds from my historical repertory. I must have
succeeded, for I felt uncommonly brave, particularly as there seemed to
be no danger warranting our preparations.
Unfortunately, I happen to be afflicted with myopia, which at a certain
distance blurs the outline of objects large or small.
As we continued to advance I could distinguish that someone was coming
towards us. My courage evaporated; I felt sure that this must be some
hostile Indian intent on hindering our access to the longed-for _caney_.
I would fain have turned tail, but vanity, which is the source of
nine-tenths of the displays of human courage, pricked me on. My ears
awaited the wild whoop of the advancing Indian, and my eyes were
prepared to witness the onslaught of his ferocious braves from the
neighbouring bushes. Yet the die was cast, and forward we went.
Imagine my surprise when, from the approaching figure, still indistinct
and vague to my short-sighted eyes, a greeting of the utmost courtesy in
the purest Castilian rang forth in the air of the clear afternoon. I
shall never forget it. Those words in my native tongue, uttered in the
midst of that wilderness, 500 leagues from the nearest town or civilized
settlement, conjured up in one moment cherished memories of a distant
world.
Greatly relieved, I put aside my weapons of assault and destruction,
which, to speak the truth, were most inconvenient to walk in.
I knew before, and am more convinced than ever since that day, that I am
not compounded of the clay of heroes: in which I am like the rest of the
world. Peace and peaceful avocations are much more in my line. I love
heroes—military ones especially—in books, in pictures, or in statues; as
every-day companions, I believe—not having met any heroes in the
flesh—that they must be unbearable. They really owe it to themselves to
get killed or to die the moment they have attained their honours. They
are sure to be ruined if left to the vulgarizing influences of daily
life, mixing with the rest of humanity in every-day toil and strife. You
cannot have your bust or portrait in Parliament or Assembly, your niche
in the cathedral or in public hall, and your equestrian statue with your
horse eternally lifting his fore-legs for the edification of coming
generations, and at the same time insist on walking about the streets in
the guise of a commonplace mortal! If you live in bronze and marble, if
your name fills half a column of the encyclopædia, and appears as a
noble example in the books in which children are taught to consider
brutal violence the highest evolution of human intellect and action, you
cannot ask your humble companions on earth to put up with you in their
midst. Heroes should find their places, and stick to them, for their own
greater glory and the comfort of their fellow-men.
The gentleman whom we met was named Aponte, and came from Caracas, the
capital of Venezuela. He had been appointed to the governorship of the
Amazon Territory. After spending several years in its capital, San
Carlos, he became afflicted with cataract. People told him that the
Vichada Indians cured cataract with the juice of certain herbs, which
they kept secret. He had arrived at Santa Catalina about ten days before
us, accompanied by his sister and a young Corsican who had been in his
employ at San Carlos. An Indian woman from one of the tribes had taken
him in charge, and made daily applications of some milky juice extracted
from plants, and, strange to say, he found relief. I have since heard
that he is completely cured.
An occulist, who travelled through those regions two or three years
later, investigated the truth of these alleged cures, and found them to
be authentic. He could not, however, induce the Indians to tell him what
they use. This knowledge of the virtue of plants amongst the Indians is
found in nearly all tropical lands. Quinine, to which humanity owes so
much, was also an Indian secret, and was discovered by a well-known
combination of circumstances. Towards the middle of the eighteenth
century, in one of the Peruvian States, the Indians were treated very
cruelly by their masters. The daughter of the house won the love of the
Indian slaves by her kindness and charity. It had been noticed that no
Indians died from malarial and other fevers, which proved fatal to the
white men, but what means they employed could not be learned either by
threats or entreaties.
The daughter of the cruel master was taken ill. Her nurse, an Indian
woman, gave her some concoction which saved her life, but would not
reveal the secret for years. On her deathbed she told her young mistress
what plant it was that the Indians employed against fever. Thus the
_cinchona_, or Peruvian bark, was discovered. In the Choco regions in
Colombia, which teem with snakes, the Indians know not only the plants
that cure the bite and counteract the poison, but those which confer
immunity. They also have a combination of substances forming a sort of
paste, which, when applied to the wounds and ulcers of man or animal,
however sore they may be, exercise a healing and immediate action.
I had an uncle, Dr. Triana, well known to European botanists, and
especially to collectors of orchids, to several varieties of which his
name is linked (the numerous varieties of _Catleya trianensis_ are named
after him). He lived for a long time in the Choco region, and brought
back large quantities of this paste, which he used with success in cases
of wounds and ulcers, both in Europe and America, but he could never
persuade the Indians to tell him its exact composition.
The young Corsican whom we found with Mr. Aponte was a sort of
globe-trotter, jack-of-all-trades, hail-fellow-well-met with everybody.
He was an explorer, a dentist, could serve as barber if required, had
acted as clerk to Mr. Aponte, had with him a fairly well-stocked
medicine-chest, and proved to be a first-rate cook. He either knew
something of medicine or made up for ignorance by his daring. At any
rate, he took our sick companion in hand, administered to him some of
his drugs, and in two or three days restored him to perfect health. This
was a great blessing. Thus disappeared from our horizon the only ominous
cloud which darkened it during those days of so much sunlight and
freedom. Those who know not what tropical fevers are can form no idea of
the dread that their presence inspires when one sees them stealthily
gaining ground. At times they act slowly, and give one a chance of
struggling against them, but often they develop with lightning rapidity,
and a man in full health and in the bloom of life is cut down suddenly
in a few days or in a few hours.
Figarella was the name of the Corsican ‘doctor’ who enlivened the few
days we spent at Santa Catalina with his songs, his tales of Corsica,
the narrative of his adventures, true and fanciful, in all parts of the
world, and who managed to prepare sumptuous dinners with turtle eggs,
wild-boar meat, fresh fish, and other ingredients, picked up the Lord
only knows where. I often had qualms that he must be drawing too freely
on his medicine-chest, but the dishes proved palatable, and as we
survived from day to day we have nothing but thanks and gratitude to the
friend whom we met in the midst of those wilds, with whom our lives came
in contact for a few days, who then remained behind to work out his own
destiny, as we ours, even as two ships that sight each other for a
moment in mid-ocean and then both disappear.