In the Wilds of South America

by Leo E. Miller

Next day, a favorable wind did not reach us until late in the morning, and we had our first glimpse of wild life. The crew, a piratical-appearing band with unshaven faces, wearing short breeches only, and red and blue handkerchiefs around their heads, landed a number of large striped catfish; but their tackle was too light and others of greater weight broke the lines and escaped. Numbers of caimans, or crocodiles, floated lazily down-stream with only the eyes and saw-like tails showing above the water; and a school of fresh-water porpoises jumped and raced around the boat.

On the days that followed, the wind either died down entirely or blew with terrific violence, so that slow progress was made. The chubascos, or squalls, not uncommon on tropical rivers, come up suddenly and without warning; a faint, funnel-shaped mass appears on the horizon, followed by a low bank of black clouds, and fitful little sandspouts that spring into existence on the vast playas. There is never time to seek the leeward banks, and not a minute is lost in lowering sails and placing every available object below to prevent its being washed overboard. While Captain Solano shouted hoarse orders and the crew worked like mad (the only time they really did work), we donned our oilskins and awaited the coming of the storm. To go down into the hatch was impossible, both on account of the lack of space and the stifling heat. The wait was never very long; with a roar the hurricane burst upon the quiet river, and in a few minutes everything was obliterated in the dense fog and wall of falling water. The wind tore through the rigging with agonized wails, and angry white-capped waves sprang suddenly into existence, sweeping over the boat and dashing it about like a cork in a millrace. There was nothing to be done but wait until the storm subsided and hope that no obstructing boulder, or the bank, would put an end to the madly careening craft in the semidarkness. This lasted from fifteen minutes to an hour; then the wind died down, the rain ceased, and the fog lifted. A changed river presented itself. Monstrous waves, capped with foam, dashed and tore at the high, crumbling banks, undermining them so that large sections tumbled into the water, carrying with them tall trees and massed vegetation. The agitated surface was littered with débris which bore good evidence of the violence of the storm.

After this there followed several days of calm; there was not enough wind to fill the sails, and all the “whistling for a breeze” of the sailors did exactly as much good as one would expect it to. Finally, in desperation, a long rope was tied to the mast, and two men going ahead in a canoe made the other end fast to a tree, a few hundred feet ahead. The remaining members of the crew then hauled on the rope, slowly drawing the boat forward. Progress was slow, of course, but on the 22d we reached the Puerto del Infierno, the best possible name for the narrow, rocky gorge through which the river rushes with uncontrolled fury. A large mass of granite covered with low vegetation divides the river into two narrow channels, one of them so protected by high, rocky banks that no wind ever reaches the water, consequently making it impossible for boats to sail up the passage. The other is a narrow, rock-strewn gorge, down which the water thunders in a series of cascades. On the right bank, perched high on the rocks, are a few mud huts called Pueblo de las Piedras. We spent the greater part of a day waiting for wind, and then made straight for the seething passage. Fortunately our pilot was a good one; his method was to steer directly for some great boulder, below which the water was quiet, and just as the ship seemed about to strike he swung the tiller, and the boat painfully nosed her way up the cataract that dashed down the sides of the rock. If the breeze slackened for a moment the ship drifted back with the strong current, which was extremely dangerous, as there was no way of regulating her course; but always, just in the nick of time, the sails filled and after an hour’s struggle we left the rapids and sailed into the quiet water above.

Not far above the Infierno is the village of Mapire, a neat collection of perhaps fifty huts on a high bluff overlooking the river. In back of the town are vast llanos, or grassy plains, which are capable of supporting numerous herds of cattle. On the opposite side of the river, and some little distance up, is the mouth of the Caura, at one time believed to be the home of a tribe of headless people; but the old superstition has been overthrown, and during the first month of each year many adventurous parties ascend the river for a considerable distance in search of the serrapia or tonca-bean. The tree (Dipteryx odorata) upon which the fruit grows resembles a mango, with spreading branches and deep-green, dense leaves. The fruit also is very similar to the mango, though green, with tough, fibrous flesh and a large seed. While the fruit is still green great quantities of it are destroyed by macaws and parrots, which take a bite or two, then drop the rest on the ground. Upon ripening, the fruit falls, when it is gathered into heaps and dried; the seeds are later cracked open and the strong-smelling kernel extracted to be carefully preserved and sent to Ciudad Bolivar, where it is treated in casks of rum and then exported. It is used in making perfumes and flavoring extracts.

The water of the Caura is of a clear dark-red color, and for a great distance after entering the Orinoco the two waters flow side by side without mingling in the slightest degree.

The Orinoco widens into a majestic stream above this point, and we estimated that the distance from bank to bank must in some places be from three to five miles; also, vast sand-banks stretch along both sides for a distance of many miles.

Caicara, the only town of importance on the Orinoco besides Ciudad Bolivar, consisted at the time of our visit of about one hundred and fifty houses, but on account of a rubber and serrapia boom on the Cuchivero many of the inhabitants were leaving for the latter place. The next day we passed the mouth of the Apure, and just beyond the mouth of the Arichuma; a great low, sandy island rises out of the centre of the Orinoco at this point, on which thousands of terns, skimmers, gulls, and other water-fowl were apparently nesting. All day long and even at night the air was filled with darting, screaming birds that made such a terrific din that it was impossible to sleep. High waves prevented our landing on the island, but the natives visit it regularly, taking away canoe-loads of eggs; for this reason the island has been named Playa de Manteca, meaning in this case land of plenty.

The next settlement is called Urbana, and is on the south bank of the river, almost opposite the mouth of the Arauca. It consists of about a score of hovels. The Arauca is a river of considerable size, and is said to be bordered by vast marshes and swamps, the home of countless egrets and other water-birds. Hunting-parties ascend during the nesting-season and kill great numbers of the birds; the plumes are taken to Ciudad Bolivar and disposed of to the export dealers.

Leaving Urbana on the 29th, we entered one of the most difficult stretches of the river to navigate. The fish-hook bend of the Orinoco turns southward, and the eastern bank is dotted with a range of low granite hills which are, in fact, a chain of giant, blackened, dome-shaped boulders. The wind from the east, roaring through each cleft and opening, strikes the river from several directions and with cyclonic violence. One moment there is scarcely enough to make headway against the current; the next a gust strikes the sails and sends the ship wallowing on her beam until the boom drags in the water and it is an even bet if she will gradually right herself or go over. At such times of peril as well as on starting each morning it is the custom of the sailors to pray. Of course they were all Catholics. The captain or whoever steers said, “Vamos con Dios” (let us go with God), and the others answered in chorus: “Y con la Virgen” (and with the Virgin). Occasionally the person whose duty it was to lead was so occupied rolling a cigarette or slapping at flies that he neglected his duty; then some one was sure to remind him with a sarcastic “Aha! Hoy vamos como los Protestantes” (Aha! To-day we are starting like the Protestants). It often happened that the crew was remiss. The captain repeated his lead several times without being heard; finally, his patience exhausted, he shouted at the top of his voice, “Vamos con Dios, caramba,” and the crew immediately yelled back at the top of their voices: “Y con la Virgen, caramba.”

Added to the danger of the shifting gales is a rapids named San Jorge. There was just enough water to cover the rocks which dot the river-bed, causing a series of cross-currents and whirlpools which only a Venezuelan boatman, trusting mainly to luck, can hope to pass through. The rigging of the Hilo de Oro was old and rotten, and ropes were constantly snapping and sails splitting. No matter how obvious a defect was, it was never remedied until an accident had occurred. The boom had been threatening to break as each sudden gust of wind struck the mainsail, but a few boards nailed across the weakened place it was hoped would give sufficient strength for any emergency. An hour after leaving San Jorge, however, the boom parted with a loud report and dropped into the water, nearly upsetting the boat. Then, while the craft wallowed on her side with the deck awash there ensued a good deal of mingled praying, swearing, and frantic work until the heavy boom was fished out of the water. We tied up at the bank, cut down a tree, and worked the greater part of the night replacing the broken member.