FROM SOURCE TO SEA—END OF THE DROUGHT—D’URBAN—A
RACE MEETING—ENTHUSIASTIC COLOURED FOLK—ROYAL MAIL
STEAMERS—VENEZUELANS—CARIBE—CARUPANO—CUMANA—AN EARTHQUAKE
CENTRE—BARCELONA—LLANURAS—LLANERO—PLAINS—LA SILLA.
When, on our way back to Georgetown, we saw the waters of the Mazaruni
mingling with those of the Essequibo, it was like parting with a human
friend whose career we had watched until its close. We had seen it,
or its great tributaries, at its birth, spring from its cradle in the
broken mountain tops into the green valley below, and in that one great
leap for life rush blindly into the big world that lay before it. Not an
easy-going, quiet life—not a gentle, cared for one, but a life from first
almost to last of strife and battle. Occasionally, in its school days,
checked and restrained, and forced into channels that it spurns, only to
dash more impetuously than ever against the rocks and crags that beset
its path. Sometimes its smooth, shining, face rippled only with a smile,
and the tremulous music of its voice as it flows softly over its pebbles,
tell of peace and rest, but such expressions are but minutes compared
with the years of its more troubled life. Not until its youth and middle
age are long past, does this turbulent river exert its powers for the
benefit of mankind. Wearied with strife, it now sweeps on with deep and
silent current, bearing contentedly on its bosom the joys and sorrows of
others, and rendering fruitful the land through which it courses. Older
and older it grows, but persevering to the end, until at last it slips
away from us, and the course of the tired river is ended in the grey sea.
At Georgetown, we heard that the drought had continued until very
recently, and had caused much suffering among the poorer classes. The
public tanks had run dry, and water brought from a long distance was
sold in the streets by the bucket. But now the long looked for rain had
come, much to the satisfaction of everybody—even of the planters—and as
an old black lady said, “It was indeed a cause of great ‘tank’-fulness.”
With the rains had also come the annual visitation of “hard-backs,”
great beetle-like insects, that flocked in myriads to the gas-light, and
literally enveloped tables and chairs in a coat of living mail.
We arrived just in time for the races, and for the two days they lasted
the town presented an unwonted scene of excitement. The road to the
d’Urban race-course was alive with a laughing, pushing crowd of various
nationalities, in holiday garb. Vehicles of all descriptions, heavily
weighted, plodded to the course, or empty rattled back at full speed,
eager for another load. The days were hot but the distance short, and the
broad road lined with pretty gardens and cottages, half hidden in green
shrubbery, formed a pleasant and animated drive. Some of the buildings,
too, were worthy of notice, especially the handsome Roman Catholic
Cathedral, the Orphan Asylum, and the Almshouses. A gateway and avenue
of palms marked the entrance to a wide-spreading grass-land, round which
the course ran. A dividing road led up to the circular grand-stand,
which was not a very picturesque building, as its architecture was
something between that of an umbrella and a band stand; but it was cool
and suitable to the occasion. The surroundings differed but little from
those of most race-courses; tents, booths, sheds, and structures of more
or less pretension, varying from the well carpentered stand, admission
to which was four “bits”—a bit in Guiana is fourpence—to the slender
structure composed of a few boards and a roof of leaves, where the
entrance fee was theoretically a “bit” but practically nothing.
Of the races themselves there is not much to be said. As nearly every
event—as was expected—was won not only by the same stable, but also by
the same horse, the meeting could hardly be termed an exciting one. To
stimulate competition and to avoid disappointment, a certain gallant
major entered his carriage horses, but as I do not think they ever got
round the track, their entries were not altogether a success. Still the
intention was laudable, and if others had been equally public-spirited,
the racing would have been far from tame. The winning horses were
undeniably good, and were the love of sport as widely diffused as cane,
the Georgetown race-meetings would compare favourably with those of any
colony. At present the inhabitants object to an annual presentation of
cups, plates, stakes, and purses to one stable, but as long as the races
are kept up, it must continue until enterprise claims a division.
To the coloured population the races were a source of unmixed enjoyment.
From the rude Barbadian to the peaceable Mongol, all were bent on a
day’s diversion. When the inevitable dog ran down the track, they howled
and screamed with delight, and when the horse of the mounted policeman
ran away with its rider, joined in the race, and came in a good third,
the enthusiasm was unbounded. After each race the crowd was permitted
to rush into the space hitherto kept clear in front of the judge’s
stand. Then as many as could approach swarmed round the box, eagerly
demanding a piece of paper with the name of the winner written on it.
The numbers posted up were nothing to them, they had probably seen a
wide difference between the first and second horses, but nothing could
satisfy them except a written statement; a “bit” depended on the result,
and oral testimony was valueless. Such laughter and shrieking would
follow! Those who had lost would try to defer payment until the next race
was over, and those who had won would loudly demand their money. Angry
gesticulations would succeed to wordy warfare, and just as a free fight
seemed inevitable, the band would strike up and the whole crowd, without
exception, would commence to dance. Then, until the course was again
cleared, nothing would be visible but a mass of parti-coloured heads
bobbing up and down.
With the exception of the brilliant head-dresses, white predominated too
much in dress for much effect, but here and there might be seen Indian
coolies in cardinal red or mazarine blue, and others who had not been
afraid to risk the union of green, orange, pink and purple. But from
above, one saw only the bright turbans and twisted handkerchiefs keeping
time to the music, and it was very amusing to witness the transformation
when, during a passing shower, the animated poppies were replaced by
a dense mass of dancing umbrellas. No drunkennness nor any unpleasant
incident marred the enjoyment of the meeting, and not until the roses of
the setting sun had all faded, did the merry crowd wend its way back to
the duties of every-day life.
Very soon after the race meeting I took leave of kind and hospitable
Georgetown, and proceeded to Trinidad on my way to Carácas. A few days
after our arrival in Port of Spain, I heard that the French mail-steamer
“Cacique” was about to sail for La Guaira, and so instead of waiting for
the monthly English mail-boat, I secured my ticket by the former and
hastened on board at the appointed hour.
As the “Cacique” lay at anchor about two miles from the wharf, and
besides a heavy surf running, the rain poured in torrents, the
little open boat that conveyed two or three of the passengers—myself
included—was almost swamped, and we were thoroughly soaked before
reaching the steamer. After the well-appointed vessels of the Royal
Mail, with their disciplined crews, admirable attendance, and officers
who spare no pains to make their passengers as comfortable as possible,
it was with some dismay that we saw the little tub in which we were
to continue our voyage. A closer inspection was not more cheering
as the cabin accommodation was wretched, and the tiny upper deck
unpleasantly crowded. I must add that this was not one of the regular
French Mail-steamers, but only an inter-colonial vessel running between
Martinique, Trinidad, and La Guaira.
Our fellow-passengers were nearly all Venezuelans; the ladies were
extremely pretty and graceful, but a little over-dressed for a
sea-voyage, and not being good sailors they soon presented a very
dishevelled appearance. The men, as usual dreadfully vociferous, in
their shouting, stamping, and gesticulations reminded me of my late
friends the Arecuna Indians. They mean nothing, it is merely their mode
of emphasizing their expressions, and though they shake their fists in
each other’s faces, and contradict one another flatly, no insult is
intended or received as such. They all wore long black coats, tall hats
and high-heeled boots, a dress which they thought quite appropriate to
the deck of a ship. Fortunately, except for the invalids, there was no
necessity to go below, as all the meals—and very good they were—were
served on deck, which also answered for sleeping quarters. In the matter
of ice, there was not much on board, and no one was allowed any except
the captain. I once drew his attention to that fact, but he only shrugged
his shoulders.
It was dark when we left the Gulf of Paria and sailed through the
Dragon’s Mouth, and then turned west towards the mountains of Cumaná.
Next morning we found ourselves at some distance from shore, but moving
parallel with the Venezuelan coast, which looked high, grey and arid.
After passing Caribe there were a few signs of habitation; stretches of
white sandy beach were backed by groves of palms, and in the bright green
wooded ravines, which intersected the cactus-covered hills, a hacienda
peeped out here and there.
Our first halt was at Carupano, which is said to be a rapidly progressing
town. There is certainly room for improvement. In the centre of the bay
rises a high rock covered with different species of cereus, and on it
stands a lighthouse. On the beach is the custom-house, and a collection
of low yellow mud huts surrounded by brown rocks and bare hills. The
town itself is situated farther back, and a river flowing through the
neighbouring palm groves gives a fresher aspect to that part of the
withered scene. Like most ports on this coast, it is excessively hot and
unhealthy.
Early next morning we entered the Gulf of Cariaco and anchored off Cumaná
the capital of the State of that name. Here, as at Carupano, the town
is situated at some distance from the coast, and at the foot of a brown
hill crowned by an old fort. Between us and it is a broad sandy plain,
dotted over with mud huts of the most unprepossessing appearance. There
is little to interest the spectator in the arid scenery, except its
colouring, and that is of the brightest and most varied description. The
intense light, the excessive radiance of the sun, and the clearness of
the atmosphere—Cumaná is comparatively healthy—produce an astonishing
effect of colour that would not be possible if vegetation predominated.
Here and there glistening points of white sand run out into the water,
and behind them are undulating grey hills which end abruptly in low
walls of red rock. Through the yellow plain the Manzanares winds its way
from the town, and its banks are covered with a growth of dark green
verdure. The hill of San Antonio above the town looks white and shining.
Nearer to us, a long promontory is covered with a broad belt of palms,
among which some red-roofed houses are seen. Beyond, across the gulf, is
a red, rocky shore, which fades away in a russet brown; and over the
coast-range, which is almost crimson in its rich tints, rise the purple
peaks of distant mountains. Sky and sea are of the purest blue, and the
snowy sails of the fishing boats, that skim over the latter, are only
matched in whiteness by the gossamer shreds of cloud that float above.
To what extent modern conveniences are carried in the capital we could
not tell, but the canoes that brought us Muscat grapes were only hollowed
tree-trunks, and the vehicles on shore that conveyed passengers to the
town were donkey-carts.
From the number of nets which we observed, it was evident that fishing
was the chief occupation, and the continuous strings of pelicans showed
that there was an abundance of food. These ungainly birds were a great
amusement to us as we basked in the intense heat of the powerful sun.
Sometimes they flew past in long lines on heavy wing, with their long
necks doubled over their backs, and with no other thought than that of
regulating their movements with those of their leader. At others, they
approached singly or in pairs, each one attending to its own business.
Here one falls like a bullet, but diagonally, and disappears under
the water. In a second it re-appears, and disgorging the fish from
its capacious pouch swallows it whole. That one must have missed his
aim, as he sits gazing with an air of astonishment, as if such a thing
was impossible; and his mate who alights behind him and slides along
the water to his side, reproves him with a look as comical as it is
expressive. The graceful man-of-war “hawks” appeared to be much more
expert than the pelicans, and though they did not dive so frequently, yet
they seldom missed their fish.
Around Cumaná the dry plains and barren rocks, the stunted vegetation,
the roofless walls and shattered buildings are suggestive of the
earthquakes and tidal waves which have desolated this as well as other
parts of this region of South America. Only now is the town recovering
from the shock of 1854, which in twenty seconds reduced it to a heap of
ruins.
After leaving Curnaná the scenery was more picturesque. Deep bays ran
in between rocky headlands, at whose feet were islets as white as if
they had been salted. Crags and bare hills, varied with tree-clad
promontories, and dainty little coves full of the bluest water and rimmed
with the whitest sand. After threading our way through various islands,
we passed between El Morro and the craggy islet of Borracha, and cast
anchor opposite Barcelona, another State capital. The place was not
attractive, and I was glad to be able to answer no when a Venezuelan
asked me if I was not going to visit the great English paper-manufactory
which is established in the town.
The district is interesting, for here commence the great “llanuras” which
stretch away to the Orinoco, and whose inhabitants are veritable free
children of the desert. The “Llanero” will not live in towns, and is only
happy when with his horse for a companion he roams over the boundless
grassy plains tending his cattle. Brave, hardy, athletic, and eminently
patriotic, the “Llanero” is a power in the land, and has played an
important part in the establishment of national independence.
Inexpressibly sombre was the vast brown savanna extending to the purple
horizon, relieved only at intervals by a few hills or a flat-topped
mountain. Even the sea seemed to have caught the cheerless tint of the
land, and instead of sparkling blue, we tossed in dull water of a leaden
grey. By degrees the level shore gave place to undulating ground, this to
rounded hills, and the hills to a mountain range, above which towered La
Silla, one of the highest peaks—in the State of Bolivar—of the northern
Cordillera of the Andes.[111] Then we knew we were approaching La Guaira.