Up the Orinoco and down the Magdalena

by J. A. Zahm

The second morning we had our usual desayuno of black coffee and plátanos. And to our amazement, there was added to this simple fare a fine roast chicken. Where did it come from? We had seen no chickens anywhere about the premises, and could not have been more surprised if it had dropped from the blue sky. I asked the captain, and he quietly replied with a smile, “Un poco de diplomacia. Nada mas.” A little diplomacy. Nothing more. Ever considerate about our comfort and needs, he had instituted a search for provisions, and learned that the la vieja—the old woman, as he called her—had some chickens concealed not far from the house, and, whether by persuasion or threats, he would not say, he induced her to part with one of them, and intimated that the same diplomacy he had employed in getting the first, would, if necessary, avail in securing others. The outlook was still brightening, and we now felt more than ever that our deliverance was near.

Shortly after midday, while we were taking our usual siesta in the launch, we were suddenly startled by an unearthly noise. All the dogs and whelps of the place and all the “curs of low degree”—and there were many of them—began to bark at once. And then in the forest near by there was such shouting and screaming on the part of men and boys, accompanied by the neighing of horses and the braying of mules, that it seemed that a troop of guerrillas was bearing down upon us. Never before had we heard anything like it, except possibly a Sioux or Navajo war whoop. They seemed to desire to frighten us to death before attacking us vi et armis. But no music could have been more grateful to our ears than were those discordant notes emitted by man and beast. We knew at once what it all meant, and, almost before we could reach the top of the bank, our animals and men were all gathered in the small free space in front of the cabin, and with them were the bearers of the Bogotá mail. There were about thirty mules and horses, and more than a dozen men.

We had telegraphed for mules only, as we did not think we should be able to get horses, but to our delight we found that we were to have two good saddle horses for our personal use, besides the mules destined for our baggage. As, however, both men and animals needed rest, after their long tiresome trip from Villavicencio, it was deemed best to defer our departure until the following morning. The animals were then turned loose to browse on whatever they could find to appease hunger, and their masters were soon ensconced in their hammocks, slung wherever they could find a suitable place for them.

It was arranged with our vaqueano that we should all be ready for our journey across the llanos de madrugada—at early dawn—the following morning. We had a long day’s ride before us, as the nearest stopping place, where we could hope to find food and shelter, was at a place called Barrancas, where was the house of the owner of a large hato—cattle farm.

Bright and early, then, the next morning, our peons and vaqueano were busy saddling our horses and packing our baggage on the backs of the mules. The mail bongo from Orocué—which had left that place ten days before we did—arrived a few hours before our departure, and all mail matter was hurriedly put on the backs of other mules by those in charge of the mail destined for Bogotá and intervening points.

It was not without a pang that we bade farewell to our devoted crew, who had done so much to render our voyage on the Meta and Humea as pleasant as it was memorable. From the ever-courteous and thoughtful captain to our good-natured and obliging Guahibo, we were always the recipients of delicate attentions of every kind. We might travel far before again meeting with men so kind and so sympathetic as were those four whom it was our good fortune to meet in an isolated village of far-off Colombia. “God bless you all!” we said in parting. “Nothing is too good for you.”

During the first hour after starting we had to struggle through what the natives call the montaña. It had nothing mountainous about it, as the name would seem to indicate, but was a dark, nearly impervious wood almost on a level with the waters of the Humea. In the dry season, I doubt not, the path through this forest would present no difficulty, but during the rainy season it was next to impassable. Everywhere there was deep, sticky mud and deeper pools and dirty stagnant water. Often our horses sank to the saddle-girths in the tenacious slime, and it was only by the greatest effort that they were able to extricate themselves. At times, where the mud and water were unusually deep, we were forced, for short stretches, to make our way through the pathless forest. Then every step was impeded by branches and lianas and progress was next to impossible. Finally, with great difficulty for the animals and not a little danger to ourselves, we succeeded in effecting our exit from this terrible montaña, and, before we were aware of it, we found ourselves on high and dry ground on the edge of a beautiful, smiling prairie of apparently limitless extent.

What a relief it was to get once more into the open—into the broad llanos of Colombia—where we could have an unimpeded view for miles in every direction. We had been in the depths of the forest so long, getting only occasional glimpses of the llanos on our way up the river, that we felt like a prisoner given his liberty after a long term of confinement. Not that we had not enjoyed the forests while we were in them. Far from it. We had enjoyed every moment of the time spent in studying their richness and beauty. But now that we had reached the llanos, to which we had so long looked forward, and were no longer confined to the limited quarters of our launch; now that we were on our willing steeds and could move as we chose in any direction and as far afield as fancy might suggest, we experienced a sense of freedom and agility that surprised ourselves. We felt as if we had suddenly been transferred to another world, so different was our new environment from that in which we had spent so many weeks.

Never did the earth seem so green or the sky so blue, or the sun so bright; never did the face of nature appear so ravishingly beautiful as on that glorious May morning near the picturesque Humea. And away to the west, partly veiled by haze and cloud, loomed up higher than ever those vast mountains of majesty and mystery that seemed to overhang the world. Yes, we were slowly but surely approaching the Andes, and in a few days more, Deo volente, we should be scaling its dizzy heights and exulting in the splendid panoramas that would be presented to our enchanted gaze.

The landscape before us was indeed beautiful, entrancing as a vision, fair as the Happy Valley of Rasselas. Exulting in a new sense of freedom, and stirred by many overmastering emotions, we could but exclaim with Byron,