As I have said before, mules are far preferable to horses when travelling on the mountain-paths, which are called roads in the Andes. The old Shakespearian query, ‘What’s in a name?’ and the answer that a rose would smell as sweet even if called by another name, demonstrates the elasticity of words. To the average Englishman a road is a well-defined means of communication with or without rails, but offering all sorts of advantages for comfortable locomotion. Roads in the Andes at times are such as to invite the formation of legends. It is said that an American diplomatist, visiting a South American republic, alighted from the river steamer which had borne him far inland by the respective river, and was shown the mountain-road which he had to follow to reach the capital—a yellowish or reddish streak like a gash in the mountain, lying on its side like a rope carelessly thrown from the summit towards the base, following the sinuosities of the ground—and straightway remarked, ‘I’m off home; this road is only fit for birds.’
On such roads the mule is the best friend of man. Had Richard III. found himself in the plight we all know of in some such locality, the generous offer of bartering his kingdom (which, by-the-by, at that moment was a minus quantity to him) would have made for a mule instead of for a horse, and although the phrase—‘A mule! a mule! my kingdom for a mule!’—sounds comical (for these are questions of habit), probably the stock phrase would bring down the house with laughter. If the camel is called the ship of the desert, the mule deserves the title of the balloon of the mountains.
A friend of mine, knowing of my intended trip, had sent me his favourite mule, and well did the animal deserve the praises that its owner bestowed upon it; patient, sure-footed, collected, it carried me by precipice, ravine, ascended paths only fit for ants as lightly and carefully as if no weight were on its back. At the mud ditches which intersected the roads, and at times reached the proportions of miniature lakes, often treacherously deep, it would halt, looking at the waters with its big, ball-shaped, moist eyes, and no hint of mine, whether given with spur or whip, could disturb its equanimity. At the right moment, heedless of my meddling, it would jump or ford or slide as circumstances required. At the beginning of our companionship, during those long days, I began by endeavouring to have a mind of my own as to the part of the road to be selected. I soon saw that my efforts were useless, for that wisdom of the mule which men call stubbornness was invincible. And, frankly, it was lucky that I soon gained this conviction, as certainly the mule knew far better than I what should be done.
How strange all this sounds in this land of railroads, automobiles, omnibuses, and wheeled conveyances of every sort! yet there is more genuine travelling, more real travelling, in going from one place to another on the back of a mule than in being cooped for hours or days in a railway compartment whirled along at lightning speed. What does one learn about the country, what does one see of its beauty or of its peculiarities, in this latter case? It may be transportation, it may be locomotion, but it is not travelling.
If I were a man of ample means, I would certainly endow that splendid beast which carried me during so many days, or provide a pension for it, so that it might spend the remainder of its life in the enjoyment of meadows ever green, luscious with rich grass and sweet with the waters of rippling streams.
From Gambita on, our cavalcade had something of the aspect of a caravan. There were Alex, Raoul, and myself, besides our servant Fermin, four muleteers, and ten or twelve mules laden with our luggage, tents, provisions, arms, and so forth. This mob of travellers was so unusual that the simple folks in the villages through which we passed said that his lordship the Archbishop was no doubt on a tour. On hearing this, and finding that the people began to kneel by the roadside, rather than shatter their illusion, I—knowing that I was the most episcopal-looking of our crowd—decided to give my blessing, which I did with due unction to the kneeling maidens and matrons along the roadside.
From Gambita we shaped our course eastward. It was our intention to reach the Atlantic through the Orinoco River. We were seeking one of the many affluents of the river Meta, which is itself one of the largest tributaries of the Orinoco. The affluents of the Meta start on the eastern slope of the mountains which form the plateau of Bogotá.
After three days’ ride from Gambita, we reached the estate of a friend near the town of Miraflores, where we had to prepare ourselves for the last stage of the land journey which would carry us through the dense forests bordering the lower eastern slope of the Cordilleras, and constituting a sort of fringe around the endless plains that extend for thousands of miles from the foot of the Cordilleras to the ocean. Across these plains flow the mighty rivers, their numerous affluents, and the countless caños, or natural canals connecting the rivers amongst themselves, and thus forming a perfect network of natural waterways.
At Miraflores we stopped for twenty-four hours to recruit our forces and prepare everything, not only for the last stage of the land journey, but for the long canoe voyage that lay before us.