Exploring the palm grove
As for the human beings in these parts, they were mostly of mixed Spanish and Indian families. They tended to hide inside their straw huts rather than walk around outdoors, the women and children especially.
Only much farther upriver would Jean and his uncle come face to face with the Orinoco’s fiercest inhabitants, and there Sergeant Martial would do well to remember his rifle.
After a three-hour tour of Las Bonitas that left them both rather tired, they were back on board the Simón Bolívar in time for lunch.
Meanwhile MM. Miguel, Felipe, and Varinas were gathered around the dining table in the governor’s quarters.
If the food was nothing fancy—he was the governor of a province, not the president of the republic—the guests were warmly welcomed. Naturally the three geographers talked about their mission, and the governor, being a man of prudence, was careful not to side with the Orinoco, Guaviare, or Atabapo. His main concern was to keep the conversation from degenerating into a dogfight, and more than once he changed the subject just in the nick of time.
For instance, at one particular juncture, when the voices of MM. Miguel and Varinas were taking on a certain shrillness, he created a diversion by saying: “Do you know, messieurs, if any passengers on the Simón Bolívar are traveling to the upper Orinoco?”
“No idea,” M. Miguel replied. “However, it definitely seems that most of them plan either to stop over at Caicara or sail down the Apure as far as the towns in Colombia.”
“Unless those two Frenchmen are heading upriver,” M. Varinas put in.
“Two Frenchmen?” the governor inquired.
“Yes,” M. Felipe answered, “an old-timer and a youngster who boarded at Ciudad Bolívar.”
“What’s their destination?”
“Nobody knows,” M. Miguel replied, “because they haven’t exactly been talkative. If you strike up a conversation with the boy, the old one—who seems to be a retired army officer—charges in and cuts you off. And if you keep at it, he points his finger domineeringly at his nephew—that seems to be their relationship—and orders the youngster off to his cabin. Apparently the old fellow is both his uncle and his guardian.”
“And I pity the poor lad he’s guarding,” M. Varinas added. “All that bullying really hurts the boy, and a couple of times I thought I saw tears in his eyes.”
In fact, M. Varinas was correct. But if Jean sometimes became a little teary-eyed, it was because he was thinking of the future, the goal he was seeking, and the possible disappointments lying in wait, not because Sergeant Martial treated him too sternly. It was a situation strangers could easily misunderstand.
“Anyhow,” M. Miguel went on, “tonight we’ll pretty well know if those two Frenchmen intend to continue on upriver. It wouldn’t surprise me, because the lad keeps consulting a book by a countryman of his, an explorer who managed a few years ago to reach the headwaters of the Orinoco.”
“Only if it’s on that side, in the Parima Mountains!” exclaimed M. Felipe, showing his true colors as advocate of the Atabapo.
“And only if it isn’t in the Andes Mountains!” shouted M. Varinas. “The same place of origin as the tributary we wrongly call the Guaviare!”
The governor saw that the feud was ready to roll again.
“Gentlemen,” he told his guests, “this uncle and nephew of yours interest me. If they’re not going to stop over at Caicara, and if their destination isn’t San Fernando de Apure or de Nutrias, that means they’re planning to travel to the upper reaches of the Orinoco—and I have to wonder why. Frenchmen don’t mind taking chances, they’re daring explorers. I know that. But a number of them have already lost their lives in these South American territories—Dr. Crevaux was clubbed to death by Indians in the plains of Bolivia; his companion François Burban died in Moitaco, and his grave has never been found in the town cemetery. It’s true, though, that M. Chaffanjon was able to make it to the source of the Orinoco—”
“If it really is the Orinoco!” broke in M. Varinas, who could not let this go by without strenuous objection.
“Yes, if it really is the Orinoco,” the governor replied. “And that geographic question, gentlemen, will be settled conclusively by your trip. All I mean is that M. Chaffanjon managed to get back safe and sound, even though he faced the same dangers as his predecessors. So, even without counting your two passengers on the Simón Bolívar, it seems this mighty river of ours draws Frenchmen like flies.”
“As a matter of fact, you’re right,” M. Miguel commented. “Some weeks back, a couple more of those daredevils took off on an exploratory survey of the plains east of the river.”
“Absolutely true, M. Miguel,” the governor said. “They even called on me here—two youngish men about twenty-five or thirty, one an explorer named Jacques Helloch, the other a naturalist named Germain Paterne, one of those naturalists who would risk his neck just to discover a new sprig of grass.”
“And you haven’t had any news since?” M. Felipe asked.
“Nothing, gentlemen. I only know they left by canoe for Caicara, reported in at Buena Vista and La Urbana, then went up one of the tributaries on the right bank. But since that last stopover, nobody has heard a thing from them, and we have good reason to be worried!”
“Let’s hope,” M. Miguel said, “those two explorers haven’t fallen into the clutches of the Quivas Indians—who’re nothing but thieves and murderers, and small wonder they were chased out of Colombia into Venezuela! Their leader is said to be an escaped convict, a man named Alfaniz2 who broke out of the prison at Cayenne.”3
“Is that a certainty?” M. Felipe asked.
“Seems to be,” the governor added, “and I fervently pray, gentlemen, that you yourselves never meet up with any band of Quivas. But still, it’s just possible those audacious Frenchmen haven’t been ambushed and are simply continuing on their merry way, so any day now they may show up again at some village on the right bank. It could be they’ll pull it off just like M. Chaffanjon! But aside from them, there’s also talk of a missionary who went even deeper into these territories to the east, a Spaniard named Father Esperante. After a short stay at San Fernando, this missionary dared to travel even farther than the headwaters of the Orinoco!”
“The false Orinoco!” MM. Felipe and Varinas exclaimed in unison.
And they glared at their colleague, who bowed graciously. “Have it your way, my friends,” M. Miguel said. Then he added to the governor, “Do you know if this missionary ever managed to set up a mission?”
“He has—the Mission of Santa Juana, near Mount Roraima. Apparently it’s doing rather well.”
“That’s quite an achievement!” M. Miguel conceded.
“Indeed,” the governor answered, “and even more because it involves the Guaharibos, the most backward of all the Indian settlers out in the southeast territories. He’s apparently civilized them, converted them to Catholicism, and generally rehabilitated them. And those poor creatures were the lowest of the low, so you can’t even imagine the courage, patience, selflessness—in short, the apostolic virtue—it must’ve taken to accomplish this humanitarian task. During Father Esperante’s early years there, we had no news of him, and in 1888 M. Chaffanjon hadn’t heard a thing about the Santa Juana Mission, even though it wasn’t far from the source of the … uh … river.”
The governor hastily avoided saying “the Orinoco,” not wanting to start another conflagration.
“But,” he continued, “two years ago word came to San Fernando of his success—thanks to him those Guaharibos are now enjoying the miraculous advantages of civilization!”
For