Roraima and British Guiana, With a Glance at Bermuda, the West Indies, and the Spanish Main

by J. W. Boddam-Whetham

Near the cemetery are the barracks, and these are buildings worthy of their occupants. We were told that the soldiers collected here were not good specimens of the Venezuelan Army, and we hoped not. In Carácas I afterwards saw some troops that were well equipped and presented a soldier-like appearance. But here half-starved, ill-clad, of a wretched physique, in height averaging about five feet, and with miserable arms and accoutrements, the troops that we beheld presented a sorry spectacle. Their pay is hardly worth mentioning, but they are fortunate when they receive it. This circumstance reminded me of a distribution of pay that once occurred in a certain town in the United States.

A number of Pinte Indians had been brought in to take part in a 4th of July procession, and after the parade each man received a dollar. It had been customary to hand over the entire amount to their chief—Captain Bob—for distribution, but the fact had become known that coin did not readily leave his grasp. The captain observed this new method of paying with more complacency than was anticipated. He was out-generaled, but not beaten. Being a great poker player he took his men to one of his favourite haunts, and before sunset had cleared his entire army out of the last cent.

From the pitiful condition of the troops when we saw them, it was difficult to imagine what the state of the private soldiers must have been in 1822, when hundreds of officers were seen begging from house to house in the streets of Carácas. Even as late as 1862, the army was in want of the necessaries of life.

It is not from a lack of generals that the troops are uncared for and ill-disciplined, for the supply is unlimited. Two boatmen, who once rowed us over from Ciudad Bolivar to the opposite shore to visit a cattle ranch, were both generals. The butcher who supplied the hotel was a general, and, if his military tactics were as good as those he exhibited in his steady resolve not to furnish good meat, he ought to have been a success. But in Venezuela it is not necessary either to be, or to have been a soldier, to become a general. The title is distributed indiscriminately, and sent about like a bouquet of flowers or a box of cigars, with the compliments of so and so. A late aspirant for the Presidency intimated that he would abolish this distinction, by making everybody a general. Needless to say he lost his election. In more recent times, did not the son of Prince Bismarck lose his nomination to the Reichstag by a premature declaration of his policy?

At Carácas, one day, I was looking over a book called Cervantes y la Crítica, by Urdaneta. In it was a list of subscribers to the volume, and out of four hundred names I counted two hundred and seventy-eight generals, and all the rest were doctors. Well might the Irishman exclaim in Venezuela, as he did upon his arrival in the United States, “What a divil of a battle has been fought near here, where all the privates were kilt!”

Finding so little to see or do in Ciudad Bolivar, we were anxious to ascend the Upper Orinoco, but heard to our dismay that the small steamer “Nutrias” no longer went up the river. We therefore had to pass a week in the town until the “Heroe” returned to Trinidad. Formerly, the trade with the Upper Orinoco was very considerable, and four steamers used to ply on the river, bringing down coffee, indigo, hides, cotton, &c. Revolutions have destroyed that, and now almost the only trade is with the mines of Caratal. Now and then large Indian canoes from the Rio Negro descend the river, bringing birds, hammocks, and curiosities, which they exchange for necessaries, and then return. Some of their feather and grass hammocks that we saw were marvels of skill, and must have been highly remunerative to the merchants, who demanded from one hundred to one hundred and fifty dollars apiece, having probably obtained them for ten or twelve dollars worth of goods.

It was excessively hot during our stay, but fortunately a dry heat, and there were no mosquitoes, although a lagoon on one side of the town gave promise of an abundant supply. In the wet season the heat is almost unbearable. As our hotel was close to the river—in fact, just outside the door was the hull of a vessel which had been left there high and dry when the water fell—we generally had a good breeze, and the verandah was the coolest place in the town. Few of the other houses possessed verandahs, as in Ciudad Bolivar the roof is the favourite family resort in the evening. Some of the roofs are prettily laid out with flowers and shrubs, and there the ladies sit and talk, receive visitors, promenade, and enjoy any breath of air that may relieve the stifling heat.

Ciudad Bolivar used to be a very hospitable town, but that was in the good old days when Señor Dalle Costa was President of Guayana, and there seemed a fair chance of good government. Then there was a good deal of amusement; travellers, English officers from Trinidad, and others were gladly welcomed and entertained, puma and jaguar hunts were organized, and a trip up the Orinoco was a great pleasure. Now trade is depressed, the town is woefully dull, and I doubt whether any traveller would visit Ciudad Bolivar for pleasure a second time. Whether the community—which numbers 7,000 or 8,000 souls—is an intellectual one I do not know, but I do know that I was unable to obtain a book in any language or of any description—except grammars—at any store or shop in the town. After a long search in stores that contained a little of everything, from pomatum to ship’s cables, I was told that I might find some books at the chemist’s. His stock consisted of a few grammars, very useful in their way, but hardly entertaining enough to wile away the hot hours. It must be remembered that this was in the capital of the largest State in Venezuela, a republic whose area is larger than that of France, Spain, and Portugal taken together.

Trinidad is very little better off for books than Ciudad Bolivar, as the only bookseller there has very few works except an old collection of volumes of Tauchnitz—an edition, by the way, which I think is “particularly requested not to be introduced into English colonies.” A collector of coins might visit Ciudad Bolivar with advantage, as a more miscellaneous currency could not be found. Not only do you receive in change coins from every country in the world, but also chips of silver and blocks of copper that would be utterly valueless anywhere else. The scenery around the town was flat and tame, but it acquired a charm from the great river and the wonderful transparency of the atmosphere.