“Anchored in the forest at midnight, the traveler hears the deep growl of the jaguar, the sharp squeal of the wild cat, the howl of the howler monkey, the long moan of the sloth, and the last scream of the wild pig, pierced by the claws of some patient but ferocious animal ambushed during the past hour, with many other sounds of life, terror and conflict that fall strangely on the European ear, and, if he waits and watches until the dawn, he may see the alligator dragging his ugly bulk out of the water, crowds of turtles trailing on the sands, the deer and the tapir coming down to drink, thousands of white cranes on the branches nearest to their prey, thousands of gray ones already wading leg-deep, and many more thousands of other birds clouding the dim horizon, all waiting for the light ere they begin their work of life and slaughter.... With the alligators in shoals at the bottom of the river, and the millions of birds above its surface, one wonders how any fish are left, yet the river is always literally teeming with fish, as though conscious of the demands it has to meet.”
Although we were always on the alert, so as to miss nothing of interest, especially anything that concerned the animal life of the tropics, we must confess that in all our experience we never heard growls, squeals, howls, moans, screams, or other sounds of terror and conflict, either along the Magdalena or anywhere else in South America. And we spent nearly a year in the country, and often traveled weeks at a time in the wild virgin forest, far away from human habitations of every kind. Nor did we ever perceive any of the animals that certain tourists would lead one to believe can be seen in such numbers everywhere, even from the deck of a passing steamer. Nowhere along the Orinoco, the Meta, the Magdalena, or elsewhere, did we ever catch even a glimpse of a jaguar or a puma, a manati or a sloth, a wild cat or a wild pig. More than this, not once, during our entire trip through Venezuela and Colombia, through forests and plains, did we ever see a single monkey, except two or three that were kept as pets by the natives. This may seem an incredible statement. I would have believed such an experience as ours to be absolutely impossible, especially in view of what writers and travelers in South America have told us regarding the immense number of wild animals of all kinds everywhere visible in equatorial wilds. But I am stating a fact that I am quite unable to reconcile with the contrary experiences of others who, according to their own admission, have seen but little, compared with what we saw, of the lands through which we passed. I have seen more large game on the plains of New Mexico and Wyoming, from the window of a Pullman car, in a single trip to and from the Pacific coast, than I ever saw in the wilds of South America during nearly a twelvemonth.
Nor did we ever see along the Magdalena, or anywhere else, the “thousands of white cranes on branches,” nor the “thousands of gray ones wading leg-deep,” nor the “many more thousands clouding the dim horizon,” of which the writer of the above-mentioned article professes to have been the fortunate spectator. We rarely saw more than a few dozen cranes at a time—never a hundred, and I have reason to believe we enjoyed very favorable opportunities, at least during a portion of our long journey, for seeing what was to be seen. At no time did we ever observe as many birds in the air at one time as I have frequently seen in the United States. I feel safe in asserting positively that the number of wild pigeons I have frequently noted in a single flock in the United States, would more than equal that of all the birds combined that we saw while in the tropics.
Mr. F. Lorraine Petre evidently had an experience somewhat similar to ours. In his recent work on Colombia, he tells us frankly that one sees little of animal life on the Magdalena, that “of the mammalia one sees and hears little.... Of the jaguars, the pumas, the sloths, the peccaries, the deer, the tapirs, and other animals, dangerous or harmless, we saw or heard as little as we did of the bears which inhabit the hills beyond. It is surprising that, tied up, as we often were, right against the forest, we should not have heard the night call of the carnivora, or the sharp bark of the frightened deer, but truth compels us to admit that we did not, and, moreover, that the cry of even the howling monkey did not salute us.”[16]
The number of birds observed along the Magdalena was not greater than I have frequently seen in the valleys of the Missouri or the Columbia. Most of these were parrots and macaws. Always noisy and restless, always flying and climbing about, except when eating fruit or cracking nuts, one is at times tempted to describe them as feathered relatives of the monkey. The parrots are sometimes seen in flocks, and their piercing cries are at times almost deafening. They are a sociable bird and are usually seen in considerable numbers. The macaws are remarkable for always flying in pairs, and for their brilliant colors. Their body is flaming scarlet, their wings are tinged with various shades of red, yellow, green and blue, while their tail is bright blue and scarlet. They, too, like parrots, are very vociferous, and, although they may occasionally be found in large numbers, they always fly two and two.
The large animals most frequently seen along the Magdalena, as along other tropical rivers, are those horrid monsters, “ambiguous between sea and land,” the cayman and “the scaly crocodile.” But even they are not so numerous as certain travelers would have us believe. The largest number we ever saw at one time was fifteen. They were sunning themselves on a playa—sand bank—below the island of Mompos. On the Orinoco and the Meta we never beheld more than eight at any one time—unless we were to count a number of little ones, just hatched, which Luisito, our colored boy, caught one day while we were taking on wood on the lower Meta.[17]
The early Spaniards called all these saurians by the general name of lagartos—lizards. The English afterwards spoke of a single animal as a lagarto, whence the present name alligator. Modern writers speak of them indiscriminately as alligators or crocodiles. As a matter of fact, several species of both alligators and crocodiles are found in the equatorial regions. But, notwithstanding all that has hitherto been written about them, their distinction and definition, their classification still remains a matter of difficulty. Some specimens have been found whose classification is so perplexing that naturalists are still undecided whether to regard them as crocodiles or alligators. In this respect they are much like Shakespeare’s two lovers, “Two distincts, division none.”
The name cayman is employed in Venezuela and Colombia to designate any of these saurians. Following the classification adopted in the British Museum the cayman is distinct from both alligator and crocodile. More than this. According to the British system of classification, there are no alligators at all in South America, while, in the waters of Colombia and Venezuela, there are two species of crocodile and three species of cayman.
Probably more fabulous accounts have obtained about crocodiles than about any other animal. In spite of the old saying to the contrary, they never shed tears. And notwithstanding the fact that the ancient Egyptians gave the crocodile divine honors, because, being tongueless, it was made in hieroglyphical writing, a symbol of the Divinity, it is now known that the tongue of this erstwhile god is quite large, except at the tip. Similarly, all the stories that have so long been current about the impenetrability of the animal’s hide, are quite without foundation. How often have we not been told that it is impossible to kill a crocodile, with even the best Winchester, unless the ball enter the eye or strike under the soft, fleshy parts of the front legs? Their plated skin is easily pierced by an ordinary rifle or revolver, and a mortal wound ensues whenever a vital part is penetrated.
Not less erroneous are the ideas that so widely prevail regarding the ferocity of the crocodile and the cayman. On the contrary, they are, in their native state, very timid animals, and rarely exhibit hostility towards man, except when cornered. Then, like most other animals, they will fight with great fierceness. They make for the water as soon as they see one approach them, and it is often far from easy to get near them. We often saw the natives enter rivers frequented by crocodiles and caymans, something they surely would not have done if the danger were as great as ordinarily imagined. In Venezuela the Indian or mestizo has a much greater dread of the ray or carib fish than of the cayman.[18]