Further on our way we came across another reminder of our own country. This time it appeared in the form of long, dark-gray tufts and festoons of that curious epiphyte—Tillandsia usneoides—popularly known in the Gulf States as Spanish moss and in Jamaica as old man’s beard. The natives in Colombia call it barba de palo—tree-beard—a much more picturesque epithet than any of those mentioned, and another one of countless instances of the wonderful faculty the Indian has of giving expressive names to the objects that specially strike his fancy.
As we reached a still lower level, our attention was arrested by the beauty and luxuriance of the palms and tree ferns that graced our path. The fern trees were as remarkable for their size as for the delicacy of their plume-like fronds. The trunks of some of them were twelve to fifteen feet high and the leaves of their wondrous crowns—like veritable leaves of emerald gauze—were at times as long as the trunk was high. Gazing at these bizarre forms of vegetable life, with their dark, rough, leaf-scarred trunks, so unlike those of surrounding trees, we could easily imagine ourselves in a forest of those giant paleozoic Sigillariæ and Lepidodendrons that contributed so largely towards the formation of the lower coal measures.
We never made any attempt to enumerate the divers species of palms that were ever in view from the paramo to the ocean. But wherever we saw them, whether on the elevated Andean plateau or in the humid valleys of the Orinoco and the Magdalena, they were for us, as they were for Linnæus, “the princes of the vegetable world.” Decked with a mantle of eternal youth, with smooth, straight trunks like the marble shafts of Athens or Palmyra, they were not only the glory of forest and savanna, but they were also for us, as for Martius, a symbol of immortality.
At Agua Larga our road bifurcated, the new and better branch veering off to the right at a slight angle, and the old one continuing with a similar turn to the left. Although a bright young señorita, who happened to be near the parting of the ways, declared that the old road was the one that led to Chimbe, our objective point, we chose the new one, and for the first time since we had left the Meta, we went astray. We did not discover our error until we had gone several miles, when an old man, who was repairing his humble cot by the wayside, corroborated the señorita’s information.
There was then nothing left for us but to retrace our steps. The mistake was quite a blow to the topographical instinct of one of our party, who had, during our long trip, particularly prided himself on the unerring indications of his organ of locality, which rendered, he said, the assistance of a guide superfluous. At the same time, it was quite trying to the patience of all of us, as we were tired, hungry, and wished to arrive at Chimbe before sundown. It was now quite evident that we could not possibly reach our destination before nightfall. We then realized to our sorrow the truth of Balboa’s words, when writing to the King of Spain—”Llega el hombre hasta donde puede y no hasta donde quiere”—One goes as far as one can and not as far as one wishes to go. And, recalling what the señorita had told us, we had likewise a forcible reminder of the verity of Sancho Panza’s saying: “Though a woman’s counsel isn’t worth much, he that despises it is no wiser than he should be.”
After getting back to the bifurcation of the road, we found that the older branch, which we should have taken, was little better than a rough, rocky stairway, the steps of which had been rendered extremely slippery by a heavy rainfall a few hours before. C., our dashing and debonair cavalier, was still suffering from the effects of this downpour, for having lost his waterproof sombrero, specially designed for travel in the tropics, he had nothing left but a light straw hat, which afforded the head no more protection than a sieve.
Truth to tell, he was suspected of intentionally discarding his waterproof headgear, as, in his estimation, it did not comport with the dignity of a caballero who would trace his lineage back to one of the noblest grandees of Spain, and who, during his journey from Trinidad, had been the recipient of special attention from young and old as well. He seemed to be the special favorite of well-to-do matrons, particularly in the towns and cities in which our sojourn was somewhat protracted. Was it that they would fain have seen in the handsome young traveler a prospective son-in-law? Not being a mind reader, I must leave the question unanswered. As a veracious narrator of occurrences by the way I can only state facts and let the reader draw his own conclusions.
But what a road it was, that now lay between us and Chimbe! To us, in the declining rays of the setting sun, it appeared like a cobblestone track after it had passed through a dozen earthquakes and had then been set at an angle of forty-five degrees with the horizon.[13] Even our mules, which were usually prepared for any kind of a path where they could find a foothold, frequently balked at the more difficult sections of this much-neglected highway. Comparing the part we were now traversing with the more improved road we had left at Agua Larga, we could not but recall the words of an Irish engineer, regarding certain highland roads, as recorded in Scott’s A Legend of Montrose:—
“Had you but seen those roads before they were made,
You would have held up your hands and blessed General Wade.”