Young reader, I may take it for granted that you have heard of the great
river Orinoco,--one of the largest rivers not only of South America, but
in the world. By entering at its mouth, and ascending to its source,
you would have to make a journey of about one thousand five hundred
miles; but this journey, so far from being direct, or in a straight
line, would carry you in a kind of spiral curve,--very much like the
figure 6, the apex of the figure representing the mouth of the river.
In other words, the Orinoco, rising in the unexplored mountains of
Spanish Guiana, first runs eastward; and then, having turned gradually
to every point of the compass, resumes its easterly course, continuing
in this direction till it empties its mighty flood into the Atlantic
Ocean.
Not by one mouth, however. On the contrary, long before the Orinoco
approaches the sea, its channel separates into a great many branches (or
"canos," as they are called in the language of the country), each of
which, slowly meandering in its own course, reaches the coast by a
separate mouth, or "boca." Of these canos there are about fifty,
embracing within their ramifications a "delta" nearly half as large as
England! Though they have all been distinguished by separate names,
only three or four of them are navigable by ships of any considerable
size; and, except to the few pilots whose duty it is to conduct vessels
into that main channel of the river, the whole delta of the Orinoco may
be regarded as a country still unexplored, and almost unknown. Indeed,
the same remark might be made of the whole river, were it not for the
magnificent monument left by the great traveller Von Humboldt,--whose
narrative of the exploration of the Orinoco is, beyond all comparison,
the finest book of travels yet given to the world. To him are we
chiefly indebted for our knowledge of the Orinoco; since the Spanish
nation, who, for more than three centuries, have held undisputed
possession of this mighty stream, have left us scarce a line about it
worth either credit or record.
It is now more than half a century, since the date of Humboldt's
"Personal Narrative;" and yet, strange to say, during all that period,
scarce an item has been added to our knowledge of the Orinoco, beyond
what this scientific traveller had already told us. Indeed, there is
not much to say: for there has been little change in the river since
then,--either in the aspect of nature, or the condition of man. What
change there has been possesses rather a retrograde, than a progressive
character. Still, now, as then, on the banks of the Orinoco, we behold
a languid commerce,--characteristic of the decaying Spano-American
race,--and the declining efforts of a selfish and bigoted missionary
zeal, whose boasted aim of "christianising and civilising" has ended
only in producing a greater brutalisation. After three centuries of
_paternosters_ and bell-ringing, the red savage of the Orinoco returns
to the worship of his ancestral gods,--or to no worship at all,--and for
this backsliding he can, perhaps, give a sufficient reason.
Pardon me, young reader, for this digression. It is not my purpose to
discuss the polemical relations of those who inhabit the banks of the
Orinoco; but to give you some account of a very singular people who
dwell near its mouth,--upon the numerous canos, already mentioned as
constituting its delta. These are the "Guaraons,"--a tribe of
Indians,--usually considered as a branch of the Great Carib family, but
forming a community among themselves of seven or eight thousand souls;
and differing so much from most other savages in their habits and mode
of life, as fairly to entitle them to the appellation of an "Odd
People."
The Orinoco, like many other large rivers, is subject to a periodical
rise and fall; that is, once every year, the river swells to a great
height above its ordinary level. The swelling or "flood" was for a long
time supposed to proceed from the melting of snow upon the Cordilleras
of the Andes,--in which mountains several of the tributaries of the
Orinoco have their rise. This hypothesis, however, has been shown to be
an incorrect one: since the main stream of the Orinoco does not proceed
from the Andes, nor from any other snowcapped mountains; but has its
origin, as already stated, in the _sierras_ of Guiana. The true cause
of its periodical rising, therefore, is the vast amount of rain which
falls within the tropics; and this is itself occasioned by the sun's
course across the torrid zone, which is also the cause of its being
periodical or "annual." So exact is the time at which these rains fall,
and produce the floods of the Orinoco, that the inhabitants of the river
can tell, within a few days, when the rising will commence, and when the
waters will reach their lowest!
The flood season very nearly corresponds to our own summer,--the rise
commencing in April, and the river being at its maximum height in
August,--while the minimum is again reached in December. The height to
which the Orinoco rises has been variously estimated by travellers: some
alleging it to be nearly one hundred feet; while others estimate it to
be only fifty, or even less! The reason of this discrepancy may be,
that the measurements have been made at different points,--at each of
which, the actual height to which the flood attains, may be greater or
less than at the others. At any one place, however, the rise is the
same--or very nearly so--in successive years. This is proved by
observations made at the town of Angostura,--the lowest Spanish
settlement of any importance upon the Orinoco. There, nearly in front
of the town, a little rocky islet towers up in the middle of the river;
the top of which is just fifty feet above the bed of the stream, when
the volume of water is at its minimum. A solitary tree stands upon the
pinnacle of this rock; and each year, when the water is in full flood,
the tree alone is visible,--the islet being entirely submerged. From
this peculiar circumstance, the little islet has obtained the name of
"Orinocometer," or measurer of the Orinoco.
The rise here indicated is about fifty feet; but it does not follow from
this, that throughout its whole course the river should annually rise to
so great a height. In reality it does not.
At Angostura, as the name imports, the river is _narrowed_ to less than
half its usual width,--being there confined between high banks that
impinge upon its channel. Above and below, it widens again; and, no
doubt, in proportion to this widening will the annual rise be greater or
less. In fact, at many places, the width of the stream is no longer
that of its ordinary channel; but, on the contrary, a vast "freshet" or
inundation, covering the country for hundreds of miles,--here flooding
over immense marshes or grassy plains, and hiding them altogether,--
there flowing among forests of tall trees, the tops of which alone
project above the tumult of waters! These inundations are peculiarly
observable in the _delta_ of the Orinoco,--where every year, in the
months of July and August, the whole surface of the country becomes
changed into a grand fresh-water sea: the tops of the trees alone rising
above the flood, and proclaiming that there is _land_ at the bottom.
At this season the ordinary channels, or _canos_, would be obliterated;
and navigation through them become difficult or impossible, but for the
tree-tops; which, after the manner of "buoys" and signal-marks, serve to
guide the pilots through the intricate mazes of the "bocas del Orinoco."
Now it is this annual inundation, and the semi-submergence of these
trees under the flood, that has given origin to the peculiar people of
whom we are about to speak,--the Guaraons; or, perhaps, we should rather
say, from these causes have arisen their strange habits and modes of
life which entitle them to be considered an "odd people."
During the period of the inundation, if you should sail up the southern
or principal cano of the Orinoco,--known as the "boca de navios," or
"ships' mouth,"--and keep your face to the northward, you would behold
the singular spectacle of a forest growing out of the water! In some
places you would perceive single trees, with the upper portion of their
straight, branchless trunks rising vertically above the surface, and
crowned by about a dozen great fan-shaped leaves, radiating outwards
from their summits. At other places, you would see many crowded
together, their huge fronds meeting, and forming close clumps, or "water
groves," whose deep-green colour contrasts finely as it flings its
reflection on the glistening surface below.
Were it night,--and your course led you through one of the smaller canos
in the northern part of the delta,--you would behold a spectacle yet
more singular, and more difficult to be explained; a spectacle that
astounded and almost terrified the bold navigators, who first ventured
to explore these intricate coasts.--You would not only perceive a
forest, growing out of the water; but, high up among the tops of the
trees, you would behold blazing fires,--not the conflagration of the
trees themselves, as if the forest were in flames,--but fires regularly
built, glowing as from so many furnaces, and casting their red glare
upwards upon the broad green leaves, and downwards upon the silvery
surface of the water!
If you should chance to be near enough to these fires, you would see
cooking utensils suspended over them; human forms, both, of men and
women seated or squatting around them; other human forms, flitting like
shadows among the tops of the trees; and down below, upon the surface of
the water, a fleet of canoes (_periaguas_), fastened with their
mooring-ropes to the trunks. All this would surprise you,--as it did
the early navigators,--and, very naturally, you would inquire what it
could mean. Fires apparently suspended in the air! human beings moving
about among the tops of the trees, talking, laughing, and gesticulating!
in a word, acting just as any other savages would do,--for these human
beings _are_ savages,--amidst the tents of their encampment or the
houses of their village. In reality it is a village upon which you are
gazing,--a village suspended in the air,--a village of the Guaraon
Indians!
Let us approach nearer; let us steal into this water village--for it
would not be always safe to enter it, except by stealth--and see how its
singular habitations are constructed, as also in what way their
occupants manage to get their living. The village under our observation
is now,--at the period of inundation,--nearly a hundred miles from
shore, or from any dry land: it will be months before the waters can
subside; and, even then, the country around will partake more of the
nature of a quagmire, than of firm soil; impassable to any human
being,--though _not_ to a Guaraon, as we shall presently see. It is
true, the canoes, already mentioned, might enable their owners to reach
the firm shores beyond the delta; and so they do at times; but it would
be a voyage too long and too arduous to be made often,--as for the
supply of food and other daily wants,--and it is not for this purpose
the canoes are kept. No: these Guaraons visit terra firma only at
intervals; and then for purposes of trade with a portion of their own
and other tribes who dwell there; but they permanently reside within the
area of the inundated forests; where they are independent, not only of
foreign aggression, but also for their supply of all the necessaries of
life. In these forests, whether flooded or not, they procure everything
of which they stand in need,--they there find, to use an old-fashioned
phrase, "meat, drink, washing, and lodging." In other words: were the
inundation to continue forever, and were the Guaraons entirely
prohibited from intercourse with the dry land, they could still find
subsistence in this, their home upon the waters.
Whence comes their subsistence? No doubt you will say that fish is
their food; and drink, of course, they have in abundance; but this would
not be the true explanation. It is true they eat fish, and turtle, and
the flesh of the _manatee_, or "fish-cow,"--since the capturing of these
aquatic creatures is one of the chief occupations of the Guaraons,--but
they are ofttimes entirely without such food; for, it is to be observed,
that, during the period of the inundations fish are not easily caught,
sometimes not at all. At these times the Guaraons would starve--since,
like all other savages, they are improvident--were it not that the
singular region they inhabit supplies them with another article of
food,--one that is inexhaustible.
What is this food, and from whence derived? It will scarce surprise you
to hear that it is the produce of the trees already mentioned; but
perhaps you _will_ deem it singular when I tell you that the trees of
this great _water-forest_ are all of one kind,--all of the same
species,--so that here we have the remarkable fact of a single species
of vegetable, growing without care or cultivation, and supplying all the
wants of man,--his food, clothing, fuel, utensils, ropes, houses, and
boats,--not even drink excepted, as will presently be seen.
The name of this wonderful tree? "Ita," the Guaraons call it; though it
is more generally known as "morichi" among the Spanish inhabitants of
the Orinoco; but I shall here give my young reader an account of it,
from which he will learn something more than its name.
The _ita_ is a true palm-tree, belonging to the genus _mauritia_; and, I
may remark, that notwithstanding the resemblance in sound, the name of
the genus is not derived from the words "morichi," "murichi," or
"muriti," all of which are different Indian appellations of this tree.
_Mauritia_ is simply a Latinised designation borrowed from the name of
Prince Maurice of Nassau, in whose honour the genus was named. The
resemblance, therefore, is merely accidental. I may add, too, that
there are many species of _mauritia_ growing in different parts of
tropical America,--some of them palms of large size, and towering
height, with straight, smooth trunks; while others are only tiny little
trees, scarce taller than a man, and with their trunks thickly covered
with conical protuberances or spines.
Some of them, moreover, affect a high, dry soil, beyond the reach of
floods; while others do not prosper, except on tracts habitually marshy,
or annually covered with inundations. Of these latter, the _ita_ is
perhaps the most conspicuous; since we have already stated, that for
nearly six months of the year it grows literally out of the water.
Like all its congeners, the ita is a "fan-palm;" that is, its leaves,
instead of being _pinnately_ divided, as in most species of palms, or
altogether _entire_, as in some few, radiate from the midrib of the
leaf-stalk, into a broad palmated shape, bearing considerable
resemblance to a fan when opened to its full extent. At the tips these
leaflets droop slightly, but at that end where they spring out of the
midrib, they are stiff and rigid. The petiole, or leaf-stalk itself, is
long, straight, and thick; and where it clasps the stem or trunk, is
swollen out to a foot in width, hollowed, or concave on the upper side.
A full-grown leaf, with its petiole, is a wonderful object to look upon.
The stalk is a solid beam full twelve feet in length, and the leaf has
a diameter of nearly as much. Leaf and stalk together make a load, just
as much as one man can carry upon his shoulders!
Set about a dozen of these enormous leaves on the summit of a tall
cylindrical column of five feet in circumference, and about one hundred
in height,--place them with their stalks clasping or sheathing its
top,--so that the spreading fans will point in every direction outwards,
inclining slightly upwards; do this, and you will have the great
_morichi_ palm. Perhaps, you may see the trunk swollen at its middle or
near the top,--so that its lower part is thinner than above,--but more
often the huge stem is a perfect cylinder. Perhaps you may see several
of the leaves drooping downward, as if threatening to fall from the
tree; you may even see them upon the ground where they have fallen, and
a splendid ruin they appear. You may see again rising upward out of the
very centre of the crown of foliage, a straight, thick-pointed column.
This is the young leaf in process of development,--its tender leaflets
yet unopened, and closely clasped together. But the fervid tropical sun
soon produces expansion; and a new fan takes the place of the one that
has served its time and fallen to the earth,--there to decay, or to be
swept off by the flood of waters.
Still more may be noticed, while regarding this noble palm. Out of that
part of the trunk,--where it is embraced by the sheathing bases of the
petioles,--at a certain season of the year, a large spathe will be seen
to protrude itself, until it has attained a length of several feet.
This spathe is a bract-like sheath, of an imperfect tubular form. It
bursts open; and then appears the huge spadix of flowers, of a
whitish-green colour, arranged along the flower-stalk in
rows,--_pinnately_. It will be observed, moreover, that these spadices
are different upon different trees; for it must be remembered that the
mauritia palm is _diaecious_,--that is, having the female flowers on one
tree, and the male or staminiferous flowers upon another. After the
former have glowed for a time in the heat of the sun, and received the
fertilising pollen wafted to them by the breeze,--carried by bee or
bird, or transported by some unknown and mysterious agency of nature,--
the fruits take form and ripen. These, when fully ripe, have attained
to the size of a small apple, and are of a very similar form. They are
covered with small brown, smooth scales,--giving them somewhat the
appearance of fir-cones, except that they are roundish instead of being
cone-shaped. Underneath the scales there is a thinnish layer of pulp,
and then the stone or _nut_. A single spadix will carry carry several
hundreds--thousands, I might say--of these nuts; and the whole bunch is
a load equal to the strength of two ordinary men!
Such is the ita palm. Now for its uses,--the uses to which it is put by
the Guaraons.
When the Guaraon wishes to build himself a habitation, he does not begin
by digging a foundation in the earth. In the spongy soil on which he
stands, that would be absurd. At a few inches below the surface he
would reach water; and he might dig to a vast depth without finding firm
ground. But he has no idea of laying a foundation upon the ground, or
of building a house there. He knows that in a few weeks the river will
be rising; and would overtop his roof, however high he might make it.
His foundation, therefore, instead of being laid in the ground, is
placed far above it,--just so far, that when the inundation is at its
height the floor of his dwelling will be a foot or two above it. He
does not take this height from guesswork. That would be a perilous
speculation. He is guided by certain marks upon the trunks of
palm-trees,--notches which he has himself made on the preceding year, or
the natural watermark, which he is able to distinguish by certain
appearances on the trees. This point once determined, he proceeds to
the building of his house.
A few trunks are selected, cut down, and then split into beams of
sufficient length. Four fine trees, standing in a quadrangle, have
already been selected to form the corner-posts. In each of these, just
above the watermark, is cut a deep notch with a horizontal base to serve
as a rest for the cross-beams that are to form the foundation of the
structure. Into these notches the beams are hoisted,--by means of
ropes,--and there securely tied. To reach the point where the platform
is to be erected--sometimes a very high elevation--ladders are
necessary; and these are of native manufacture,--being simply the trunk
of a palm-tree, with notches cut in it for the toes of the climber.
These afterwards serve as a means of ascending and descending to the
surface of the water, during the period of its rise and fall. The main
timbers having been firmly secured in their places, cross-beams are laid
upon them, the latter being either pieces of the split trunks, or, what
is usually easier to obtain, the petioles of the great leaves,--each of
which, as already stated, forms of itself a large beam, twelve feet in
length and from six to twelves inches in breadth. These are next
secured at both ends by ropes of the palm fibre.
Next comes a layer of palm-leaves, the strong, tough leaflets serving
admirably as laths to uphold the coating of mud, which is laid thickly
over them. The mud is obtained from below, without difficulty, and in
any quantity required; and when trowelled smooth, and dry,--which it
soon becomes under the hot sun,--constitutes an excellent floor, where a
fire may be kindled without danger of burning either the laths or joists
underneath.
As yet the Guaraon has completed only the floor of his dwelling, but
that is his principal labour. He cares not for walls,--neither sides
nor gables. There is no cold, frosty weather to chill him in his
tropical home,--no snow to be kept out. The rain alone, usually falling
in a vertical direction, has to be guarded against; and from this he
secures himself by a second platform of lighter materials, covered with
mats, which he has already woven for the purpose, and with
palm-leaflets, so placed as to cast off the heaviest shower. This also
shelters him against the burning sun,--an enemy which he dreads even
more than the rain.
His house is now finished; and, with the exception of the mud floor, is
all of ita palm,--beams, cross-timbers, laths, ropes, and mats. The
ropes he has obtained by stripping off the epidermis of the full-grown
leaflets, and then twisting it into cordage of any thickness required.
For this purpose it is equal to hemp. The mats he has made from the
same material,--and well does he, or rather his wife--for this is
usually the work of the females--know how to plait and weave them.
Having completed the building of his aerial dwelling, the Guaraon would
eat. He has fish, which has been caught in the neighbouring cano,--
perhaps turtle,--perhaps the flesh of the manatee, or the alligator,--
for his palate is by no means of a delicate fineness, and will not
refuse a steak from the tail of the American crocodile. But when the
flood time is on, fish become scarce, or cannot be had at all,--no more
can turtles, or sea-cows, or alligators. Besides, scarce or plenty,
something else is wanted to vary the diet. Bread is wanted; and for
this the Guaraon has not far to go. The ita again befriends him, for he
finds, upon splitting open its trunk, a large deposit of medullary pith
or fecula; which, when submitted to the process of bruising or grating,
and afterwards stirred in water, forms a sediment at the bottom of the
vessel, a substance not only eatable, but equal in excellence to the
well-known produce of the _sago_ palm.
This farinaceous pith, formed into cakes and roasted over the fire,--the
fuel being supplied by leaves and leaf-stalks,--constitutes the
_yuruma_,--the daily bread of the Guaraon.
The yuruma, or rather the sago out of which it is made, is not
obtainable at all times. It is the male palm which produces it; and it
must be extracted just as the tree is about to expand its spadix of
flowers. The same curious fact is observed with regard to the _maguey_,
or great American aloe, which produces the drink called "pulque." To
procure the sap in any considerable quantity, the maguey must be tapped
just on that day when the flower-stalk is about to shoot upward from
among the leaves.
The Guaraon, having eaten his yuruma, would drink. Does he have
recourse to the water which flows in abundance beneath his dwelling?
No. On ordinary occasions he may quench his thirst in that way; but he
wishes for some beverage more cheering. Again the ita yields it without
stint, and even gives him a choice. He may tap the trunk, and draw
forth the sap; which, after being submitted to a process of
fermentation, becomes a wine,--"murichi wine," a beverage which, if the
Guaraon be so inclined, and drink to excess, will make him "as drunk as
a lord!"
But he may indulge in a less dangerous, and more delicate drink, also
furnished by his favourite ita. This he obtains by flinging a few of
the nuts into a vessel of water, and leaving them awhile to ferment;
then beating them with a pestle, until the scales and pulp are detached;
and, lastly, passing the water through a sieve of palm fibre. This
done, the drink is ready to be quaffed. For all these purposes tools
and utensils are required, but the ita also furnishes them. The trunk
can be scooped out into dishes; or cut into spoons, ladles, and
trenchers. The flower "spathes" also gives him cups and saucers. Iron
tools, such as hatchets and knives, he has obtained from commerce with
Europeans; but, before their arrival in the New World, the Guaraon had
his hatchet of flint, and his knife-blade of obsidian; and even now, if
necessary, he could manage without metal of any kind.
The bow and arrows which he uses are obtained from the tough, sinewy
petiole of the leaf; so is the harpoon spear with which he strikes the
great manatee, the porpoise, and the alligator; the canoe, light as
cork, which carries him through the intricate channels of the delta, is
the hollow trunk of a morichi palm. His nets and lines, and the cloth
which he wears around his loins, are all plaited or woven from the young
leaflets before they have expanded into the fan-like leaf.
Like other beings, the Guaraon must at times sleep. Where does he
stretch his body,--on the floor?--on a mat? No. He has already
provided himself with a more luxurious couch,--the "rede," or hammock,
which he suspends between two trees; and in this he reclines, not only
during the night, but by day, when the sun is too hot to admit of
violent exertion. His wife has woven the hammock most ingeniously. She
has cut off the column of young leaves, that projects above the crown of
the morichi. This she has shaken, until the tender leaflets become
detached from each other and fall apart. Each she now strips of its
outer covering,--a thin, ribbon-like pellicle of a pale-yellow colour,--
which shrivels up almost like a thread. These she ties into bundles,
leaving them to dry awhile; after which she spins them into strings, or,
if need be, twists them into larger cords. She then places two
horizontal rods or poles about six feet apart, and doubles the string
over them some forty or fifty times. This constitutes the _woof_; and
the _warp_ is obtained by cross strings twisted or tied to each of the
longitudinal ones, at intervals of seven or eight inches. A strong
cord, made from the epidermis of the full-grown leaves, is now passed
through the loop of all the strings, drawn together at both ends, and
the poles are then pulled out. The hammock, being finished and hung up
between two trees, provides the naked Indian with a couch, upon which he
may repose as luxuriantly as a monarch on his bed of down. Thus, then,
does a single tree furnish everything which man, in his primitive
simplicity, may require. No wonder that the enthusiastic missionaries
have given to the morichi palm the designation of "arbol de vida" (tree
of life).
It may be asked why does the Guaraon live in such a strange fashion,--
especially when on all sides around him there are vast tracts of _terra
firma_ upon which he might make his dwelling, and where he could, with
far less difficulty, procure all the necessaries, and many of the
luxuries of life? The question is easily answered; and this answer will
be best given by asking others in, return. Why do the Esquimaux and
Laplanders cling to their inhospitable home upon the icy coasts of the
Arctic Sea? Why do tribes of men take to the cold, barren mountains,
and dwell there, within sight of lovely and fertile plains? Why do
others betake themselves to the arid steppes and dreary recesses of the
desert?
No doubt the Guaraon, by powerful enemies forced from his aboriginal
home upon the firm soil, first sought refuge in the marshy flats where
we now encounter him: there he found security from pursuit and
oppression; there--even at the expense of other luxuries--he was enabled
to enjoy the sweetest of fill,--the luxury of liberty.
What was only a necessity at first, soon became a habit; and that habit
is now an essential part of his nature. Indeed, it is not so long since
the necessity itself has been removed.
Even at the present hour, the Guaraon would not be secure, were he to
stray too far from his sheltering marshes,--for, sad though it be to say
so, the poor Indian, when beyond the protection of his tribe, is in many
parts of South America still treated as a slave. In the _delta_ he
feels secure. No slave-hunter,--no enemy can follow him there. Even
the foeman of his own race cannot compete with him in crossing the wide
flats of spongy quagmire,--over which, from long habit, he is enabled to
glide with the lightness and fleetness of a bird. During the season of
overflow, or when the waters have fallen to their lowest, he is equally
secure from aggression or pursuit; and, no doubt, in spite of missionary
zeal,--in spite of the general progress of civilisation,--in this savage
security he will long remain.