Up the Orinoco and down the Magdalena

by J. A. Zahm

In the Llanos of Venezuela.

Indians of Mid-Orinoquia.

The town has a splendid location, and under a stable and enterprising government would be the centre of a large inland trade. Towering about a hundred and fifty feet above the town is a hill of gneissic granite, on the summit of which are the ruins of a Capuchin monastery, which has been abandoned since the War of Independence.

Our party was here augmented by a Venezuelan hide and cattle merchant. He was a sociable fellow, and reminded us very much of a Colorado or New Mexican cowboy. He left us at Urbana, the last town of any importance, between Caicara and Orocué.

We arrived at Urbana, a town of about the same size and importance as Caicara, shortly after six o’clock in the evening, and were surprised that there was no one at the landing place to meet us. At every other place at which we had stopped, every man, woman and child was out to see us. It is only five or six times a year that a steamer calls at this place, and then only during the rainy season, when the river is high. The place was as silent as the grave, and seemed absolutely deserted. There was not even a dog bark to break the oppressive stillness, and not a single light was to be seen in house or street. On enquiry we were informed that everybody had retired for the night. The sun had just set only a few minutes before, but like the domestic fowl in the back yard, all the denizens of the town had sought rest with the approach of darkness, and, under ordinary circumstances, would not have been seen before dawn the next day. This custom impressed us at first as being very extraordinary, but we afterwards learned that it is not unusual in small interior South American towns. In fact, we soon found ourselves imitating the example of the natives. Shortly after sunset—there is scarcely any twilight in this latitude—we sought our berth or our hammock, and rarely awoke before the caroling of the birds announced the break of another day. Of course, we often had a special reason for retiring as early as we did. A lighted lamp, especially on the Orinoco and the Meta, became at once the centre of attraction for a cloud of insects of all kinds—some of which emitted a most offensive odor. But aside from this we soon became quite accustomed to early slumbers. The ever warm climate seems to predispose to sleep, and, even after a good night’s rest, one would welcome an hour’s siesta after luncheon.

After the steamer whistle had blown several times, and set all the dogs in town to barking, the male population was aroused and came straggling one by one to where we were moored. We were in need of a new supply of provisions, as what we had brought from Ciudad Bolivar was almost exhausted. After making the round of the town, our steward was able, but not without difficulty, to get some eggs, chickens, and a novilla—heifer. This would last us a few days, at the expiration of which we hoped to find a new supply further up the river.

Much, however, as we were concerned about our commissariat, our interest was just then centered in the result of a confidential interview in progress between the captain and an army officer, who was to decide whether we should be permitted to proceed on our journey, or whether our boat should be appropriated for use in the campaign against the revolutionists, who were said to be heading towards the llanos of the Apure. This contingency had, like the sword of Damocles, been hanging over us ever since we left Ciudad Bolivar. Only a few days before, we had met a steamer returning from San Fernando de Apure, whither it had been dispatched with arms and ammunition, and there were grave reasons, so we were informed, for believing that we should be obliged to disembark at Urbana. If we could only reach Orocué, we had every reasonable hope of making the remainder of our transcontinental journey without any special difficulty or danger. If, however, the steamer were now required for military service, we should be obliged to remain in Urbana for an indefinite period, and perhaps—the thought was almost maddening—be forced to abandon entirely an enterprise on which we had so set our hearts.