Not far from the Atures rapids, we stopped at Puerto Real, a short curve
in the river where the waters penetrate into a sort of bay justifying
the name of ‘port,’ but with no other title to it, for no human
habitation, not even the humblest hut, exists on either shore. Here the
canoes were laden permanently, as the river flowed straight to the
ocean, free from all rapids except at a few narrow places where the
current is swifter. These, however, did not call for the precautions of
the past days.
Leal considered his task at an end. We were on the open Orinoco in the
Republic of Venezuela, and in the hands of a guide as careful and expert
as Gatiño. This led Leal to return. In vain did we seek to persuade him
to accompany us, to enter Colombia by the Magdalena River, thence to
Bogotá, and then by the road we had followed to San Pedro del Tua. He
would not abandon his companions, and decided to go back by the
identical route we had followed. We deeply felt parting from that noble
companion whose quiet, unobtrusive courage, whose skilled prudence and
ready intelligence, had not only contributed greatly to our comfort
during the ninety odd days that he had been with us, but had doubtless
saved our lives on more than one occasion.
As a proof of the extent and value of his services, I will quote a
letter received many months after in Europe, when, in the midst of
modern civilization, the events and occurrences of my journey through
the tropical regions of South America seemed more like a dream than a
reality. Alex, who had returned to Bogotá, wrote as follows:
‘I have just received a letter from Leal, dated from his home at San
Pedro del Tua. You will remember that he left us with fourteen of our
men, to return by the Vichada and the Meta. On the very day of their
departure, whilst they were ascending the rapids, and we proceeded on
our journey down-stream, only a few hours after bidding us farewell, one
of the two canoes, carrying seven men, struck the trunk of a tree lying
under the water, and capsized. The men were all good swimmers, and soon
overtook the canoe, which was drifting with the stream. After a good
deal of trouble, they succeeded in turning it over. Whilst they were
getting back into it, they were attacked by two enormous alligators
which sought to overturn the canoe, striking it furiously with their
tails. One of the sailors was struck on the head and stunned, losing his
grip, and before he could be pulled in the other alligator cut his body
in two, as if with a saw, crushing him between its jaws, so that the man
was actually devoured in the very presence of his companions.’
On reading these tragic details, I felt a cold shiver run through me,
like a man who sees lightning strike an object close to him, or feels a
murderous bullet whizz past his head. A retrospective fear seized upon
me at the thought of the many nights spent on the lonely beaches, and
the numberless times that our canoes had struck submerged rocks or
trunks of trees. Surely a kind Providence had watched over us during
that long journey. ‘The child’s heart within the man’s’ revived in me,
with the faith in God learnt from the lips of my mother, and my soul
went to her who, during those long, anxious days, had prayed night and
day to Him above for the safety of her absent son.
Greatly diminished in numbers, we continued downwards, hoping to strike
some camp of tonga-bean-gatherers, the harvest season having just begun.
If the Meta had seemed large and mighty to us, the Orinoco bore the
aspect of an inland sea. The breezes and the hurricanes blow upon its
billows and dash them into surf on the bank; the trade-winds—our old
friends of the Meta—reappeared on the Orinoco, only far stronger than
before. One would say that they spend their force in the long journey,
and are somewhat weary in the upper regions. It is impossible to make
any progress in the teeth of the trade-wind. With a stern or a side wind
the canoes hoist their sails and travel with the speed of birds on the
wing. The great force of the wind is generally felt during the middle
hours of the day; it lulls in the morning and afternoon.
Far more frequently than on the Meta we were forced to wait for hours on
the sandy desert beaches, or close in to the shore covered with jungle,
waiting, waiting for the wind to sink. The worst feature of these
breezes is that they raise a great quantity of sand to a height varying
from 2 to 3 feet.
Cooking becomes impossible, as the wind blows the fire out, scattering
the embers and the logs, and unless rocks or trees be available on which
to sit at a certain height, one is compelled to stand, as it is
impossible to breathe the air, which is impregnated with sand. At such
times we were compelled to make our meals of _casabe_ dipped in water,
and drink more freely of the white rum which took the place of warmer
food and drink. Once we were kept thus imprisoned for nearly thirty
hours; our helplessness against the elements exercised a most depressing
influence.
The tonga bean, called in Spanish _zarrapia_, constitutes a most
important article of trade, and is obtained in large quantities on the
shore of the Orinoco and of many of its affluents below the rapids. It
is said to abound also in the Upper Orinoco, but there it is seldom
gathered.
The tonga-tree is large and leafy, very similar to the mango-tree. The
branches, which spread over an area of 20, 30, or 40 feet, are covered
with thick foliage, and the yield of fruit is enormous. The fruit
resembles the mango in shape and appearance. Under a sweet pulp, quite
palatable, is found an oval nut, identical with that of the mango, and
inside this nut, which has the consistency of a walnut, is encased a
small elongated bean of a pink colour. It soon turns dark red when
exposed to air and sun. The trees shed the fruit in the months of
February and March; the men gather it from the ground, clean off the
pulp, and break the nut with stones. This must be carefully done to
avoid breaking the bean, which is then placed in the sun on dry,
untanned hides, and after two or three days packed in bags ready for
transportation.
The tonga bean is chiefly used in perfumery, and is a very good
substitute for vanilla.
We were told that the exports averaged, at the prices then ranging, a
yearly output of £100,000 to £150,000. I understand that the price has
fallen considerably of late years, but as the gathering costs very
little, and the transportation, owing to the numerous waterways, is
cheap, there must still be great profits in the business.
Traders flock from the different parts of the river to certain
well-known camps, from which they branch off into the forests, bringing
back the bean for sale to the camps. Although the Venezuelan Government
has more than once granted special privileges and monopolies to
individuals and companies for the exploitation of the tonga bean, its
gathering is practically free, as it would be next to impossible to
watch over such vast uninhabited areas where men can easily conceal
themselves in the forests.
Our progress was far slower than before, as we generally lost half a day
waiting for the breeze to fall. This was owing principally to the size
of our canoes, too small for navigation in a high wind.
In due time we came upon the first camp, a most welcome sight to our
eyes; a whole village of tents stood pitched on the bank of the river,
and upwards of twenty or thirty canoes were moored along the shore.
Amongst them we saw a small one-masted schooner, which raised its
graceful lines above the surrounding small craft. We gazed upon it with
covetous eyes, and decided to make every possible effort to acquire it,
if it could be had for love or money.
We did not attract any attention at first; the people in the camp
thought that we were tonga-bean-gatherers like themselves, coming from
some point above; but they showed great interest and courtesy on hearing
that we came not only from beyond the rapids, but from the upper
affluents of the Orinoco. We soon closed a bargain for the schooner,
into which we transferred our belongings, and the next day the three
small sails were let loose to the very breeze that, during the past few
days, had nailed us to the shores.
Besides the schooner, we obtained a supply of provisions, though not as
much as we wished. The traders had only what they needed, and were loath
to part with them, especially as we were going towards the centres of
supply.
In the course of a day or two we stopped at a large flat island, some
twelve miles in length, as we were told, and varying from two to four
miles in breadth; this is known as the Beach of Lard (_Playa de la
Manteca_). This island is the laying-place of hundreds of thousands of
turtles, which come to it every year in the laying season. The island
belongs to the Government, who place a small detachment of soldiers to
watch over it. The traders buy the right of working a given section of
the ground. They dig out the eggs, from which the oil is extracted. It
is used for cooking, and is a substitute for lard and butter—hence the
name of the beach.
The turtles swarm in myriads, and are forced by those coming up behind
them to go further into the island. After laying their eggs they seek
the water, but are so numerous that it is necessary for the soldiers and
traders to keep a pathway open, otherwise many of them could not get
back to the river.
It is a marvel to see countless acres of ground covered with turtles as
thick as the stones of a pavement; and the fact might be incredible if
it were not vouched for by so many travellers.
A turtle lays, according to its size and age, from fifty to three or
four hundred eggs. The men—traders or Government agents—are free to take
as many turtles as they like; the eggs are the only article of barter
upon which a price is set.
Some idea of the number of turtles laying eggs on the beach may be
gathered from the reckoning of a French traveller who investigated the
subject.
The oil extracted from the eggs is gathered in demijohns holding on an
average seven gallons each, and the average yield of a good year is
about ten thousand demijohns. Each demijohn requires from four to five
thousand eggs; ten thousand demijohns represent from four to five
millions, which means that there must be from four to five hundred
thousand turtles. The tale seems extravagant.
It is needless to say that we took in as large a supply of turtles and
of eggs as we could carry. The sailors of the schooner were delighted at
the prospect of turtle meat and turtle eggs _ad libitum_. The eggs are
boiled in salt water, and keep for a practically indefinite period.
The capacity for eating these eggs shown by the natives of those regions
seems to be unlimited. I could not understand, looking at the size of
the men and at the young mountain of turtle eggs before which they sat,
and which disappeared after a period of sustained assimilation, how it
was possible that they did not swell outwardly or explode. Here was a
case in which the envelope was, to all purposes and appearances, smaller
than the contents assimilated—a problem for some sapient naturalist to
investigate whenever he may chance to stray into those remote regions.
It is said that the turtle yields seven kinds of meat, and that in the
hands of a good cook it is transfigured into calf’s head, veal, tender
loin steak, chicken, venison, pork, and (naturally) turtle meat. Be that
as it may, notwithstanding the uncouth and, to some, repulsive
appearance of the animal, it is evident that the various parts of its
body are not only palatable, but may be disguised to imitate the
varieties mentioned, a peculiarity which in its turn works inversely, as
in the well-known case of mock-turtle soup.
The turtles we bought were placed on their backs, which seems to be the
universal method of keeping them all the world over. There in the bottom
of our schooner the poor beasts had ample opportunity to watch the
flight of clouds by day and the grouping of the constellations by night.
I fear, however, that they did not improve their time with the study
either of atmospherical changes or of astronomical wonders.
Fermin rapidly learnt how to cook and prepare turtles in the various
native ways, to which he added devices of his own, reminiscent of the
preparation of other meats and dishes in his native province.
The change of diet was most welcome at first, but after the fourth or
fifth day the very name of turtle was revolting. Fermin was told that,
if nothing else but turtle was to be found, we preferred to fall back on
boiled rice and _casabe_. Relying, however, on his ability and the
protean plasticity of turtle meat, he insisted on serving some of it as
wild-boar flesh, and only upon a formal threat of shooting, or being
left tied to the trunk of a tree along the shore, like a new Andromache,
did he cease his attempts to deceive our palates. Thus, notwithstanding
the plentiful supply of turtles and turtle eggs, we drifted back to the
diet of _casabe_, boiled fish and boiled rice.
We had hoped to strike some cattle-farm, but we scanned the horizon in
vain. The plains and the forests rolled before our eyes, an interminable
blank for our purposes.
Finally, as everything happens at last, our expectation was gratified;
near the confluence of our old friend the Meta with the Orinoco, we came
upon a cattle-ranch where we obtained corn, molasses, eggs, lard,
cheese, coffee, and the whole side of a recently slaughtered heifer.
I can readily understand that persons of a delicate taste, should they
happen to read these awkwardly penned lines, must feel disgusted at the
recurrence of such vulgar and material details. Their amazement will
certainly be great, for in all probability they will be surrounded by
all the comforts and the luxury of civilized life. There is no harsher
censor of the misdeeds or faults arising out of somebody else’s hunger
than the drowsy philosopher who passes judgment in a comfortable
armchair after a plentiful meal; his untempted rectitude makes him the
austerest critic of failings and weaknesses in others. However, the
opinion of those immaculate beings, with their hot-house virtue, safe
from wind and wet behind glass panes, receives precisely the attention
it deserves.
Still, I admit that, after having crossed those regions, it were better
if I could describe what I saw in a series of pen-pictures which would
unroll before the reader in sequence or harmonious groups the numerous
sublime aspects of Nature; it were far better that, even as the essence
retains the perfume of the flower, the written word should convey to
other minds the deep impression left upon my own by the mysterious
murmuring forest, the invisible wind whose breath so often cooled my
forehead, the constant throb of the wandering waves pent within their
narrow channels, the infinite azure of the sky, and the numberless
sounds and rumours, now soft, now deafening, which fill the air in that
world still free from the burden of civilization, living the life of
untrodden Nature, a link in the endless chain of existence ravening on
death, with the great drama of being made manifest in a thousand diverse
shapes.
Happy were I could I seize one single note from that vast symphony,
capture it, and fix it with my words! Vain wishes!
We passed from those solitudes, leaving no more trace behind us than the
clouds in the sky, and although the impression of the greatness and the
majesty of Nature sank deeply into my heart, so that at times my soul,
returning to the days of the past, loses itself in the depths of the
forests and the summits of the mountains, follows the course of the
rivers, or bathes itself in the pure atmosphere of the free and
boundless plain, whenever I seek to utter my inmost feelings, so that
others may feel and understand with me, only the faintest shadow of my
thought falls on the blank page. The gift of seeing and of feeling, and
of creating what we have felt and seen so that others in their turn may
feel a similar impression, has been given by the Almighty only to those
few chosen artists and men of genius who throw upon the work which they
create ‘the light that never was on land or sea.’ I must perforce limit
myself to the humble narrative of our daily life. I have no higher
ambition in writing these pages, and I shall be fortunate if I meet with
readers who understand my motive.
The schooner took us down to La Urbana (a settlement with urban
pretensions); it boasts some _adobe_ houses covered with tiles, and a
small church. Here we abandoned the schooner, and were obliged to take
to a far smaller canoe—large enough, however, for navigation on the
Orinoco—in which we proceeded to Caicara, where we expected to meet the
steamers plying between Ciudad Bolivar and the Apure River.