After leaving Buena Vista, we were exposed to a heavy tropical downpour that lasted the greater part of the day. Fortunately the rain did not affect us in the slightest. Our bayetones and waterproof boots kept us perfectly dry and, as the rain was not chilly, we rather enjoyed the experience.
Our path during the greater part of the day lay through forests and along rivers and over mountain torrents. At times it was high up on the mountain side, thousands of feet above the water courses surging and foaming at its base. Again it was along the edge of a dizzy precipice, where a single false step of our mule would have meant instant death to its rider.
What gave us grave concern at first was the fact that our mules always persisted in keeping on the side of the track next to the ravine, no matter how deep or threatening it might be. We tried, until we were exhausted, to keep them on the opposite side of the trail, but it was useless. They seemed bent on courting danger, and on seeing how near they could keep to the verge of the chasm without plunging into its abysmal depths.
Unfortunately for our peace of mind, we did not then know the Andean mule as well as we do now. Had we understood him as well at the beginning of our journey as we did at the end, we should have given him a free rein, and thereby spared ourselves many nerve-racking moments and many futile efforts to correct his persistent aberrations. Why a mule prefers to walk on the brink of a precipice, whenever it has an opportunity of doing so, rather than keep to what we humans should consider the safer side of the path, is a mystery I do not profess to fathom. I simply state the fact. I leave its explanation to experts in mule psychology.
The country through which we passed was fairly well populated, and we were never long out of sight of a habitation of some kind. Sometimes the dwellings were of stone, but more frequently they were of bamboo daubed with clay and thatched with palm leaf. The people, usually Indians or half-breeds, were in humble circumstances but we never saw any evidences of actual want or suffering. “Nunca se muere de hambre aqui”—No one ever dies of hunger here—an Indian woman once informed us, when we made inquiry about the subject. If one should happen to have nothing to eat, his friends and neighbors supply him with food. They are ever willing to assist one another, and we were often surprised to see how ready they were to share their limited store with others, whether in want or not.
Stopping for Luncheon in the Lower Cordilleras.
A more friendly people we never met than the good people who dwell on the eastern slopes of the Colombian Cordilleras. They always have a kindly greeting for every one they meet. No one, not even the youngest child, will pass you on the road without a cordial “Buenos dias,” “Buenas tardes,” or “Buenas noches”—Good day, Good evening, or Good night—as the case may be. These cheering salutations, that were always forthcoming, whether we met one or a score, young or old, made us forget that we were in a foreign land, far from home and friends, and quite reconciled us to any little discomforts we might experience along our steep and rugged path. Here among these simple, unspoiled people the brotherhood of man is not an empty rhetorical phrase, or a vain poetical figment, but a living, every-day reality.
How often during our journeyings in the savannas and highlands of Colombia did we not recall the beautiful couplet of Castellanos regarding the primitive inhabitants of New Granada!—
“Gente llana, fiel, modesta, clara,