In the Wilds of South America

by Leo E. Miller

A steady downpour of rain had fallen the entire afternoon, which continued throughout the night, and this, coupled with the severe cold (the elevation being seven thousand two hundred feet) and the desirability of preparing hot food, caused us to long for the comforts of a huge camp-fire. Dry wood was out of the question, but the men cut down a tree, the green wood of which burned readily, and had soon started a fire adequate for working purposes. Their ponchos, which had become saturated with water, were of no service in keeping them warm, so they sat up the entire night, singing, telling stories, and drinking hot coffee in their endeavors to remain cheerful and keep warm.

On the following day the vegetation was far more dense, and advantage was taken of numerous narrow fissures in the mountainside roofed over with logs and moss; through these tunnels we crawled on hands and knees, but that was easier than forcing a way through the tangled mass of plants growing above. When camp was made that night the base of a tree was selected for a fireplace. At first glance it seemed that the diameter of the vine-covered trunk must be at least ten feet, but this was a delusion. After the men had vigorously plied their machetes on the creepers, moss, and ferns, a stem not over two feet across was revealed; they cleared away the lower tangle, leaving a protecting umbrella-like canopy overhead that shielded the entire party from the rain while they cooked their food.

We crossed three ridges in all, the elevation of each being slightly in excess of seven thousand feet, with depressions of from two thousand feet to three thousand feet between them. All are heavily forested, the growth above four thousand feet being subtropical in character, while that lower down is typical of the tropics and comparatively open.

At the end of the third day we heard the welcome roar of water, and not long after halted on the bank of the Hávita River. A naked negro came from the far side in answer to our calls, and ferried us across the stream in a huge dugout canoe. There we found a settlement of half a dozen bamboo huts filled with lazy negroes clothed in scanty attire. The place is called El Puente. About one hundred yards below the group of hovels, the Hávita is joined by the Rio Ingara. The water of both streams is swift, cool, and of a bluish-gray color. Each of the streams is about seventy-five yards wide just above the junction.

After crossing another ridge which required two days’ time, we reached Juntas de Tamaná, on the south bank of the Hávita, a stone’s throw above the point where this stream empties into the Tamaná, and but four hundred feet above sea-level. Excepting only the little clearing in which the fifteen dilapidated negro abodes stand, the entire country is covered with a forest of tall trees; there is little undergrowth, but many of the lower branches are covered with epiphytes, and long vines or “forest ropes” dangle down from the interlocking tree-tops to the very ground.

The negroes of Juntas are a miserable, sickly lot. They suffer from lack of food, for the simple reason that they are too indolent to grow in sufficient quantities the plantains, yuccas, and other plants that thrive with a minimum of attention in such a favorable location. Instead of making clearings and cultivating the fertile ground, they prefer to lounge in their hammocks and take a chance at starving to death. At irregular intervals, when the pinch of want is too great to endure longer, the men paddle in canoes to their fincas to cut sugar-cane, gather plantains, and to pick palm-nuts in the forest. Upon their return the family gathers about the food and eats until not a vestige remains. So effectively do they attack the mound of provisions that one might easily imagine a swarm of locusts had paid the region a visit.

Native of Juntas de Tamaná with trail-haunting blacksnake.

The author with natives of Juntas de Tamaná.