CARRIAGE ROAD BETWEEN CARACAS AND LA GUAIRA—THE “COW-TREE”—A
VENEZUELAN SUCCESS—FRENCH MAIL STEAMER—LEAVE LA GUAIRA—PUERTO
CABELLO—GOLFO TRISTE—MILITARY HISTORY—CURACOA—GULF OF
MARACAIBO—SAVANILLA—EMERALD MINES—CLOUDS OF BUTTERFLIES—LEAVE
SAVANILLA.
In the dry season the carriage-road between Carácas and La Guaira is
by no means a pleasant one. The ricketty old coaches which perform the
journey have leather flaps instead of windows; if these are down you are
stifled with the heat, and if they are open you are suffocated with dust.
On account of the bad springs and deep ruts, you are little better than
an animated shuttle-cock for a great part of the drive, and the exercise
you undergo is of the most severe description.
The scenery is wild and romantic, but when I passed through it was dry
and barren. Only here and there, in the deep valley on the left, were
there patches of green and cultivated spots, whilst the hills on the
right were rugged and aloe-clad. For the first two hours we wound up the
hill-side, and then commenced a long zig-zag descent. Every now and then
we had to halt, to allow the numerous pack-trains of donkeys and oxen to
pass, the poor animals toiling painfully in such clouds of dust that
breathing must have been difficult.
Not far from the station where we changed horses, I left the road to
visit a cow-tree[115]—Palo de vaca. It was about eighty feet in height
with long, thick leaves of a deep, shining green. The milk, which is said
to be wholesome, is thick and glutinous and of a yellower tinge than that
of a cow. A few of these wooden cows would be valuable acquisitions in
many grassless regions, but I do not think any attempt to acclimatize
them has ever been made.
The first view of La Guaira and the coast recalls the “Corniche” road.
Below lie green fields edged with palms, groves, and white cottages
standing in gardens; and beyond the clustering houses of the town the
land runs out in numberless promontories into the blue sea. Truly this
is a land of projects and projections! On the right and above rise steep
mountains specked with the white flowers of the Frangipanni, and its
ravines green with coffee plantations, mangoes and bananas. A glimpse
of white houses, and the Fort of San Carlos perched above the Quebrada
de Tipe, add to the picturesque element of the scene. At the pretty
little village of Maiquetia they were firing off rockets, as they had
not yet finished the celebration of a great event in Venezuela, viz.,
the completion during the past week of a single-line tramway, connecting
the village with La Guaira, a distance of about a mile. And thus the
contemplated railroad between the coast and the capital has ended in a
one-horse car with a mile run, and even that enterprise will probably
have failed in a few months. By the advice of the agent I arrived in
La Guaira one day before the French mail steamer was due; as a natural
consequence it was a day late. Those three days I will pass over in
silence, so utterly wretched were they on account of the heat, the bad
hotel, and the squalid town.
When at last the steamer arrived, the port-captain kept the passengers
waiting on the wharf for about three hours before he would allow the
boats to take them off. The first remark that greeted us on board was
from the afore-mentioned agent.
“Show your permits, please.”
“I have no permit,” I replied.
“Monsieur,” said the Agent, “must be good enough to return to land, and
get a permit from the port-captain.”
“You must really excuse me,” I remonstrated, “it is too far to return,
and when I bought my ticket I ought to have been informed that it was
necessary to obtain a permit.”
“The steamer cannot leave until you have received your permit,” insisted
the agent.
“Then the steamer must remain,” I said coolly.
A whispered conference between the agent and his myrmidon now ensued.
“If Monsieur will not leave, the captain will be appealed to,” resumed
the agent.
“Appeal to the captain,” was my calm but firm rejoinder.
“Monsieur must go at once,” said the agent with firmness, a decision
which his myrmidon seemed ready to applaud.
“Monsieur will not go,” replied the passenger with equal firmness, which
was greeted with applause by the other passengers.
“Once for all, will Monsieur leave?” exclaimed the agent, now furious.
“Once for all, he will not,” I replied, rather angrily.
At this moment another delinquent came on board without a permit, and as
I turned on my heel to look after my baggage I heard, “Monsieur must be
good enough, &c.” Whether this one returned to shore I do not know; if
he did, he must have lost his passage, as a few minutes afterwards the
anchor was lifted and we were off.
In the saloon I heard an animated discussion between the new passengers
and the stewards. I think the port-captain and the head-steward must have
had an arrangement between them, not to allow the passengers to come on
board until after dinner. Dinner was over, and we were refused anything
to eat until tea time. Now, as none of us had dined, we were hungry and
did not wish to wait for another three hours. Expostulation was useless,
so I sought the captain, and as he was just going to dinner, he requested
me to join him, and I fared extremely well. The others, who would not go
to the fountain-head, growled angrily until tea-time. I never had been
glad to get on board ship before, but after the land heat and the utter
impossibility of procuring anything cold to drink, the sea breeze and ice
were both refreshing.
The steamer was a fine vessel, built to carry the countless hordes
who were expected to visit the Paris Exhibition, _viâ_ Panama. On no
mail-steamer have I ever seen better attendance or such good living. The
cooking was perfection, and the viands were just suited to the tropics.
Abundance of cool salads—that of the cabbage-palm being particularly well
made—delicious bread and coffee, really good butter, appetizing dishes,
and very fair white and red wines, _ad lib._, were items on the daily
bill of fare not often found on board ship. The price of the passage was
undoubtedly high, but so it was with the other lines of steamers that
touched at these ports.
Close along shore we glided past the green plains around Maiquetia and
the white cape, beneath which sat a row of pelicans with the most solemn
physiognomies. The high coast range was broken and ribbed, deep ravines
backed stretches of white sand, and the only signs of habitation were in
the few canoes which floated near the shore. The next day we were still
in view of the mountains of Ocumare, and soon sighted Puerto Cabello.
From a distance the town appeared to be far inland, but mingled with
towers and red roofs were the tall masts of vessels. Low, bush-covered
islets and white sandy beaches, on which the surf broke heavily, lay
between us and the town. We rounded a long point of land, and saw the
Golfo Triste curving away to the north; then we entered the strangest
little harbour in the world. Passing close alongside an island fort and
lighthouse, we gradually drifted into a deep, narrow channel, and were
soon moored to the wharf. This inside bay affords admirable shelter for
shipping, but it is small, and the islets and mangrove banks on its
eastern limits seem to indicate a gradual shallowing of its still waters.
It is like a small swampy lake protected from the sea by sand-bars,
rocks, and bushes. The town is quaint and pretty; palms, minarets, and
pagoda-like towers giving it an oriental aspect. The high mountain
background is crowned by two peaks, the “Tetas de Hilaria,” and on the
hill of the “Vigia” is an old and useless fort. To the east is Fort
Mirador del Solano, on which vast sums have been spent, and which now,
when nearly completed, is discovered to be of no use whatever.
Up in the mountains is the picturesque village of San Estéban, famed for
its feather flowers, and also as a health resort for the fevered dwellers
on the coast. In the olden days, when Puerto Cabello was the refuge for
pirates, smugglers, and criminals, it was considered the most unhealthy
spot in northern South America; the terrible “vómito negro” devastated
the region. It has always maintained its bad reputation with the outside
world, but in reality it is comparatively salubrious at the present day.
Its military history eclipses that of other Venezuelan towns, as in
1743 it was attacked by an English fleet, which was repulsed with great
loss, and in 1824 its capture by Generals Padilla and Paez ended the war
of emancipation. Since then it has undergone three sieges. Altogether,
Puerto Cabello and its environs are interesting, but the heat is too
great to render a prolonged sojourn enjoyable.
Soon after leaving, we sighted the Dutch island of Curaçoa, which, during
the revolution, had been the head-quarters of the Spaniards, as, although
its people were with the patriots, yet the Government and the rich
merchants were in favour of Spain. As we proceeded, the high mainland
grew fainter, and presently we crossed the entrance of the deep gulf of
Maracaïbo. Then great rocks of a ghostly whiteness started up near the
ship’s course, and long reaches of sand bordered the yellow green sea
which surged heavily on the hot coast of Colombia. The land scenery was
flat and sombre; the coast hills dwindled away to a vanishing point,
and grey savannas reached to the horizon. It was dull and sad-looking
and intensely hot, too hot, apparently, for the traditional dolphins
which, on the previous day, had never ceased racing with the steamer,
and had entertained us by the marvellous unanimity with which long lines
of them would appear and disappear, taking their graceful leaps like
trained steeplechasers who had disposed of their riders, but were still
determined to complete the course.
Forty hours after leaving Puerto Cabello we reached Savanilla, and
anchored in a large bay at a great distance from shore, where we could
see only a few cottages and a lighthouse, standing in an amphitheatre of
undulating green hills. It had been my intention to disembark here and
proceed up the Magdalena River to Bogotá, but when the little tug came
alongside to take passengers for Barranquilla, I heard that the river was
too low at present even for the small steamers that run on it. This was a
great disappointment, as I had been anxious to visit the emerald mines of
Muzo, not only for the sake of seeing the mines themselves, but in order
to obtain some specimens of the rare “Morpho Cyprio.” Afterwards, at
Panama, I saw two of these wonderful butterflies, and was not astonished
at the belief of the miners of Muzo that the splendid insects feed on the
emeralds, and so obtain their brilliant hue. Anything more exquisite than
the colour and sheen it is impossible to imagine. Unfortunately for me
their owner appreciated them as highly as I did, and though I was by no
means illiberal in my offer, I could not tempt him to part with one of
them.
Whilst we were at Savanilla great swarms of a single species of
butterfly—_Danaidæ_—hovered over the vessel, and many of them rested
on the deck and rigging. They appeared to be outward bound, and flew
north-east in delicate clouds. As there was no breeze to blow them
from the land, it must have been their own wish to migrate. If their
destination was one of the islands, I am afraid the poor emigrants
never could have reached it, as before we left Savanilla a strong
north-easterly wind sprang up, against which they could not have sailed
onwards. The heavens were already sprinkled with silver stars when we
steamed out of the bay; and where only a few minutes before, in the
direction of our course, there had been a bank of rainbow-coloured
clouds, there was now only a pale silvery vapour that gradually diffused
itself over land and sea.