After a week in Ciudad Bolivar, we bethought ourselves of continuing the
journey to the sea. Civilization had reclaimed us for her own, and
rigged in European attire, such as befits the tropics, with all the
social conventionalities once again paramount in our mind, we set forth
on that, the last stage of the journey. We had been, not a nine days’
but a nine hours’ wonder in the historical town which rears its houses
and churches alongside the narrows of the majestic stream. Early in the
afternoon of a dazzling tropical day, cloudless, blue and hazy from the
very brilliancy of the air, we stepped into the large steamboat that was
to carry us to the neighbouring British island of Trinidad, once also a
Spanish possession. The usual events accompanying the departure of all
steamers from the shore repeated themselves: clanging of chains,
shouting of orders, groans of the huge structure, shrill whistles, and
that trepidation, the dawn as it were of motion, something like a
hesitation of things inert apparently unwilling to be set in motion,
which is the life of matter inanimate; then the steady throbbing of the
machinery, the stroke of the paddles, splash, splash, until regularity
and monotony are attained, and the ship, wheeled into midstream after
describing a broad arc, set the prow eastward with the current to the
ocean.
We looked at the town as it dwindled indistinct, seeming to sink into
the vast azure of the horizon, swallowed in the scintillating folds of
the blue distance. We sat on the deck as if in a trance. Shortly after
starting, wild Nature reasserted her sway, and the small oasis built by
the hand of man in the heart of the untamed region, seemed to us who
knew how unmeasurable were those forests and those plains, like a tiny
nest perched on the branches of a lofty and over-spreading _ceiba_. A
feeling of superiority over our fellow-passengers unconsciously filled
our breasts. For were we not boon companions, fellow-travellers, tried
and trusted comrades of those rushing waters? Had we not shared their
pilgrimage for days and days, in calm and in storm, in sunshine and in
darkness? Had we not slept on their bosom or travelled upon it for
countless hours, till the secret of their mystery and the joy of their
wandering had penetrated into our very soul? What knew they, the other
travellers of a few hours, of the intimate life of those waters which we
had watched, gathering their strength from all the points of the
compass, swelling the current of the central stream, mingling their life
with it, now as rivulets, now as rivers, now placid in the embrace, now
plunging, foaming, as if loath to loose their identity? Yea, verily, we
were comrades, fellow-pilgrims, with the splendid travelling sea, there
on its final march to the boundless deep.
Forest and plain, marsh, morass, jungle, succeeded one another in
interminable procession, and the setting sun now broke its ray on the
low-lying hills, now reverberated on the far-off marshes on either side
of the current, tinging them with a crimson glow. Towards sunset the
whistle of the steamer frightened a flock of flamingoes gathered to
roost, as is their wont when the shadows of evening approach. The whole
flock sought refuge in flight, and their widespread wings, as they rose
before us, seemed like a huge transparent pink curtain lifted before our
very eyes, rising higher and higher until it vanished in space.
Night fell upon the scene. First the stars and then the moon kindled
their beacon fires, dispelling darkness into a semi-obscurity fraught
with mystery, embalmed with the effluvia from the forest and the river.
We felt like a shadow crossing the wilderness. The littleness of self,
the insignificance of the human being, became overwhelming.
What could it matter if that daring shell with its human freight were
dashed to pieces against a submerged tree and swallowed in the waves?
Nature, impassible, would take no notice of the event; in far-off homes
sorrow would fill the loving hearts. The river would be looked upon as a
grave, wondrous vast, where a dear one had found his rest, but the river
itself would suffer no change, and our world of hopes, ambitions,
infinite longings, would leave no more trace than the smallest bubble of
the floating foam.
And thus the morrow came. With the light of day the circle of the
horizon broadened; we were out at sea, no trace of land was visible. The
waves tossed the struggling craft tenderly, gliding under its keel, the
wind caressed the flying pennants on the mastheads and seemed to whisper
promises of freedom as it rustled through the rigging. The mighty river
had disappeared, paying its tribute, like a human being to the grave, to
Father Ocean. And the long journey which lay behind us was nothing more
than a dream in our memory, for things dreamt and things lived do so
intermingle their identity in our minds that the attempt to disentangle
their threads were useless. And so we drifted into the broad,
unmeasurable expanse of waters which seemed to palpitate and tremble as
with the touch of life under the glorious rays of the morning sun.
THE END
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD
Transcriber’s Notes
--Retained publication information from the printed edition: this eBook
is public-domain in the country of publication.
--In the text versions only, italicized text is delimited by
_underscores_.
--Corrected a few palpable typographical errors.
End of Project Gutenberg's Down the Orinoco in a Canoe, by S. Pérez Triana