Down the Orinoco in a Canoe

by Santiago Pérez Triana

The capacity for eating these eggs shown by the natives of those regions seems to be unlimited. I could not understand, looking at the size of the men and at the young mountain of turtle eggs before which they sat, and which disappeared after a period of sustained assimilation, how it was possible that they did not swell outwardly or explode. Here was a case in which the envelope was, to all purposes and appearances, smaller than the contents assimilated—a problem for some sapient naturalist to investigate whenever he may chance to stray into those remote regions.

It is said that the turtle yields seven kinds of meat, and that in the hands of a good cook it is transfigured into calf’s head, veal, tender loin steak, chicken, venison, pork, and (naturally) turtle meat. Be that as it may, notwithstanding the uncouth and, to some, repulsive appearance of the animal, it is evident that the various parts of its body are not only palatable, but may be disguised to imitate the varieties mentioned, a peculiarity which in its turn works inversely, as in the well-known case of mock-turtle soup.

The turtles we bought were placed on their backs, which seems to be the universal method of keeping them all the world over. There in the bottom of our schooner the poor beasts had ample opportunity to watch the flight of clouds by day and the grouping of the constellations by night. I fear, however, that they did not improve their time with the study either of atmospherical changes or of astronomical wonders.

Fermin rapidly learnt how to cook and prepare turtles in the various native ways, to which he added devices of his own, reminiscent of the preparation of other meats and dishes in his native province.

The change of diet was most welcome at first, but after the fourth or fifth day the very name of turtle was revolting. Fermin was told that, if nothing else but turtle was to be found, we preferred to fall back on boiled rice and casabe. Relying, however, on his ability and the protean plasticity of turtle meat, he insisted on serving some of it as wild-boar flesh, and only upon a formal threat of shooting, or being left tied to the trunk of a tree along the shore, like a new Andromache, did he cease his attempts to deceive our palates. Thus, notwithstanding the plentiful supply of turtles and turtle eggs, we drifted back to the diet of casabe, boiled fish and boiled rice.

We had hoped to strike some cattle-farm, but we scanned the horizon in vain. The plains and the forests rolled before our eyes, an interminable blank for our purposes.

Finally, as everything happens at last, our expectation was gratified; near the confluence of our old friend the Meta with the Orinoco, we came upon a cattle-ranch where we obtained corn, molasses, eggs, lard, cheese, coffee, and the whole side of a recently slaughtered heifer.

I can readily understand that persons of a delicate taste, should they happen to read these awkwardly penned lines, must feel disgusted at the recurrence of such vulgar and material details. Their amazement will certainly be great, for in all probability they will be surrounded by all the comforts and the luxury of civilized life. There is no harsher censor of the misdeeds or faults arising out of somebody else’s hunger than the drowsy philosopher who passes judgment in a comfortable armchair after a plentiful meal; his untempted rectitude makes him the austerest critic of failings and weaknesses in others. However, the opinion of those immaculate beings, with their hot-house virtue, safe from wind and wet behind glass panes, receives precisely the attention it deserves.

Still, I admit that, after having crossed those regions, it were better if I could describe what I saw in a series of pen-pictures which would unroll before the reader in sequence or harmonious groups the numerous sublime aspects of Nature; it were far better that, even as the essence retains the perfume of the flower, the written word should convey to other minds the deep impression left upon my own by the mysterious murmuring forest, the invisible wind whose breath so often cooled my forehead, the constant throb of the wandering waves pent within their narrow channels, the infinite azure of the sky, and the numberless sounds and rumours, now soft, now deafening, which fill the air in that world still free from the burden of civilization, living the life of untrodden Nature, a link in the endless chain of existence ravening on death, with the great drama of being made manifest in a thousand diverse shapes.

Happy were I could I seize one single note from that vast symphony, capture it, and fix it with my words! Vain wishes!