“And once it’s all settled, what’ve they accomplished?” Sergeant Martial asked his nephew. “No matter what you name it, it’s still just a river, plain ordinary water that flows where it pleases!”
“You think so, uncle?” Jean answered. “If there weren’t questions like these, there wouldn’t be any geographers, and if there weren’t any geographers—”
“—we’d have one less subject to learn in school!” Sergeant Martial cut in. “Anyhow, it’s clear that we’ll be stuck with these squabblers the whole way to San Fernando.”
In fact, after leaving Caicara, the cruise would no doubt turn into a real communal experience, aboard those small boats built to ride out the rapids in the central portion of the Orinoco.
Thanks to the bad weather on that dreadful day, they didn’t see a thing of the island of Tigritta. As compensation, guests at both lunch and dinner could treat themselves to the catch of the day, an excellent fish called morocoto. They are abundant in those parts, and enormous quantities of them are shipped, salt-preserved, to Ciudad Bolívar and Caracas.
Late in the morning the steamboat passed west of the mouth of the Caura. This waterway is one of the largest tributaries on the right bank, coming up from the southeast through the lands of the Panares, Inaos, Arebatos, and Taparitos Indians, irrigating one of Venezuela’s most picturesque valleys. The towns nearer the banks of the Orinoco are populated by law-abiding people of mixed races, Indian and Spanish. Those farther away are inhabited only by Indians, still quite uncivilized, cattlemen by trade, known locally as gomeros because their other occupation is the gathering of medicinal drugs.
Jean spent part of that day reading M. Chaffanjon’s narrative of his first expedition in 1885, during which he left the Orinoco and ventured into the grasslands along the Caura, with tribes of Ariguas and Quiriquiripas all around him. The dangers he encountered Jean was sure to face as well—and even worse if it became necessary to visit the upper reaches of the river. But Jean admired the grit and courage of the daring Frenchman, and he hoped to be just as tough and brave himself.
It is true that the former was a grown man and the latter only a youth, practically still a child. But God grant him the strength to endure such a strenuous journey, and Jean would go the distance!
Upstream from the Caura’s mouth, the Orinoco widens again—to nearly three thousand meters across. The three-month rainy season and the many tributaries on both banks make generous contributions to its water level.
Nevertheless, the Simón Bolívar’s captain had to maneuver carefully to keep from running aground above the island of Tucuragua, near a river with the same name. It was possible, too, that the steamboat might scrape against something, a thought that gave the crew no peace. The fact is, though her hull was safe, having a flat bottom like a barge, the drive mechanism was in constant danger, whether from damage to the engine or from blades breaking on the paddle wheel itself.
But this time they got through unharmed, and that evening the Simón Bolívar dropped anchor at the far end of a cove on the right bank, a town called Las Bonitas.
* This refers to San Fernando de Apure, not to be confused with San Fernando de Atabapo, which is located on the Orinoco [author’s note].
CHAPTER IV
First Encounter
Las Bonitas is the base of operation for the military governor over the Caura region and the lands irrigated by this important tributary. The village is on the river’s right bank, almost at the site formerly held by the Spanish mission of Altagracia. The missionaries were the original discoverers of these Latin American provinces, and they were intolerant of competing efforts by the British, Germans, and French to convert the wild Indians of the interior. Consequently, rivalries between these factions are still a source of concern.
At that time the military governor was present in Las Bonitas. He was personally acquainted with M. Miguel and had heard about the geographer’s expedition up the Orinoco. So, when the steamer docked, he went on board.
M. Miguel introduced his two friends to the governor. There was a hearty exchange of civilities between the various parties, including an invitation to lunch the next day in the governor’s quarters. This was promptly accepted, since the Simón Bolívar’s layover would extend to one o’clock in the afternoon.
This meant, in short, that if the steamboat left at that hour, she would have enough time to reach Caicara the same evening, where she would say good-bye to those passengers who were not continuing to San Fernando or other towns in the province of Apure.
So the next day, August 15, our three colleagues from the Geographic Society set out for the governor’s home. But ahead of them Jean and Sergeant Martial were already strolling down the streets of Las Bonitas, the sergeant having given in to his nephew and decreed that the two of them could go ashore.
In this part of Venezuela, most communities barely deserve the name of village—they are just a few scattered huts hiding beneath the lush tropical greenery. Gorgeous trees were bunched together here and there, attesting to the nutritive power of the soil: evergreen oaks with coarse, pungent leaves and crooked trunks like an olive tree’s, copernica palms with branches growing in clusters and spreading out from their stems like fans, mauritia palms that produce the kind of terrain known locally as morichal, or marshland, because this tree can suck so much water from the earth that the soil at its foot turns into mud.
Plus there were copaiba trees, saurans, and giant mimosas with wide boughs full of fine-textured, pinkish leaves.
Jean and Sergeant Martial plunged into the midst of these palm groves, which nature had organized into groups of five each, then through some riotous undergrowth where stylish bouquets of fetchingly colored poppies grew by the thousands.
Up in the trees, hordes of monkeys were romping about like trapeze artists. They are plentiful in these Venezuelan regions, numbering no less than sixteen harmless but noisy species, among others those known locally as aluates or araguatos—howler monkeys—whose voices terrify newcomers to these tropical forests. Hosts of birds were hopping from branch to branch: orioles, who made up the tenor section of this airborne chorus—roosters of the swamps, delightfully suave, seductive creatures whose nests hang from the ends of long vines; then there were a number of oilbirds hiding out in nooks and crannies, waiting for nightfall—they are fruit eaters, and they dart through the treetops as if propelled by a spring.
When they were deep into this palm grove, Sergeant Martial said, “I should’ve brought my gun!”
“Why?” Jean asked. “You want to hunt monkeys?”
“No, not monkeys. But, there might be nastier critters around!”
“Don’t worry, uncle! We’d have to go a good way out of town to run into anything dangerous—but maybe later on we’ll need a weapon.”
“Makes no difference! A soldier should never go out unarmed, and I deserve a night in the guardhouse!”
Sergeant Martial did not have to do penance for this breach of discipline. The fact is that members of the feline family, big or small, whether jaguars, tigers, lions, ocelots, or pussycats, all elected to stay far away in the dense jungles upriver. Was there any risk of running into bears?1 A little, but those flat-footed beasts live on fish or honey and have an easygoing disposition. As for the two-toed sloths (Bradypus didactylus), they are sorry creatures, not a threat to anybody.
During their