CHAPTER XVII

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Not far from the Atures rapids, we stopped at Puerto Real, a short curve in the river where the waters penetrate into a sort of bay justifying the name of ‘port,’ but with no other title to it, for no human habitation, not even the humblest hut, exists on either shore. Here the canoes were laden permanently, as the river flowed straight to the ocean, free from all rapids except at a few narrow places where the current is swifter. These, however, did not call for the precautions of the past days.

Leal considered his task at an end. We were on the open Orinoco in the Republic of Venezuela, and in the hands of a guide as careful and expert as GatiÑo. This led Leal to return. In vain did we seek to persuade him to accompany us, to enter Colombia by the Magdalena River, thence to BogotÁ, and then by the road we had followed to San Pedro del Tua. He would not abandon his companions, and decided to go back by the identical route we had followed. We deeply felt parting from that noble companion whose quiet, unobtrusive courage, whose skilled prudence and ready intelligence, had not only contributed greatly to our comfort during the ninety odd days that he had been with us, but had doubtless saved our lives on more than one occasion.

As a proof of the extent and value of his services, I will quote a letter received many months after in Europe, when, in the midst of modern civilization, the events and occurrences of my journey through the tropical regions of South America seemed more like a dream than a reality. Alex, who had returned to BogotÁ, wrote as follows:

‘I have just received a letter from Leal, dated from his home at San Pedro del Tua. You will remember that he left us with fourteen of our men, to return by the Vichada and the Meta. On the very day of their departure, whilst they were ascending the rapids, and we proceeded on our journey down-stream, only a few hours after bidding us farewell, one of the two canoes, carrying seven men, struck the trunk of a tree lying under the water, and capsized. The men were all good swimmers, and soon overtook the canoe, which was drifting with the stream. After a good deal of trouble, they succeeded in turning it over. Whilst they were getting back into it, they were attacked by two enormous alligators which sought to overturn the canoe, striking it furiously with their tails. One of the sailors was struck on the head and stunned, losing his grip, and before he could be pulled in the other alligator cut his body in two, as if with a saw, crushing him between its jaws, so that the man was actually devoured in the very presence of his companions.’

On reading these tragic details, I felt a cold shiver run through me, like a man who sees lightning strike an object close to him, or feels a murderous bullet whizz past his head. A retrospective fear seized upon me at the thought of the many nights spent on the lonely beaches, and the numberless times that our canoes had struck submerged rocks or trunks of trees. Surely a kind Providence had watched over us during that long journey. ‘The child’s heart within the man’s’ revived in me, with the faith in God learnt from the lips of my mother, and my soul went to her who, during those long, anxious days, had prayed night and day to Him above for the safety of her absent son.

Greatly diminished in numbers, we continued downwards, hoping to strike some camp of tonga-bean-gatherers, the harvest season having just begun.

If the Meta had seemed large and mighty to us, the Orinoco bore the aspect of an inland sea. The breezes and the hurricanes blow upon its billows and dash them into surf on the bank; the trade-winds—our old friends of the Meta—reappeared on the Orinoco, only far stronger than before. One would say that they spend their force in the long journey, and are somewhat weary in the upper regions. It is impossible to make any progress in the teeth of the trade-wind. With a stern or a side wind the canoes hoist their sails and travel with the speed of birds on the wing. The great force of the wind is generally felt during the middle hours of the day; it lulls in the morning and afternoon.

Far more frequently than on the Meta we were forced to wait for hours on the sandy desert beaches, or close in to the shore covered with jungle, waiting, waiting for the wind to sink. The worst feature of these breezes is that they raise a great quantity of sand to a height varying from 2 to 3 feet.

Cooking becomes impossible, as the wind blows the fire out, scattering the embers and the logs, and unless rocks or trees be available on which to sit at a certain height, one is compelled to stand, as it is impossible to breathe the air, which is impregnated with sand. At such times we were compelled to make our meals of casabe dipped in water, and drink more freely of the white rum which took the place of warmer food and drink. Once we were kept thus imprisoned for nearly thirty hours; our helplessness against the elements exercised a most depressing influence.

The tonga bean, called in Spanish zarrapia, constitutes a most important article of trade, and is obtained in large quantities on the shore of the Orinoco and of many of its affluents below the rapids. It is said to abound also in the Upper Orinoco, but there it is seldom gathered.

The tonga-tree is large and leafy, very similar to the mango-tree. The branches, which spread over an area of 20, 30, or 40 feet, are covered with thick foliage, and the yield of fruit is enormous. The fruit resembles the mango in shape and appearance. Under a sweet pulp, quite palatable, is found an oval nut, identical with that of the mango, and inside this nut, which has the consistency of a walnut, is encased a small elongated bean of a pink colour. It soon turns dark red when exposed to air and sun. The trees shed the fruit in the months of February and March; the men gather it from the ground, clean off the pulp, and break the nut with stones. This must be carefully done to avoid breaking the bean, which is then placed in the sun on dry, untanned hides, and after two or three days packed in bags ready for transportation.

The tonga bean is chiefly used in perfumery, and is a very good substitute for vanilla.

We were told that the exports averaged, at the prices then ranging, a yearly output of £100,000 to £150,000. I understand that the price has fallen considerably of late years, but as the gathering costs very little, and the transportation, owing to the numerous waterways, is cheap, there must still be great profits in the business.

Traders flock from the different parts of the river to certain well-known camps, from which they branch off into the forests, bringing back the bean for sale to the camps. Although the Venezuelan Government has more than once granted special privileges and monopolies to individuals and companies for the exploitation of the tonga bean, its gathering is practically free, as it would be next to impossible to watch over such vast uninhabited areas where men can easily conceal themselves in the forests.

Our progress was far slower than before, as we generally lost half a day waiting for the breeze to fall. This was owing principally to the size of our canoes, too small for navigation in a high wind.

In due time we came upon the first camp, a most welcome sight to our eyes; a whole village of tents stood pitched on the bank of the river, and upwards of twenty or thirty canoes were moored along the shore. Amongst them we saw a small one-masted schooner, which raised its graceful lines above the surrounding small craft. We gazed upon it with covetous eyes, and decided to make every possible effort to acquire it, if it could be had for love or money.

We did not attract any attention at first; the people in the camp thought that we were tonga-bean-gatherers like themselves, coming from some point above; but they showed great interest and courtesy on hearing that we came not only from beyond the rapids, but from the upper affluents of the Orinoco. We soon closed a bargain for the schooner, into which we transferred our belongings, and the next day the three small sails were let loose to the very breeze that, during the past few days, had nailed us to the shores.

Besides the schooner, we obtained a supply of provisions, though not as much as we wished. The traders had only what they needed, and were loath to part with them, especially as we were going towards the centres of supply.

In the course of a day or two we stopped at a large flat island, some twelve miles in length, as we were told, and varying from two to four miles in breadth; this is known as the Beach of Lard (Playa de la Manteca). This island is the laying-place of hundreds of thousands of turtles, which come to it every year in the laying season. The island belongs to the Government, who place a small detachment of soldiers to watch over it. The traders buy the right of working a given section of the ground. They dig out the eggs, from which the oil is extracted. It is used for cooking, and is a substitute for lard and butter—hence the name of the beach.

The turtles swarm in myriads, and are forced by those coming up behind them to go further into the island. After laying their eggs they seek the water, but are so numerous that it is necessary for the soldiers and traders to keep a pathway open, otherwise many of them could not get back to the river.

It is a marvel to see countless acres of ground covered with turtles as thick as the stones of a pavement; and the fact might be incredible if it were not vouched for by so many travellers.

A turtle lays, according to its size and age, from fifty to three or four hundred eggs. The men—traders or Government agents—are free to take as many turtles as they like; the eggs are the only article of barter upon which a price is set.

Some idea of the number of turtles laying eggs on the beach may be gathered from the reckoning of a French traveller who investigated the subject.

The oil extracted from the eggs is gathered in demijohns holding on an average seven gallons each, and the average yield of a good year is about ten thousand demijohns. Each demijohn requires from four to five thousand eggs; ten thousand demijohns represent from four to five millions, which means that there must be from four to five hundred thousand turtles. The tale seems extravagant.

It is needless to say that we took in as large a supply of turtles and of eggs as we could carry. The sailors of the schooner were delighted at the prospect of turtle meat and turtle eggs ad libitum. The eggs are boiled in salt water, and keep for a practically indefinite period.

The capacity for eating these eggs shown by the natives of those regions seems to be unlimited. I could not understand, looking at the size of the men and at the young mountain of turtle eggs before which they sat, and which disappeared after a period of sustained assimilation, how it was possible that they did not swell outwardly or explode. Here was a case in which the envelope was, to all purposes and appearances, smaller than the contents assimilated—a problem for some sapient naturalist to investigate whenever he may chance to stray into those remote regions.

It is said that the turtle yields seven kinds of meat, and that in the hands of a good cook it is transfigured into calf’s head, veal, tender loin steak, chicken, venison, pork, and (naturally) turtle meat. Be that as it may, notwithstanding the uncouth and, to some, repulsive appearance of the animal, it is evident that the various parts of its body are not only palatable, but may be disguised to imitate the varieties mentioned, a peculiarity which in its turn works inversely, as in the well-known case of mock-turtle soup.

The turtles we bought were placed on their backs, which seems to be the universal method of keeping them all the world over. There in the bottom of our schooner the poor beasts had ample opportunity to watch the flight of clouds by day and the grouping of the constellations by night. I fear, however, that they did not improve their time with the study either of atmospherical changes or of astronomical wonders.

Fermin rapidly learnt how to cook and prepare turtles in the various native ways, to which he added devices of his own, reminiscent of the preparation of other meats and dishes in his native province.

The change of diet was most welcome at first, but after the fourth or fifth day the very name of turtle was revolting. Fermin was told that, if nothing else but turtle was to be found, we preferred to fall back on boiled rice and casabe. Relying, however, on his ability and the protean plasticity of turtle meat, he insisted on serving some of it as wild-boar flesh, and only upon a formal threat of shooting, or being left tied to the trunk of a tree along the shore, like a new Andromache, did he cease his attempts to deceive our palates. Thus, notwithstanding the plentiful supply of turtles and turtle eggs, we drifted back to the diet of casabe, boiled fish and boiled rice.

We had hoped to strike some cattle-farm, but we scanned the horizon in vain. The plains and the forests rolled before our eyes, an interminable blank for our purposes.

Finally, as everything happens at last, our expectation was gratified; near the confluence of our old friend the Meta with the Orinoco, we came upon a cattle-ranch where we obtained corn, molasses, eggs, lard, cheese, coffee, and the whole side of a recently slaughtered heifer.

I can readily understand that persons of a delicate taste, should they happen to read these awkwardly penned lines, must feel disgusted at the recurrence of such vulgar and material details. Their amazement will certainly be great, for in all probability they will be surrounded by all the comforts and the luxury of civilized life. There is no harsher censor of the misdeeds or faults arising out of somebody else’s hunger than the drowsy philosopher who passes judgment in a comfortable armchair after a plentiful meal; his untempted rectitude makes him the austerest critic of failings and weaknesses in others. However, the opinion of those immaculate beings, with their hot-house virtue, safe from wind and wet behind glass panes, receives precisely the attention it deserves.

Still, I admit that, after having crossed those regions, it were better if I could describe what I saw in a series of pen-pictures which would unroll before the reader in sequence or harmonious groups the numerous sublime aspects of Nature; it were far better that, even as the essence retains the perfume of the flower, the written word should convey to other minds the deep impression left upon my own by the mysterious murmuring forest, the invisible wind whose breath so often cooled my forehead, the constant throb of the wandering waves pent within their narrow channels, the infinite azure of the sky, and the numberless sounds and rumours, now soft, now deafening, which fill the air in that world still free from the burden of civilization, living the life of untrodden Nature, a link in the endless chain of existence ravening on death, with the great drama of being made manifest in a thousand diverse shapes.

Happy were I could I seize one single note from that vast symphony, capture it, and fix it with my words! Vain wishes!

We passed from those solitudes, leaving no more trace behind us than the clouds in the sky, and although the impression of the greatness and the majesty of Nature sank deeply into my heart, so that at times my soul, returning to the days of the past, loses itself in the depths of the forests and the summits of the mountains, follows the course of the rivers, or bathes itself in the pure atmosphere of the free and boundless plain, whenever I seek to utter my inmost feelings, so that others may feel and understand with me, only the faintest shadow of my thought falls on the blank page. The gift of seeing and of feeling, and of creating what we have felt and seen so that others in their turn may feel a similar impression, has been given by the Almighty only to those few chosen artists and men of genius who throw upon the work which they create ‘the light that never was on land or sea.’ I must perforce limit myself to the humble narrative of our daily life. I have no higher ambition in writing these pages, and I shall be fortunate if I meet with readers who understand my motive.

The schooner took us down to La Urbana (a settlement with urban pretensions); it boasts some adobe houses covered with tiles, and a small church. Here we abandoned the schooner, and were obliged to take to a far smaller canoe—large enough, however, for navigation on the Orinoco—in which we proceeded to Caicara, where we expected to meet the steamers plying between Ciudad Bolivar and the Apure River.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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