Up the Orinoco and down the Magdalena

by J. A. Zahm

We then remembered that we yet had in our haversack a small tin box, still unopened, of sliced Chicago bacon. This, with some crackers, was all that was left of the little store of provisions that we had brought with us. It was not without grave misgivings that we proceeded to open this remnant of our food-supply. We had, on several former occasions, found that our canned goods were unfit for use, and what if the contents of this last box should be spoiled? It meant that we should be reduced to extremely short rations until we should reach Villavicencio, and there was no certainty when that would be. We had still another montaña to pass, many rivers and caños to cross, and, above all, the terrible Ocoa, which, on account of the floods that had been overflowing its banks during the past week, our vaqueano said, might delay us for several days.

But the good God, who takes care of the birds of the air and clothes the lily of the field, had not forgotten us. We found the contents of the box as fresh and wholesome as when first enclosed in the far-off metropolis on Lake Michigan, and very pleasant was it, as the reader can imagine, for us, who had so long fared on chicken, eggs and bananas, to have a change in our aliment, in the form of sweet, nutty, breakfast bacon and that, too, from the glorious land of the Stars and Stripes.

Early the next morning we were again in the saddle. Before bidding us adieu our kindly host expressed his regret that he was unable to give us better entertainment. He wished us to understand that it was through lack of means and not of good will. “Dispense la mala posada,” excuse our poor lodging house, he said—and his wife and daughter, a fair young girl just entering her teens, re-echoed his apologies and in accents that left no doubt as to their sincerity.

During the latter part of the night at Las Palmas, there was a genuine tropical aguacero—the heaviest downpour that we had yet witnessed. When we started from there the next morning it was still raining heavily, and with no indication that there was to be a change until late in the day, if then. Now, more than ever, we congratulated ourselves on having secured our bayetones just when they were so much needed. They were all they had been represented to be and more. Although we had already spent many hours in continuous rainfalls, not a drop of moisture had yet reached our persons, and we had remained as dry as if we had traveled under a cloudless sky. The raincoats we had brought with us, although guaranteed to be the best waterproofs made, would never have served the purpose that our bayetones answered so admirably.

A Shelter on the Banks of the Ocoa.

Our Camp in the Llanos.

After about an hour’s ride, we entered a montaña similar to the one near Barrigón, but greater in extent. The mud was not so deep, but there were more caños and streams to cross. Some of them were quite deep, and in a few instances, the current was so strong that our horses had difficulty in keeping themselves on their feet. Several times we turned to our vaqueano to enquire if a particularly large stream was the much-dreaded Ocoa. “No, Señores,” he always replied; “El Ocoa es más grande”—the Ocoa is larger.

We noticed that he was quite pensive and apparently as much preoccupied about the Ocoa as we were ourselves. He then informed us that he had learned at Las Palmas that the Ocoa had been impassable for several days past, and he feared we should be detained there for some time. Just then we came to the largest and widest torrent that we had yet met. We effected the passage of this with the greatest difficulty, and not without considerable risk to both mount and rider. After we had safely gotten across I turned again to our guide and said: “That is surely the Ocoa, is it not?” “No, Señor, el Ocoa es todavia más grande y más bravo.” No, Sir, the Ocoa is still larger and more turbulent.