Up the Orinoco and down the Magdalena

by J. A. Zahm

Our trail was one of the numerous cattle paths that intersect the llanos in every direction. The one we followed was a narrow ditch filled with from one to two feet of water. Our vaqueano, who was in the lead, trotted along as if we were following a dry path, and we had to keep up with him or be lost. It was then that we realized the impossibility of traveling over these extensive plains without a guide, especially on a cloudy day during the rainy season. As well might one try to cross the ocean without a compass as attempt to make one’s way over the llanos without a vaqueano. There was so many caños—those natural channels, like deep ditches, connecting streams and rivers—and morasses to cross that were quite impassable except in certain places known only to the Llaneros, who are thoroughly familiar with the country, that a stranger traveling alone would soon find progress quite impeded.

To attempt to reach one’s destination by relying on the oral directions of a Llanero would be quite hopeless. They would, probably, be worded somewhat as follows:

“Continue your course over the savanna—arriba, arriba—up, up, until you reach that bunch of cattle you see yonder. You see them, don’t you?” queries the Llanero. They are some cows and young bullocks, lost in the distance. Not having an Indian’s keenness of vision you discern absolutely nothing, and yet, unwilling to admit the fact, you declare that you distinguish them perfectly. Your informant then vouchsafes further information which, if you carefully heed and are able to follow, will without fail, conduct you to your desired goal. “Then,” he continues, “go to a clump of algarroba trees, but leave that aside and veer towards a group of palms which you will see from there. When you reach the palm group, coast along the foothills, across the Caño del Cayman, for that is the name of the caño, until you come to the Caño del Tigre. Next, you come to a copse of bamboos, and then after that to the Caño de Chaparro Negro. Near it you will find the Paso del Caño. Cross it and you will come to a morichal at your left, but leave it behind, and continue a little to the right for half an hour, and you will see the place you are looking for.”

Years ago I had received similar directions from an old woman in the mountains of Conamara, but there, all I had to do was to keep on the road, and stop at the place I was seeking when I reached it. In the llanos, where there are no roads, outside the hundreds of cattle paths extending in every direction, it would be natural for the traveler, depending on directions like the above, promptly to lose himself.

Fortunately, we had a good vaqueano, one who knew every cowpath and caño and clump of trees between Barrigón and Villavicencio, and we felt thoroughly at ease under his guidance. At times, it is true, we found it somewhat difficult to keep up with him. He seemed to have reserved the speediest animal for himself, or he knew better how to keep up a sustained trot than we did. But, be that as it may, we managed never to permit him to vanish from sight.

As we were riding over the plains we observed a large number of vultures—Gallinazos—on a tree near our path. Hard by was the carcass of an ox, that had just died, on which a single king vulture—Sarcoramphus Papa—like the one we fancied that preyed on the liver of Tityus—was making his morning repast. The Gallinazos appear to stand in awe of the king vulture, and were patiently waiting till he was satiated before making any attempt to appease their own voracious appetites. The two species are never seen to feed on the same carcass together. We saw several other such vulture banquets on our way, but never did we see so many of these scavengers congregated around the same carrion.

After six hours of hard riding, most of the time in a heavy rain, we reached Los Pavitos. It consisted of a small bamboo hut and a number of sheds. Here we dismounted for our midday meal, which consisted of a few boiled eggs, and a cup of café à la llanera—that is, coffee without milk or sweetening of any kind—sin dulce—as the natives phrase it—and some crackers that we had in an improvised haversack.

The family living in the hut consisted of three persons—man, wife and their little daughter, a sweet child of about four years of age. Both mother and child were neatly dressed, and had a genteel appearance that was in marked contrast with their surroundings. The child wore a tidy pink dress, tastefully ornamented, and seemed as if she had just come from the class-room of a convent school. The family impressed us as having seen better days, and had evidently not lived always so far away from their fellows.

Near the house stood a large calabash tree, bearing the largest fruit of the kind we had yet observed. Some of the specimens of this tree looked not unlike green pumpkins, and were fully from ten to twelve inches in diameter. It is well named the crockery tree, because, in the tropics, it supplies to a great extent the kitchen utensils which are elsewhere made from clay.

Within a few steps of the tree mentioned was a broad, murmuring stream—shaded on both sides by large, overhanging trees—of pure crystal water. It was the first time in many weeks that we had seen clear, flowing water, and then was brought home to us, as never before, the truth of old Captain John Hawkins’ expressive words that there is nothing “so toothsome as running water.” While on the Orinoco and the Meta, we always had with us large earthenware filters, for it was not safe to drink the muddy waters of these rivers, often containing more or less decaying animal matter.