Up the Orinoco and down the Magdalena

by J. A. Zahm

The flitting islands that Sparke refers to were, it is true, supposed by him to be in the neighborhood of the Azores. But their location was uncertain, at least the one named after the seafaring Irish monk, for divers positions have been assigned it by cosmographers and mediæval writers. Among other peculiarities possessed by this island was that it had an apparent motion towards the west—a motion that was quite sufficient to have carried it at the beginning of the twentieth century to the westernmost part of the Caribbean.

“In this motion westward,” said C.—as our representative of classical lore—“the Island of St. Brendan would have but followed the example set by the Elysian Fields and the Isles of the Blessed. Pindar and Hesiod placed them in the Western Ocean, but much farther west than Homer had located his Elysium. As the years rolled by, the Fortunate Islands and the Gardens of the Hesperides, for these were but synonyms of the Isles of the Blessed, were also found, like St. Brendan’s, to have moved towards the region of the setting sun. Subsequently, birth was given to legends respecting a Transatlantic Eden and a Mexican Elysium somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico or among the beauteous isles of the Caribbean Archipelago.”

“Very true, very true,” said one of our party, a good-natured German privat-docent, who was perched hard by on what seemed to be the first reclining chair ever devised. It was a cumbersome structure about four feet high, apparently modeled after one of those lofty bedsteads once the vogue in certain parts of the Vaterland, and vastly different from the modern reclining chair so popular with ocean travelers, and so rickety that it threatened every moment to collapse and deposit its portly occupant—for he was a man of weight, physically as well as intellectually—on the hard floor of the hurricane deck. “You are quite right, Sr. C. The Isles of the Blessed, like the Island of St. Brendan, are quite as ubiquitous and elusory as is the Terrestrial Paradise described in Genesis. For learned men who have written about it have located it, at one time or another, in almost every part of the earth’s surface. Some maintain it was somewhere in the valley of Mesopotamia, others that it was east of the Ganges, or near the head waters of the Nile. Columbus imagined it was nigh the source of the Orinoco, while an American author—a Bostonian, I believe—some decades ago published a work in which he endeavoured to prove that the seat of Paradise was the North Pole. As for myself, I have never ventured to formulate a theory on any of these interesting subjects. They are out of my line. Davus sum non Œdipus.”

Just then there was a crash. Like the “wonderful one-hoss shay,” the tottering old chair had collapsed and the docent lay sprawling under the ruins.

“Caramba, donnerwetter!” These two exclamations, so dear to the Spaniard and the German, when they wish to express surprise and disgust, were emitted with an explosive violence that left no one present in doubt as to what thoughts were uppermost in the mind of our friend as he was endeavoring to extricate himself from the entangling frame. With the aid of some of the bystanders he finally regained his feet, but he manifested no desire to continue the conversation so suddenly interrupted.

“Carajo, donnerblitz!”—two expressions even more vigorous than the preceding—constituted the finale to the performance that afforded amusement to all except the leading character, who disliked exceedingly the undignified position in which he had momentarily been placed. Fortunately, the last call for dinner had been given just a few moments previously, and we accordingly adjourned to the dining saloon, where other matters absorbed the attention of the unlucky docent as well as the spectators of his ungainly tumble.

The morning following the little episode just referred to, we were in sight of Costa Rica[2]—that rich coast—discovered by Columbus during his eventful fourth voyage. The wooded lowlands, bordering the sea, are clothed in a mantle of rich tropical verdure. A short distance behind them arise the escarpments of the Central American Cordillera, that is the scene of the activity of such noted volcanoes as Poas, Irazu and Turialba. Owing to the proximity of the Sierra to the sea, it appears much higher than it really is, and, when the weather is clear, it presents a picture of rare magnificence. This is particularly the case when it is seen at sunrise, the time it first met our view. Then we had before us the violet expanse of the summer sea canopied by the splendid azure vault of heaven, while before us stood up in all its majesty the gentian blue peak of the Cordillera that gradually melted into crimson and then into gold.

Owing to the reports that had been received at Limon regarding the plague at Trinidad, and the fear that it might already have reached the Spanish Main, none of the passengers were allowed to land until they had passed, on the part of the health officers, an examination of more than usual strictness. Fortunately, we had provided ourselves with a health certificate before leaving Barranquilla and were permitted to land after but little delay. Those, however, who could not exhibit such a document were at once ordered off to quarantine. Everyone, however, had to be vaccinated, unless one could produce evidence that he had been vaccinated only a short time before. As very few could present such evidence, the great majority had to submit—many of them much against their will—to being inoculated with the virus that is supposed to render one immune against smallpox.

While these operations were going on, we had an opportunity of getting a good view of the coast in front of us. It had a special interest for us, for it was the favored land along which Columbus sailed in his last voyage in 1502. Here, before us, there is reason to believe, was the land of Cariari, and, just a stone’s throw from our steamer was the charming island of Quiribri, which, on account of its beauty and the lovely trees with which it was adorned—palms and bananas and platanos—the Admiral called El Huerto—the orchard. To-day it is known as the island of Uvita, and is used for quarantine. As we gazed on this exquisite spot, provided with cozy cottages nestling among clumps of stately palms, and decked with beauteous flowers of every hue, we almost regretted that we could not spend a few days there. Had we been sent there with the others we should certainly not have complained.

So fascinating was this place that Columbus anchored here between the island and the mainland to give his crew an opportunity to refresh themselves after their arduous voyage. And so fragrant were the groves on the mainland that their perfumes were wafted out to the ships. This, we have noted, was also the experience of the early explorers of Florida.