THE CORDILLERA OF THE ANDES
"To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fall,
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,
Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,
And mortal feet hath ne'er, or rarely been;
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen.
"This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold
Converse with Nature's charms, and see her stores unrolled."
--Byron.
Villavicencio, the capital of the National Territory of the Meta,
is situated at the very foot of the Andes, and is an attractive town
of about three thousand inhabitants, many of whom are Indians. Its
altitude above sea level, according to our barometer, is slightly less
than fifteen hundred feet. It is a little more than ninety-three miles
from Bogotá and has an average annual temperature of 83° F. During our
sojourn in the place the thermometer never rose above 76° F. in the
shade, and it was occasionally several degrees below this point. And,
although little more than seventy-five miles north of the equator,
it was so cool at night that we always used our blankets.
A handsome church is located on one side of the spacious green
plaza. Not far distant is a well-conducted convent school in charge
of nuns recently expatriated from France, in consequence of the laws
enacted against religious orders. The people are never tired sounding
the praises of these good sisters and telling the visitor of the
wonders they have accomplished in behalf of their children. Here,
as elsewhere, "The stone which the builders rejected; the same shall
become the head of the corner."
Villavicencio, like Cabuyaro, and other places in the llanos, is
eagerly looking forward to the day when it shall be connected by rail
with the national capital and the Meta. For nearly a century and a
half a commercial route connecting Bogotá with the Meta and the Orinoco
has been talked of but nothing has been done to make it a reality.
In 1783 the archbishop of Sante Fe, Monsignor Cabellero y Gongora,
then viceroy of New Granada, caused a map to be made of the course of
the Meta and the Orinoco to the Atlantic, with a view of developing
commerce by that route, but the all-powerful opposition of Santa Marta
and Cartagena nullified his efforts. Several times since that date
the project has been resumed but each time it had to be abandoned
in favor of the Magdalena, owing to the pressure brought to bear on
the government by the merchants of Cartagena and Santa Marta. There
is no doubt that the route via the Meta and the Orinoco would, in
some respects, possess many advantages over that of the Magdalena,
aside from developing much country now practically neglected.
Unlike Venezuela, Colombia favors free navigation of her rivers
by all nations, and would welcome foreign craft on the Meta as she
does on the Magdalena. Venezuela, however, favors monopolies, and,
claiming absolute control of the Orinoco, has closed the Meta and the
other affluents of the Orinoco to all steamers except those belonging
to the one company which has a monopoly of the trade of the Orinoco
and all its tributaries. How detrimental such a monopoly is, not only
to Colombia but to Venezuela as well, can be seen at a glance. Some
of the greatest resources of both countries are left undeveloped and
progress in any direction is quite impossible.
This matter was taken up at the International Congress of Mexico in
1901, in connection with a plan to render navigation possible through
the interior of the continent of South America from the Orinoco to
the River Plate, but so far nothing has been accomplished.
The greater part of the eastern portion of Colombia is still isolated
from the rest of the world, and will remain so until Venezuela shall
recognize the fatuity of its short-sighted policy, or until the great
commercial nations shall demand that the navigation of the Orinoco
and its tributaries, like that of the Amazon and its affluents, be
free to all vessels, no matter under what flag they may sail. And as
soon as commerce shall awaken to the fact that an immense field of
untold riches is closed to her activities in the forests and plains
of the Orinoco basin--and that must be ere long--a demand will be
made not only in the interests of South America but also in that of
the entire civilized world.
As an illustration of how Colombia has been made to suffer by the
arbitrary policy of Venezuela regarding waterways, of which both
the sister republics should be beneficiaries, a single instance
will suffice.
Shortly before our arrival in Villavicencio, a company was formed
to supply electricity to the city. As there are no roads between
Bogotá and Villavicencio, which would permit the transportation of
the necessary machinery, the only way available for the introduction
of such heavy freight was by the Orinoco and the Meta. It was
accordingly planned to have the dynamos and other requisites brought
by this route, but, when all was ready for shipment, the projectors
of the enterprise learned that the Venezuelan government--that is,
President Castro--would refuse to grant the necessary permission for
the transportation of the merchandise in question. The idea, then,
of lighting the city by electricity had to be abandoned, and the
capital of the Meta territory is, as a consequence, forced to remain
content with tallow candles and kerosene lamps.
The people of Villavicencio, as elsewhere in Colombia, we found
to be extremely courteous and hospitable. They were eager to hear
about America, and in turn were quite willing to afford all possible
information about their own country, and especially about the llanos
and Llaneros. We soon became acquainted with all the leading officials
and business men, and recall with pleasure the many delicate attentions
they showed us while in their midst. We were invited to visit their
country estates and to examine some new industries--yet in their
infancy--which gave promise of a bright future.
One of these was the rubber industry. Not content with the trees
that grow spontaneously in the forests in this part of the country,
a certain general--one of many we met here--conceived the idea of
cultivating the rubber tree and had, accordingly, during the preceding
year, set out no fewer than a half million small trees, and had it in
purpose to plant many times this number in the near future. He said
all that he had already planted were doing well, and he had no doubt
about the success of the enterprise. He was most sanguine about the
future of eastern Colombia, and expressed it as his belief that in
a few years Colombia would be as favorably known for her rubber as
she is now for her cacao, coffee and tobacco.
There is no reason why the scientific cultivation of the rubber tree
should not be attended with as good results in Colombia as have so
signalized its culture in Ceylon and the Malay Peninsula. In view of
the destructive system of treating the rubber trees in Brazil and other
parts of South America in collecting the latex, and the increasing
demand for rubber in our various rapidly expanding industries, it
would seem that the rubber plantations, like the one above mentioned,
are sure to yield their owners a handsome profit.
Nothing better illustrates what may be expected in this direction
than the experiment made a few decades ago in India with the cinchona
tree. Previously to the introduction of this tree into India, where
there are now many extensive plantations under cultivation, the sole
source of supply of Peruvian bark was from the tropical slopes of the
Andes. Now, in consequence of the vigorous competition with India,
the cinchona industry in the Andean regions is only a fraction of
what it formerly was, and, unless something can be done to arrest its
rapid decline, it will soon have lost its importance as an article
of export from the Cordilleras.
We spent three days in Villavicencio and enjoyed every hour of the
stay among its kindly people. We had thus an opportunity of securing
much needed repose, and of preparing ourselves for our arduous trip
across the cloud-reaching Andes. We might have continued, without
interruption, our journey from the plains to Bogotá, but it would have
been highly imprudent to make the attempt. A sudden change from the
lowlands to Andean heights, and from the heat of the llanos to the
frigid blasts of the paramos, is something of which the native has an
instinctive dread. He accordingly makes his journey by slow stages,
so as to become acclimated on the way. In driving cattle from the
llanos to Bogotá several weeks are deemed necessary, as otherwise
many of them would expire on the road. They appear to be much more
affected than man by rapid changes of altitude and temperature.
We had been warned time and again by well-meaning persons about the
risk we incurred by so soon attempting to cross the Cordilleras, after
spending so much time in the lowlands of the Orinoco and the Meta. "You
should," we were told, "spend several weeks on the road, stopping a
few days at each posada on the way. Only in this wise can you become
acclimated, and render your system proof against the certain dangers
of violent changes of temperature and altitude. As you approach the
summit of the Andes you will see the sides of the trail strewn with
the bleached bones of cattle and horses that have succumbed to the
cold and the rare atmosphere of this elevated region. More than this,
you will see hundreds of crosses by the wayside marking the spots
where over-venturesome travelers were emparamados--frozen--by the
arctic cold of the paramos, and where they found their last resting
place. And so strong is the wind on the cumbre--the summit--of the
mountain range that people are sometimes blown into the yawning chasm
that adjoins the dreadful pass."
To confirm their statements they reminded us of the fearful losses
in men and animals sustained by Bolivar when he led his army from
the plains of Varinas to the lofty plateau of Cundinamarca; how
hundreds of men and horses perished from the intense cold on the
elevated pass through which they vainly tried to force their way,
and how the entire army was exposed to extermination by the combined
action of arctic cold and hurricane blasts.
We made no reply to these well-meant warnings, but we could not help
recalling similar words of caution before we started on our journey
up the Orinoco and the Meta. Then the dangers to be apprehended were
from the climate--from intense heat and a pestiferous atmosphere;
from wild animals and wilder men. Now it was danger of an opposite
kind--danger from cold, of being frozen, or of contracting pneumonia,
which in those great altitudes is certain death.
Aside from a few uncomfortable nights--which, with a little care, might
have been obviated--caused by the active zancudo and the coloradito--we
had escaped all the predicted dangers of the lowlands, and we now felt
reasonably sure that we should be equally fortunate in eluding those
that were said to await us in the regions of everlasting snow. We
were better equipped for making the trip than the poor, ill-clad
natives from the llanos, and we could regulate our vesture to suit the
temperature. Snow and frost had then no terrors for us, and as we had
been accustomed to sudden changes of altitude, without experiencing
any evil effects, we felt we had nothing whatever to apprehend.
On the third morning after our arrival in Villavicencio we were
ready to start for Bogotá, and expected to make the journey of
ninety-three miles in three days. We had secured mules that were
used to mountain travel. Those that we had in crossing the llanos
would never have answered our purpose. Our vaqueano and peons were
serranos--mountaineers--thoroughly familiar with the route we were
to take. They all seemed to be good, reliable young men, and we felt
that the last stage of our journey, before reaching Bogotá, would be
quite as enjoyable as any that we had already completed.
After many cordial expressions of good wishes on the part of the
crowd assembled to witness our departure, and repeated exclamations
on all sides of "Felíz viaje!"--a happy journey--and "Dios les guarde
á VV!"--God protect you--we said our last adios to all and turned
toward the Andes. "Vamos con Dios," ejaculated our vaqueano. "Y con
la Virgen," was the response of the peons and the bystanders.
From the moment we left the door of our temporary lodging, our road was
up grade. As we passed along the street that terminates at the foot of
the mountain, it seemed that all the women and children of the place
were at the doors to get a last view of the jurungos--foreigners--whose
arrival from the eastern sea by the great river had been commented
on as a more than ordinary event.
As soon as we had passed the last house of the city, there was a sudden
marked increase in the grade of our trail, and we then felt, for the
first time, that we were in sober earnest beginning the actual ascent
of the Andes. In two hours we had reached Buena Vista, a lovely spot,
eleven hundred and forty feet above Villavicencio.
We had frequently been told in Orocué and elsewhere that we should
have a beautiful view of the llanos from Buena Vista, and that we
would do well to tarry there for a while to enjoy the panorama that
would be visible from this elevated spur of the mountain.
When a South American--especially one familiar with the
mountains--speaks in terms of praise of any particular bit of scenery,
one may be sure that he does not exaggerate. He is so accustomed to
splendid exhibitions of tropical beauty and mountain grandeur that
he passes unnoticed what we of the North should describe as superb,
magnificent, glorious. Such scenes are to him as common as the
gorgeousness of the setting sun and the sublimity of the starlit
heavens are to us and fail to move him for the same reason that
the splendors of sun and sky rarely affect us as they would if but
occasionally visible. They are everyday objects and the pleasure they
should afford palls accordingly.
We were not disappointed in our anticipations regarding the view
from Buena Vista. On the contrary, it far exceeded anything we had
imagined. The sky, with the exception of a few fleecy clouds flitting
athwart it, was clear and the sun was almost in the zenith. Far below
us, and extending away--north, east, south--towards the dim and distant
horizon, were the llanos, every feature of which was brought out in
bright relief by the brilliant noonday sun.
In the foreground was the montaña through which we had passed just
before reaching Villavicencio. Farther afield was a limitless sea
of verdure, interspersed with groups of trees, which offered their
grateful shade to the countless herds that reposed beneath their
wide-spreading branches. In every direction the green savannas
were intersected by caños and rivers which looked like streams of
molten silver. It was, indeed, a panorama of surpassing beauty and
loveliness--of its kind unique in the wide world. It was the boundless
plain in eternal converse with the heavens above. It was the abode
of liberty, and the trysting-place of life--life palpitating in the
sunshine and beneath the emerald borders of the sliver-like water
courses that were all hastening with their tribute from the Andes
to the Meta, which, far off in the southeast, seemed like a line of
union between earth and sky.
We have nothing in our country that can bear comparison with the
matchless picture seen from Buena Vista. The view of the delta of the
Nile--just before harvest time, with its numberless canals and water
courses--from the summit of Cheops, contains some of the elements of
soft tropical beauty so conspicuous in the Buena Vista landscape;
but it lacks the variety, the sweep, the coloring, the harmonious
effects of light and shade, the immensity, and above all the wondrous
setting afforded the latter prospect by the Titanic Cordilleras.
But the measureless expanse of grassy plain that lies before us is
but an insignificant fraction of the llanos. They extend from the
southern slopes of the Coast Range of Venezuela to the base of the
Parime uplands and the Rio Guaviare; from the Andes to the delta
of the Orinoco. They are thus almost conterminous with the Orinoco
basin. They, indeed, constitute one of the three immense districts
into which the whole of South America is divided. The other two are
the Selvas of Brazil and the Pampas of Argentina, separated from
each other and from the llanos of the north, by low transverse ridges
running east and west from the Atlantic to the Cordilleras.
To geologists these vast lowlands have a special interest, as they
were at one time the bed of an inland sea more extensive far than the
present Mediterranean. Even now, during the rainy season, certain parts
of this immense expanse are covered by fresh water lakes thousands
of square miles in extent. A subsidence of a few hundred feet would
again bring the whole of this illimitable territory down below sea
level and cause again the formation of the great tropical sea that
existed in prehistoric times.
To the student of history a special interest attaches to the llanos
of western Venezuela and eastern Colombia. It was across these plains
and swamps, under the most trying difficulties, that Bolivar led his
half-clad, half-famished army, during his memorable march across the
Cordilleras, before achieving the independence of New Granada in the
famous battle of Boyacá.
But great as was the feat accomplished by Bolivar in traversing
the llanos, great as were the difficulties he had to contend with,
they pale into insignificance when compared with the hardships and
achievements of the early descubridores--explorers--of these then
unknown wilds. Bolivar and his men traveled through a country that had
been long settled, and were among friends and compatriots. The early
explorers and conquistadores were, on the contrary, in an unknown land,
among murderous, relentless savages armed with poisoned arrows. They
were in a region where it was often impossible to procure food, and
where several times starvation was imminent. For months at a time
they wandered through dark, tangled forests, cutting a road as they
went, lured on by the hope of fame and fortune. Then they had to feel
their way through deep and treacherous morasses, in which they had
to confront even greater dangers than in the obscure woodlands. But
notwithstanding dangers and difficulties of every kind, they kept
moving forward through woods and swamps, across rivers and mountains,
ever in pursuit of gold and precious stones, and of the fabulous
riches of the Meta and the treasure city of Manoa.
Among these famous descubridores was the German, George Hohermuth,
whom the Spaniards called Jorge de Spira. Starting from Coró,
on the Caribbean, with three hundred and sixty-one men and eighty
horses, he directed his course southwards, where, he was assured,
were inexhaustible treasures of every kind. Crossing the llanos of
Venezuela and New Granada, he must have passed near the present site
of Buena Vista.
During our journey we certainly crossed his line of march, which in
this latitude was probably near the base of the Cordilleras. Spurred
on by an ever-receding ignis fatuus, he continued his march until
he reached the Japura, an affluent of the Amazon, and but a short
distance from the equator. During this frightful journey he crossed
the Arauca, the Apure, the Meta, the Guaviare and other broad and deep
rivers. Of the countless difficulties he encountered in his long and
painful march, no one who is unfamiliar with the character of forest
and plain in the tropics, particularly during the rainy season, can
have the faintest conception. They far transcend anything experienced
by Stanley, or Mungo Park, or any other African explorer. After more
than three years of unheard-of sufferings, he finally returned to
Coró with but a small fraction of the brave men that had originally
formed part of his expedition.
Hohermuth was followed by Philip von Hutten, in 1541, on a similar
expedition, who traveled over almost the same ground as his
predecessor. He, too, must have passed near where Buena Vista now
stands. His undertaking was quite as fruitless as that of Hohermuth
and his losses were greater. He spent more than four years in the
llanos and Cordilleras and, before he could return to his starting
point, he died at the hands of an assassin.
More remarkable still, in some respects, was the expedition of
Nicholas Federmann, who, like Hohermuth and Von Hutten, was in the
service of the Welsers, concessionaires of a large German colony
near Lake Maracaibo. Crossing the llanos, and the numerous rivers
that flow through them, he eventually found himself on the banks
of the Meta. Thence he proceeded west and crossed the Cordilleras,
not, however, without numerous victims--both men and horses--from the
intense cold on the mountain summits. He finally reached the fertile
plain of Bogotá, where occurred that famous and unexpected meeting
of Belalcazar, who had come with another expedition from Quito, and
Gonzalo Jimenez de Quesada who, a short time previously, had arrived
with a third expedition from Santa Marta.
It would be interesting to know what was Federmann's itinerary after
leaving the banks of the Meta, and the exact spot where he crossed the
Cordilleras. This we can only conjecture, as there is no record of it,
but we loved to think, while crossing the Andes on our way to Bogotá,
that we were still following the conquistadores, and that ours was
the same route that had been taken by Federmann and his brave men
more than three and a half centuries before. [171]
After leaving Buena Vista, we were exposed to a heavy tropical downpour
that lasted the greater part of the day. Fortunately the rain did not
affect us in the slightest. Our bayetones and waterproof boots kept
us perfectly dry and, as the rain was not chilly, we rather enjoyed
the experience.
Our path during the greater part of the day lay through forests and
along rivers and over mountain torrents. At times it was high up on the
mountain side, thousands of feet above the water courses surging and
foaming at its base. Again it was along the edge of a dizzy precipice,
where a single false step of our mule would have meant instant death
to its rider.
What gave us grave concern at first was the fact that our mules always
persisted in keeping on the side of the track next to the ravine,
no matter how deep or threatening it might be. We tried, until we
were exhausted, to keep them on the opposite side of the trail, but
it was useless. They seemed bent on courting danger, and on seeing
how near they could keep to the verge of the chasm without plunging
into its abysmal depths.
Unfortunately for our peace of mind, we did not then know the Andean
mule as well as we do now. Had we understood him as well at the
beginning of our journey as we did at the end, we should have given him
a free rein, and thereby spared ourselves many nerve-racking moments
and many futile efforts to correct his persistent aberrations. Why
a mule prefers to walk on the brink of a precipice, whenever it has
an opportunity of doing so, rather than keep to what we humans should
consider the safer side of the path, is a mystery I do not profess to
fathom. I simply state the fact. I leave its explanation to experts
in mule psychology.
The country through which we passed was fairly well populated, and we
were never long out of sight of a habitation of some kind. Sometimes
the dwellings were of stone, but more frequently they were of bamboo
daubed with clay and thatched with palm leaf. The people, usually
Indians or half-breeds, were in humble circumstances but we never
saw any evidences of actual want or suffering. "Nunca se muere de
hambre aqui"--No one ever dies of hunger here--an Indian woman once
informed us, when we made inquiry about the subject. If one should
happen to have nothing to eat, his friends and neighbors supply him
with food. They are ever willing to assist one another, and we were
often surprised to see how ready they were to share their limited
store with others, whether in want or not.
A more friendly people we never met than the good people who dwell
on the eastern slopes of the Colombian Cordilleras. They always
have a kindly greeting for every one they meet. No one, not even the
youngest child, will pass you on the road without a cordial "Buenos
dias," "Buenas tardes," or "Buenas noches"--Good day, Good evening,
or Good night--as the case may be. These cheering salutations, that
were always forthcoming, whether we met one or a score, young or old,
made us forget that we were in a foreign land, far from home and
friends, and quite reconciled us to any little discomforts we might
experience along our steep and rugged path. Here among these simple,
unspoiled people the brotherhood of man is not an empty rhetorical
phrase, or a vain poetical figment, but a living, every-day reality.
How often during our journeyings in the savannas and highlands of
Colombia did we not recall the beautiful couplet of Castellanos
regarding the primitive inhabitants of New Granada!--
"Gente llana, fiel, modesta, clara,
Leal, humilde, sana y obediente." [172]
They are the same to-day, especially when removed from the baleful
influence of those who, instead of aiding them, would drag them down
to the lowest depths of degradation and servitude.
But obliging and honest as we always found these people to be,
they, nevertheless, invariably failed us in one particular. We could
never, except occasionally by accident, get from them a correct or
satisfactory answer about the distance from one place to another.
Never shall we forget our experience during our first day's journey
in the Cordilleras. Our objective point was San Miguel, where we were
told we should find a good lodging house--one of the best on the road,
we were assured--and, as the distance was great, it was necessary to
make extra good time in order to arrive there before nightfall. The
heavy, long-continued rains had made our trail extremely heavy, and
in places almost impassable. The hours passed and we found ourselves
advancing much more slowly than was desirable. The lowering clouds
were massing on the mountain slopes, and the rain began to fall in
torrents. It then began to dawn upon us that we might not be able
to reach our destination in the limited time yet remaining of the
fast-departing day.
Further progress along our dangerous path in the impenetrable gloom,
that would immediately follow sunset, we knew to be impossible. We
knew or thought we knew, about how far we were still from San Miguel,
but we wished to be certain about the distance.
It was now about four o'clock in the afternoon, and it was imperative
for us to reach our posada by six o'clock, if we were to arrive there
at all that day. We accordingly inquired of one of the many peons we
met, who were returning to their homes from their day's labor in the
fields, how far it was to San Miguel. "Tres leguas, Señores"--three
leagues, Sirs--was the answer to our question.
This was disheartening. Our mules were now exhausted, and could not
possibly make three leagues in two hours over the terrific track we
were traveling. But there was nothing to do but push on. At the end
of an hour we asked the same question of another peon. "Quatro leguas,
Señores"--four leagues, Sirs, was the reply. This answer was confirmed
by several other peons, whom we also questioned. Matters were becoming
serious, but we continued on in silence, hoping against hope.
About a half hour later we again renewed our query. "Una legua,
Señores"--one league, Sirs--said a bright boy, who was driving a
heavily-laden donkey. It was now dusk, and as dusk in the tropics
lasts but a few minutes, we knew that we should soon be enveloped in
total darkness.
A little further on, a woman, with a child in her arms, informed us
that San Miguel was "cerca"--near. This was too ambiguous for us, as it
might mean one league or several leagues. Asking her how near it was,
she replied muy cerca--very near. This was still unsatisfactory. She
then assured us that it was "cerquita," "cerquitita"--diminutives
of cerca-- [173] meaning that the place was extremely near, only a
few steps farther. "Dando la vuelta de la esquina"--around the corner
there--she said, "is San Miguel, the second house you come to." Peering
into the darkness before us, we could barely discern what appeared a
projection from the mountain side. We had to be satisfied with this
answer as, try as we would, we could elicit nothing more definite
from our informant.
The darkness was now so dense that we were unable to see even as far
as our mules' ears. There was then nothing to be done but to give our
animals the rein and trust them to carry us to our destination. As
if guided by a peculiar instinct, they carefully picked their way
through the mud, but we thought they should never get around that
corner towards which we had been directed.
We were now quite exhausted, as we had eaten nothing since morning, and
longed for a place of shelter, where we could find repose. Only once
before, in all my travels, did it seem to take so long to get around
a mountain spur. Years ago, in the mountains of the Peloponnesus,
I had a similar experience, but then the road was good and the moon
was shining. Here there was only a wretched, dangerous trail, and it
was pitch dark.
At the long last, we saw a light glimmering in a hut by the
roadside. This was something. The next house, which was said to be
bard by, should be the long-desired San Miguel.
To reassure ourselves, we asked a woman who was standing at the door
of the cot, where was San Miguel. She did not know. She had never
beard of such a place. It might be at the other side of the mountain,
or we might already have passed it; she could not tell.
"But is there not a posada near here," I queried, "or a place where
we can remain over night?" "Oh! yes," the woman replied, "there is a
very good posada just across the road--that large building right in
front of you. You are looking for la Señora Filomena's house. That is
what we call it here." And so it was. A few rods away was San Miguel,
at last. Only the tired, famished traveler in a strange land can
realize how glad we were that the day's journey was finally at an end.
We spent a very uncomfortable night at San Miguel, and were glad
when we found ourselves, early the following morning, again in the
saddle, bound for Caqueza, the capital of a district near the summit
of the Cordilleras. "We must make better time than yesterday," I
said, on starting, to our vaqueano. "Si, Señor." "We shall arrive
at Caqueza by four o'clock, shall we not?" "Es imposible, Señor. It
is impossible, Sir." "Well, then, we shall arrive by five, shall we
not?" "No se puede, Señor. It cannot be done, Sir." "At all events,
we must reach Caqueza before dark." "Tal vez, no--Probably not,"
was his final reply, and we had to let it go at that.
The scenery along our route between San Miguel and Caqueza was much
like that which we had so much admired during the preceding day. The
country was, however, much more thickly populated and we met many
more people on the way. There was always that same cordial greeting,
that had before touched us so deeply, and the same disposition to
oblige us in any way possible.
At one place on the roadside, we saw a young couple, neither more
than eighteen years of age, erecting a little bamboo cot. They were
evidently just entering upon house-keeping, and seemed to be very
happy. The labor involved in the construction of their future home
was little and the expense was nothing. All would be in readiness
for occupancy in a day or two after work begun. Then their little
plot of ground, planted with maize, yuca, plantains and bananas,
together with a few domestic animals, would supply them with all the
food required and enable them to enjoy an idyllic existence far away
from the maddening crowd, and quite removed from
"The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan."
It was evidently some such Arcadian scene that was before Tennyson's
vision when he, in Locksley Hall, penned the beautiful lines,
"Ah, for some retreat,"
where
"Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from
the crag--"
"Droops the heavy-blossomed bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree--"
and where are
"Breaths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise."
Further on we met another young couple, radiant with the glow of
youth and present happiness, carrying all their household goods with
them. These were few and simple. The man carried a machete, and a few
rush mats; the woman a few simple culinary utensils consisting mainly
of a metal pot and a few calabash cups and dishes. They were evidently
looking for a site for a home, and probably, a few hours later had,
like the first couple we saw, their simple habitation well under way.
Of these good people one can repeat what Peter Martyr said of the
aborigines shortly after the discovery of America:
"A fewe thinges contente them, hauinge no delite in suche superfluites,
for the which in other places men take infinite paynes and commit
manie vnlawfull actes, yet are neuer satisfied, whereas many haue
to muche, and none inowgh. But emonge these simple sowles, a fewe
clothes serue the naked; weightes and measures are not needefull to
such as cannot kyll of crafte and deceyte and haue not the vse of
pestiferous monye, the seede of unnumerable myscheues. So that if we
shall not be ashamed to confesse the truthe, they seeme to lyue in that
goulden worlde of the whiche owlde wryters speak so much; wherin men
lyued simplye and innocentlye without inforcement of lawes, without
quarrellinge. Iudges and libelles, contente onely to satisfie nature,
without further vexation for knowledge of thinges to come." [174]
Later on in the day we came across more home-builders, but of
quite a different kind from those above mentioned. Toward noon, we
noticed some distance ahead of us, what appeared to be a greenish
black ribbon, extended along our path. It was about a foot wide and
several hundred feet long. We could not imagine what it could be
until we were within a few yards of it. It proved to be an army of
ants on a foraging expedition. There were millions, if not billions
of them. Those on one side were carrying pieces of leaves about
the size of a sixpence. They formed the green part of the ribbon
that we had seen from a distance. Those on the other side, moving
in an opposite direction, constituted the black part. They were all
engaged in getting material for thatching their curious dome-like
homes, which are often of extraordinary dimensions. Sometimes they
are fully thirty or forty feet in diameter.
We regretted that time did not permit us to examine the length of
their line of march, from their marvelous dwellings to the trees
they were stripping for roofing material. They have been known to go
a mile or more for material suited to their purpose and to deprive
scores of trees of all their leaves in a single day.
To one unfamiliar with the tropics, the depredations committed by
these destructive insects appear incredible. Of an unknown number of
species, they are among the greatest enemies of man in the equatorial
regions. They spare nothing. Gardens and orchards, coffee and sugar,
cassava and banana plantations disappear as quickly before them as
before blight or frost.
In the early part of the sixteenth century, according to Herrera,
[175] their numbers in Española and Puerto Rico were so great and
their devastations so extensive and irresistible, that they threatened
to depopulate the islands. Various parts of South America have also
at different times suffered from the same plague--rivaling the seven
plagues of Egypt in the distress and destruction which marked their
path. Had we not had here, and elsewhere in the tropics, ocular
evidence of their prodigious numbers, and been witnesses of the
magnitude of the works due to their united efforts, we should have
classed the accounts left us by the early chroniclers of the extent
of the ravages of the ant plague among works of fiction rather than
records of authentic history. [176]
The scenery along the mountain ascent was an ever-changing panorama
of rarest beauty and sublimity, such as no pen could describe or
brush portray. It exhibited all the tropical luxuriance of the
llanos together with the wild picturesqueness characteristic of
Alpine heights.
At times we wended our way along the banks of a noiseless river,
which, in solitary grandeur, was sweeping through verdant meads and
beneath arcades of sylvan green, carrying its vivifying waves to the
broad, expectant plains below. The placid scene, dotted with human
habitations, and variegated by bright pastures, the home of contented
flocks and herds, offered to the enchanted gaze, in a single picture,
all the fabled beauties of the glens of Tempe and the dales of Arcady.
As we mounted higher up on our way, our route was along the verge of
deep, headlong torrents mantled in the shade of overhanging bamboos, or
obscured by the jutting crags and huge beetling rocks of the earthquake
rift mountain. Ever and anon, our ears caught the muffled but incessant
roar of thunderous waterfalls, which plunged from dizzy precipices high
above our heads, both to the right and to the left of our upward path.
Scarcely had the deafening notes of these tumultuous floods, which
awakened a thousand echoes in the sombre caves and yawning gulfs of
the countless windings and abrupt breaks of the mountain ravines,
died away, before we found ourselves in presence of some murmuring
cascade that might well have adorned the grove around the grotto
of Calypso. In the gleaming crystal basin at its foot, embowered in
vernal bloom and eternal verdure, which diffused an aromatic breath
over the passer-by, was tremulously reflected the plumed crown of the
palm tree under which the weary traveler sought a moment's rest for his
weary frame. At every turn in our steep and devious path, our eyes were
delighted by some wild, struggling brook, that fretted its way through
a labyrinthine gorge, pranked with verdurous gloom, or charmed by some
wanton rivulet leaping over rocks or forming limpid pools, canopied
with foliage and flowers of rarest fragrance and brightest hue, that
"Forever gaze on their own drooping eyes,
Reflected in the crystal calm."
It is not an exaggeration to say, that in our journey from the
foot to the summit of the Andes, we passed in rapid review some
of earth's grandest and most entrancing prospects. Sometimes I was
reminded of the mountains and valleys of the Alps, at others of the
peaks and cañones of the Rocky Mountains. Some cataracts recalled the
waterfalls seen leaping from the lofty precipices of Alaska; others,
those that add such a charm to the manifold wonders of the Yosemite
and the Yellowstone.
But the Andean views can always claim a superiority over all northern
scenes of a similar character, in the marvelous setting afforded by
the ever-verdant and exuberant vegetation of the tropics. How often
did we not wish, during this memorable trip, that we could command
the brush of a Turner or a Poussin or a Claude Lorrain, in order to
bring home with us copies of some of those wonderful pictures that
Nature exhibited to our admiring gaze in her great art gallery of
the Oriental Cordilleras!
The higher we ascended above the lowlands the less dense became
the forests and the less luxuriant the vegetation. At times there
were extended reaches of land that were quite treeless; at others
the surface of the soil was covered with scrubby growths that were
in marked contrast with the splendid sylvan exhibitions to which we
had been so long accustomed. But although the giants of the forest
were no longer visible, there was little diminution of the splendor
of the floral display along our path. In one place, particularly,
we were surprised beyond measure to find the whole side of a mountain
spur covered with a glorious mantle of immaculately white lilies. The
scene was not unlike one of the large lily fields of Bermuda, that
supply our Easter altars with their choicest decorations.
We were greatly delighted to find in the tropics representatives of the
feathered tribe that we were familiar with in the far North. Large
flocks of them annually leave North America and Europe to spend
the winter season in South America and as regularly return to their
northern homes the following summer. Some of them come from far-off
Alaska and extend their flight as far south as Tierra del Fuego. Others
spend the summer in southeast Siberia and then, on the approach of
winter, migrate by way of North America to South Brazil. Among the
most numerous of these marvelous birds of passage are certain species
of sandpipers, plovers and lapwings. The bobolink, known along the
Chesapeake as the reedbird, and dreaded as the ricebird in the rice
fields of the South, extends its migrations as far into South America
as southeastern Brazil. Many of our familiar warblers and sparrows
are to be seen during the winter months in Venezuela and Colombia,
while certain cliff and barn swallows penetrate as far south as
Paraguay. On the Orinoco and the Meta, we recognized many species of
ducks that were familiar to us in the United States, among which were
the pin-tail, bald-pate, golden-eye and blue-winged teal.
"The plovers, sandpipers and kindred species," writes Knowlton, "take
migratory journeys often of extraordinary length. Thus the American
golden plover, Charadrius dominicus, breeds in arctic America, some
venturing a thousand miles north of the Arctic Circle, and migrates
through the entire length of North and South America to its winter
home in Patagonia, and, curiously, its spring and fall routes are
different. After feasting on the crowberry in Labrador, they seek the
coast of Nova Scotia, where they strike out to sea, taking a direct
course for the easternmost islands of the West Indies, and thence to
the northeastern coast of South America. In spring not one returns
by this route, but in March they appear in Guatemala and Texas. April
finds their long lines trailing the prairies of the Mississippi Valley;
the first of May sees them crossing our northern boundary, and by the
first week in June they appear in their breeding grounds in the frozen
north. The little sanderling, just mentioned, is almost cosmopolitan
in distribution, breeding in the arctic and sub-arctic regions and
migrating in the New World to Chile and Patagonia, a distance of
eight thousand miles, and in the Old World along the shore of Europe,
Asia and Africa. The Bartramian sandpiper, Bartramia longicauda, nests
from eastern North America to Nova Scotia and Alaska, and goes south
in winter to southern South America. The solitary sandpiper, Totanus
solitarius, breeds mainly to the north of the United States, and
winters as far south as Brazil and Peru. The buff-breasted sandpiper,
Tryngites subruficollis, rears its young in the Yukon district of
Alaska and from the interior of British Colombia to the Arctic coast,
and journeys in winter well into South America. The turnstone, Arenaria
interpres, a little shore bird, about the size of the song thrush of
Europe, is also cosmopolitan, breeding in high northern latitudes and
at other times of the year found along the coasts of Europe, Asia,
Africa, North America, South America to the Straits of Magellan,
Australia and the Atlantic and Pacific islands. It is one of the
species mentioned as making the wonderful flight from the islands in
Bering Sea to the Hawaiian Islands." [177]
By what miraculous instinct are they guided in these semi-annual
migrations across half the globe? Who bids them, asks Pope,
"Columbus-like, explore
Heavens not their own, and worlds unknown before?
Who calls the council, states the certain day.
Who forms the phalanx, and who points the way?"
Have they a special "sense of direction," or is their "homing" faculty
or power of orientation, something that is tantamount to a sixth sense?
We now know far more about the migrations of birds than was known
only a few decades ago. We are able to locate many of them during the
various seasons of the year, and are quite certain that they never,
as an ingenious writer of the early seventeenth century maintained,
spend the winter in the moon, where they have no occasion for food;
but we have yet much to learn regarding the causes of their periodic
migrations, and the nature of that instinct that enables them to pass,
with unerring precision, from the arctic to the antarctic regions,
and from the Old World to the New. We are accumulating daily new
facts regarding the distant flights of the birds of passage, but,
notwithstanding the many theories, some of them more fantastic
than scientific, that have been advanced to explain the cause of
the migrations of birds; why such migrations were undertaken in the
beginning, why they are still continued, and how birds are able to
find their way, during their marvelous flights from the arctic to the
antarctic--we are still in the dark about many questions connected
with those mysterious migrations, which have excited the interest
of even the most casual observer since the prophet Jeremiah wrote:
"The stork in the heaven knoweth her appointed time; and the turtle and
the crane, and the swallows observe the time of their coming." [178]
Almost before we were aware of it, the sun had begun to paint the crest
of the Andes with bright vermeil and soft purple, and we were still
far from Caqueza--the goal of our day's journey. With the exception
of the half-hour we had tarried for luncheon at an attractive posada,
called Media Luna, we had been in the saddle all day, and had pushed
forwards as rapidly as the strength of our animals would permit. We
had left our vaqueano and peons in the rear early in the day, and it
was not at all likely that they would be able to reach Caqueza before
the following forenoon.
After a delightful, sunshiny day, the sky, towards sunset, suddenly
became overcast with dark, threatening clouds, and presently it
began to rain. One thing, however, was in our favor, and that was the
trail. It was in a far better condition than that of the preceding
day, but it lay along the breast of a precipitous mountain slope,
at the foot of which, within ear-shot, coursed an impetuous mountain
torrent. The greater part of the way was quite safe, and we could
trust our mules, even in the dark, to keep to the path. But here and
there were treacherous places--loose ground, and landslides caused
by recent rains--which rendered traveling, even in the daytime,
sufficiently difficult. In the darkness, that was every moment becoming
more dense, locomotion was positively dangerous. There was no house
on the way in which we could find shelter for the night. Our tent,
with our other baggage, was in the hands of our dilatory peons. The
only alternatives, then, were pressing on to Caqueza, despite darkness
and danger, or standing still in our trail, where there was not even
a shrub to temper the ever-increasing downpour. We elected to trust
our lives again to our mules, as we had done the previous night. This
seemed to be the lesser of the two evils that confronted us.
We then recalled the hesitating answer that our vaqueano had,
in the morning, given to our query about reaching Caqueza before
nightfall. His "Tal vez, no"--perhaps not, was a gentle prognostic
that it was impossible, at least for the baggage mules. As a matter
of fact, they did not arrive until towards noon the next day. Their
mules had given out, and the vaqueano and peons had to make shift to
spend the night as best they could under an inclement sky.
The last objects of interest that we descried in the deepening
gloom were a number of peasant cots perched high upon the mountain
sides--much like so many cottages in the higher Alps--and the junction
of two rivers--the Rio Blanco and the Rio Negro. The rivers specially
attracted our attention, as the color of the waters of the one, the
Blanco--white--was in such marked contrast with the waters of the
other, the Negro or black river. The one owed its color to the white
clay soil through which it passed. The other was rendered black--like
the well-known bog-tinctured, "black waters" of Ireland--by the
presence of organic material. Even long after the waters of the
two tributaries had entered their common channel, they kept quite
separate--the black flowing along one bank and the white along the
bank opposite.
It would take too long to enumerate the many difficulties we
encountered, during our long ride in the darkness, before we finally
arrived at Caqueza. Suffice to say that it was several long hours after
nightfall, and that we were both quite exhausted, both by hunger and
fatigue. We never felt time to pass so slowly, as during the last hour
of the day's journey, when there was danger in every step forward from
the ever-threatening ravine, along the edge of which our path lay,
and we were quite ready to exclaim with Shelley,
"How like death-worms the wingless moments crawl."
In the posada where we purposed spending the night, which was
recommended as the best in town, we found sufficient to appease the
pangs of hunger, but we were soon made to realize that we had another
sleepless night before us. In San Miguel our quarters were damp and our
blankets wet, owing to some carelessness on the part of our peons. In
Caqueza the rooms assigned us--and particularly the beds--could best
be described by a single word--insectiferous. They were a veritable
insectarium that served no scientific or economic purpose. It is but
just, however, to record that this was our first experience of the kind
during our journey thus far in the tropics. Under the circumstances,
there was nothing left for us to do except resignedly to exclaim
with the pious native--Sea por Dios--may it be received by God in
atonement for sin.