To be sure, turtles frequent other parts of the Orinoco, but nowhere in such huge numbers as on the sandbars between the Cabullare River and the town of La Urbana. Their Indian host, wise in the ways of these reptiles and an expert at their hunting and fishing, which is essentially the same thing, explained to them that these turtles start showing up as early as the month of February by the hundreds of thousands.
It goes without saying that this Indian would know nothing about biological classifications and could not name the species of these turtles that multiply so prolifically on the Orinoco mud flats. He was happy just to prey on them along with the Guahibos, Otomacos, and others, plus the half-breeds from the nearby plains. They gathered up the eggs during nesting season and distilled their oil by a very simple process that is as easy as extracting olive oil. For a basin you merely use a dinghy you have hauled up onto the bank. You put your baskets of eggs in the dinghy, crack them open with a little club, let their contents dribble into the bottom of the boat, then pour in water. Within an hour the oil rises to the surface; you add heat and the water evaporates, leaving pure oil. That is all there is to it.4
“And this oil is supposed to be excellent,” said Jean, who got this verdict from his beloved guidebook.
“Truly excellent,” added M. Felipe.
“What kind of turtles are they?” the lad asked.
“They belong to the species Cinosternon scorpioides,” M. Miguel replied. “These creatures have shells nearly a yard long, and they weigh around sixty or seventy pounds.”
And since M. Varinas had not yet shown off his specialized knowledge of the order Chelonia, he then jumped in to explain that the true scientific name of his friend Miguel’s turtle was actually Podocnemis dumeriliana, an appellation which meant very little to their Indian host.5
Then Jean de Kermor said to M. Miguel: “One basic question—”
“You’re talking too much, nephew,” Sergeant Martial muttered, chewing on his mustache.
“Sergeant,” M. Miguel said with a smile, “why keep your nephew from improving his mind?”
“Because … because he has no business knowing more than his uncle!”
“That much is understood, my dear Mentor,” the young man replied. “Anyhow, here’s my question—are those animals dangerous?”
“In large numbers they can be,” M. Miguel answered. “If you get in their way, you’ll be in great danger because they’ll be coming at you by the hundreds of thousands!”
“Hundreds of thousands!”
“Every bit that many, M. Jean. At least fifty million eggs are gathered each year, furnishing enough oil to fill ten thousand demijohns.6 Now then, since a single turtle lays an annual average of a hundred eggs, since predators polish off a substantial number of these, and since enough eggs are still left over to perpetuate the race, I calculate that right in this part of the Orinoco, around these Manteca sandbars, there’ll be a good million turtles.”
M. Miguel was definitely not overstating the case. Lured by some sort of mysterious attraction,7 these creatures gather by the hundreds of thousands; as Professor Elisée Reclus has put it, a living tidal wave, slow but relentless, overwhelming everything in its path like a flood or an avalanche.
True, human beings destroy far too many of them, and the species could disappear someday.8 To the Indians’ great loss, some of these mud flats were already deserted, including the shores by Cariben, just below the mouth of the Meta.
Their Indian host then supplied some fascinating details on the behavior of these turtles during nesting season. Over a three-week period from mid-March on, their shells can be seen plowing furrows across the vast tracts of sand, where the creatures dig holes some two feet deep, lay their eggs, then carefully cover up the holes with sand. Soon after, the eggs start hatching.
In addition to extracting oil from the eggs, the natives also try to catch the turtles themselves for food, because their meat is held in high regard. To catch them underwater is nearly impossible. But if you see one alone on a sandbar, you can capture it simply by thrusting a stick under its shell and flipping it over—a difficult position for a turtle, because it cannot right itself unaided.
“Some people are like that too,” M. Varinas commented. “When a bit of bad luck turns their world upside down, they never get back on their feet!”
This unexpected footnote wrapped up their conversation on Orinoco turtles.
Then M. Miguel asked the Indian the following question: “Around Buena Vista, have you seen the two French explorers who came upriver four or five weeks ago?”
This question was of specific interest to Jean de Kermor since it concerned fellow countrymen of his. So he listened intently to the Indian’s answer.
“Two Europeans?” the Indian asked.
“Yes—two Frenchmen.”
“Five weeks ago?” the Indian repeated. “Yes, I saw them. They docked their falca for a whole day where yours are now.”
“Were they all right?” the lad asked.
“Yes, in good health, two strong, happy men. One was the kind of hunter I’d like to be, and with a kind of rifle that I’d like to have. Many jaguars and panthers he brought down! If I had a weapon like that, I could shoot a wildcat or an anteater from five hundred feet away!”
The Indian’s eyes sparkled as he spoke. He himself was a good shot, a zealous hunter. But his flimsy fowling piece and his bow and arrows could not compare with the choice firearms that the Frenchman had no doubt carried.
“How about the second man?” M. Miguel asked.
“The second man? Oh, him—just a hunter of plants, a gatherer of herbs,” the Indian replied.
At this point, his wife said something in her native language that was completely lost on her guests, and her husband quickly added: “Oh yes, that’s right. I gave him a sprig of saurau that seemed to please him. A rare type.9 And he was so happy, he wanted to make a little image of us with a machine—an image of us on a little mirror.”
“Right,” M. Felipe put in, “he photographed you with his camera.”
“Could you show it to us?” M. Miguel asked.
The little girl tore herself away from her friend Jean. Opening a hamper that sat on the ground, she took out the “little image” and brought it to the lad.
It was indeed a photographic print. It caught the Indian in his favorite pose, woven hat on his head, cloak draped over his shoulders. To his right was his wife, wearing a long gown, bracelets of glass beads on her arms and legs. To his left was the child, wrapped in a loincloth, grimacing for the camera like a mischievous little monkey.
“And do you know what happened to those two Frenchmen?” M. Miguel asked the Indian.
“I know they went upriver to La Urbana, docked a while, then continued through the plains on the side of the river where the sun comes up.”
“Were they traveling alone?”
“No. They’d taken a guide and three Mapoyo Indians.”
“And since they left, you haven’t heard a word?”
“No news at all.”
So what had happened to those two explorers, MM. Jacques Helloch and Germain Paterne? Had they gotten into serious trouble on their expedition to the east of the Orinoco? Had the Indians betrayed them? Were their lives in danger out in that uncharted territory? Jean was well aware that M. Chaffanjon had run greater risks from certain members of his escort than from his actual survey of the Caura River—only a well-aimed bullet had saved