Читать книгу The Mighty Orinoco - Jules Verne - Страница 13

CHAPTER V

The Maripare and the Gallinetta

Nestled in a bend of the river, Caicara could not have asked for a better location. Although four hundred kilometers upriver from the Orinoco delta, it is nevertheless situated like a roadside inn at a busy intersection, an excellent position for commercial success.

And Caicara is indeed prosperous, in part because of its proximity to the Apure, a tributary located just upstream that serves as a principal trade route between Colombia and Venezuela.

The Simón Bolívar reached this freshwater port around nine o’clock in the evening. Having left Las Bonitas at one o’clock in the afternoon, then sailing past the Cuchivero and Manapire rivers and then Taruma Island, she had just arrived and was dropping off her passengers at the Caicara loading dock.

These passengers, needless to say, were those whom the boat was not taking up the Apure to San Fernando or Nutrias.

Among them were the trio of geographers, Sergeant Martial and Jean de Kermor, and an assortment of other travelers. The next morning at sunrise, the Simón Bolívar would depart and sail up this major Orinoco tributary to the foothills of the Colombian Andes.

M. Miguel had not neglected to pass along to his two friends the additional information that Jean had supplied in his conversation with the governor. Both now knew that the young man had come in search of his father, under the wing of his so-called uncle, Sergeant Martial, the retired soldier. Fourteen years earlier, Colonel de Kermor had left France to come to Venezuela. As for the circumstances that caused him to leave his homeland and what he was doing in this distant country, only the future would perhaps reveal. All that was certain, according to a letter the colonel had written to a friend of his—a letter that came to light only years afterward—was that he had passed through San Fernando de Atabapo in April 1879, even though the Caura governor, who lived in that town back then, had no knowledge of his presence.

So, determined to track down his father, Jean de Kermor had made this difficult and dangerous trip. When a young man of seventeen undertook such a journey, no right-thinking person could fail to be sympathetic. MM. Miguel, Felipe, and Varinas swore to themselves that they would do everything they could to help him gather information about Colonel de Kermor.

The question was, would M. Miguel and his two colleagues be able to get around that cranky Sergeant Martial? Would the sergeant let them get to know his nephew better? Could they overcome the NCO’s strange distrust of others? Could they tame this watchdog whose growling kept everybody away? It would be tricky, but maybe they could manage it, especially since the same boat would be taking them all up to San Fernando together.

Caicara has a population of about five hundred people and is often visited by traveling merchants who do business along the upper Orinoco. There are a couple of rooming houses in town (more accurately, rooming huts), and the five travelers decided to stay in one of these—the three Venezuelans on one side and the two Frenchmen on the other—for the few days they were to remain in this locality.

The next morning, August 16, Sergeant Martial and Jean toured Caicara, looking for a boat.

It is true that Caicara is a bright and cheerful little town, snuggled between the lower slopes of the Parima range and the right bank of the river, facing the village of Cabruta on the opposite bank by the mouth of the Apurito. Before it stretches one of those lushly wooded islands that are so common in the Orinoco. Its tiny harbor is located among the black granite rocks that adorn the river’s course. The town consists of about one hundred and fifty huts (or houses, if you prefer), most of which are built of stone with roofs of palm branches or red tile, whose color stands out from the surrounding greenery. Overlooking the town is a knoll some fifty meters high. On its summit stands a mission monastery, abandoned after Miranda’s expedition and the struggle for independence, and which was once desecrated by the cannibalistic practices of the Carib Indians whose bloodthirsty reputation is thoroughly deserved.¹

Moreover, time-honored Indian customs are still in use in Caicara, as well as those that mix Christianity with unusual religious rituals. For instance, there is the custom of the velorio, a watch over the dead, a vigil which the French explorer once had a chance to attend. The many participants therein consume extravagant amounts of coffee, tobacco, and above all brandy in the presence of the body of the husband or child. The wife or mother initiates the dance which only stops when the dancers, drunk and exhausted, can continue no longer. It is more a dance festival than a funeral.²

Meanwhile, the first problem Jean de Kermor and Sergeant Martial had to solve was chartering a boat to go up the central portion of the Orinoco, a run of about eight hundred kilometers from Caicara to San Fernando. This was likewise the foremost concern of MM. Miguel, Felipe, and Varinas. To M. Miguel was given the task of securing transportation under the most favorable terms.

Understandably, M. Miguel thought that if he and Sergeant Martial agreed to go in together on this, it would simplify matters considerably. It made no difference whether the travelers numbered three or five—a single boat could easily hold them, and no additional crew would be needed.

Recruiting such boatmen, however, is not always easy. One must hire experienced men. During the rainy season these dugout canoes have to sail against the wind much of the time and against the current all of the time. There are plenty of dangerous rapids as well as channels clogged with rocks or sand, which require long portages along the riverbank. Just like the ocean, the Orinoco has its whims and bad moods, and nobody can travel it without certain risks and perils.

It is customary to search for boatmen among the riverside tribes. With many of these natives, it is their only line of work and they have learned to do it with great skill and courage. Among the most capable, it is said, are the Banivas Indians, whose clans live mainly in the lands located near the Guaviare, Orinoco, and Atabapo. After taking passengers or freight upriver, they usually come back down as far as Caicara to wait for new travelers and cargo.

Are these boatmen trustworthy? The fact is, not very. It would thus be safer to recruit only one crew, M. Miguel correctly reasoned. Besides, since he was deeply interested in Jean’s welfare, the young man could only benefit from having the geographer and his two friends as traveling companions.

With this idea in mind, he decided to discuss the proposition with Sergeant Martial. And, when he spotted them down at Caicara’s little harbor where the sergeant and Jean were inquiring about a boat to hire, he immediately approached them.

Searching for a falca to hire in Caicara

The old soldier was frowning, and his attitude toward the geographer anything but neighborly.

“Sergeant,” M. Miguel said, speaking meticulous French, “we’ve had the pleasure of sailing together on the Simón Bolívar—”

“And the pleasure of getting off it last night,” Sergeant Martial replied, heels together, stiff as a guardsman shouldering his gun.

M. Miguel tried hard to read a friendly meaning into this remark and continued, “It was only at Las Bonitas that my two friends and I realized, during a conversation between your nephew—”

Sergeant Martial’s lips began to tighten—a bad sign—and he interrupted M. Miguel. “Excuse me—a conversation?”

“Between Monsieur Jean de Kermor and the governor. During this conversation, we realized that you planned to get off at Caicara.”

“I don’t believe we need anybody’s permission,” the old campaigner retorted sharply.

“No, of course not,” M. Miguel continued, closing his mind to the likelihood that his proposal would be poorly received. “But, learning the reason behind your trip—”

“One!” Sergeant Martial muttered between his teeth, as if counting up the number of times he would be forced to respond to this kindly geographer.

“—the circumstances under which your nephew has come in search of his father, Colonel de Kermor—”

“Two!” Sergeant Martial intoned.

“—and knowing that you plan to go up the Orinoco as far as San Fernando—”

“Three!” Sergeant Martial snarled.

“—I’ve come to ask you, since my associates and I are going to the same place, if it wouldn’t be more convenient, cheaper, and also safer to make this trip from Caicara to San Fernando in the same boat.”

If ever there was a sensible offer, this was it. What earthly reason could there be for turning it down? If they picked a dugout canoe big enough for all of them, the five travelers would certainly be able to continue their journey under the most favorable conditions.

So Sergeant Martial should not have had the slightest reason to oppose the idea. Yet, without even a word to his nephew, and like a man whose mind has been made up from the outset, he answered caustically: “Very honored, sir, very honored! It is possible that your proposal would be cheaper, but more convenient? No—at least not for our purposes!”

“But why is this arrangement not suitable for you?” M. Miguel asked, rather surprised that his proposal was deemed unacceptable.

“It is unsuitable because it does not suit us!” Sergeant Martial snapped.

“I’m sure, Sergeant, that you have your reasons for answering this way,” M. Miguel went on. “But since my wish is simply that we help each other out, I think I deserve a more courteous reply!”

“My apologies, monsieur,” Sergeant Martial answered, seeming to realize he was on shaky ground. “But I had to refuse your offer.”

“A person can refuse something in a polite way. Where are the good manners you Frenchmen are so famous for?”

“Monsieur,” the old soldier replied, growing angrier, “this isn’t about manners! You made a proposal, I’ve got my reasons for not accepting it. I told you so straight out, without beating around the bush. Now if you have a problem with that—”

M. Miguel’s lofty air did not have a calming effect on Sergeant Martial, whose patience was running very thin. At this moment Jean de Kermor stepped in, saying, “Monsieur, please forgive my uncle, he didn’t mean to be discourteous. It was extremely good of you to make such a proposal, and any other time we’d be delighted to take advantage of your kindness. But we need a boat all to ourselves, one that we can use according to our needs. It’s possible that, in gathering information along the way, we may want to change our itinerary, to stop over in this town or that. In a word, we need complete freedom of movement.”

“Very well, M. de Kermor,” M. Miguel replied. “We don’t wish to hinder you in any way. And despite your uncle’s rather, uh, chilly response—”

“The response of a retired soldier, sir!” Sergeant Martial declared.

“Yes, of course! All the same, if my friends and I can ever be of service to you during your trip…”

“My uncle and I both thank you, monsieur.” the young man replied. “And believe me, if the need arises we won’t hesitate to ask for your help.”

“Did you hear, Sergeant?” M. Miguel added in a half-playful voice.

“I heard it, M. Geographer,” Sergeant Martial answered gruffly, still not willing to unbend despite these overtures from M. Miguel, who was in truth a decent and good-hearted man.

Then M. Miguel held out his hand to Jean de Kermor, who shook it cordially. This made lightning flash from the eyes of his fierce old uncle, along with a deep-throated rumble of thunder.

When Sergeant Martial and the boy were alone, the old soldier said: “How’d you like the way I handled that fellow?”

“You handled him rudely, and you were wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“Totally.”

“Well, it would’ve been worse to share a canoe with those three Venezuelans!”

“You were perfectly right to refuse, uncle, but you could’ve been more polite about it!”

“I don’t have to be polite with some interfering—”

“M. Miguel wasn’t interfering, he was sincerely trying to help. And his proposal made complete sense … if only it could have been … but after turning him down, you should have thanked him and left things on a friendly footing. Perhaps he and his associates can be of assistance to us—they’re sure to have contacts in San Fernando, contacts who could help me find my father, and you, your commanding officer.”

“So … I was wrong?”

“Yes, uncle.”

“And you were right?”

“Yes, uncle.”

“Thank you, nephew.”

In central Orinoco the smallest dugout canoes are hollowed out from the trunks of large trees, among others the cachicamo. The biggest vessels, made from tight-fitting planks, have curved sides that sweep up to an arch-shaped prow. These sturdy boats are built to take plenty of wear and tear, from scraping against the river bottom in shallow water to being dropped on the ground as you carry them up the riverbank around impassable rapids.

In the center, secured by a stay and two shrouds, stands a mast to which is rigged a square sail, good in tailwinds and mild side winds.³ The skipper steers by using a kind of long oar as a rudder.

The fore part of the vessel is wide open from the mast to the prow. This is where crewmen stand during the day and sleep at night. The whole crew usually consists of ten Indians, a skipper and nine sailors.

The aft part, from the mast to the stern except for the steering post, is covered by a deckhouse, a sort of rounded roof made from palm leaves secured by long strips of bamboo.

This deckhouse serves as the vessel’s cabin. It contains some bunks, simple mats on beds of straw, kitchenware and tableware, a small stove for cooking, plus a supply of fish and fowl to cook. These cabins run five to six meters long, out of a total length for such boats of ten to eleven meters, so you can divide a cabin into several compartments with curtains made out of matting.

On the Orinoco these boats are called falcas. When the wind is right, they can hoist sail, but it is often slow going due to the rapid currents between the many islands dotting this river. If the wind drops, they can be propelled by hand—in midstream with a pikestaff, or along the bank with a towline.

These pikestaffs are solid bamboo and double as barge poles, or palancas, for the crewmen in the bow and as a boat hook, or garapato, for the skipper in the stern. The towline, or espilla, is made from the ultraelastic fibers of the chiquichique palm. It is a slim cable about a hundred feet long and so light that it floats. It can be carried along the shore and hitched around the roots or trunk of a tree; then the boat can be pulled forward from on board.

Such is the makeup of the standard falca, the only way to navigate the central portion of this river. There is also a miniature dinghy, which the Indians call a curiare, which is used to maneuver the towline.

The skipper of these vessels is the man with whom travelers do their negotiating, and the charter fee is not based on how far you go but on how long the boat is in use. The agreed-upon fare is paid daily. No skipper would have it otherwise. The fact is, he faces many obstacles while sailing the Orinoco: surging waters, gusting winds, disruptive rapids, and the difficulty of carrying his boat around every unexpected obstacle that blocks the way. The whole trip can be done in three weeks, but it takes twice as long if weather conditions deteriorate. Consequently, no skipper will agree to carry passengers out of Caicara, neither to the mouth of the Meta nor to San Fernando, if he knows bad weather is coming. In this situation, it is best to bargain with the Banivas Indians, who placed a pair of falcas at the disposal of the travelers.

M. Miguel had the good luck to pick an excellent river pilot. He was a muscular, energetic, and intelligent Indian named Martos, around forty years of age and in full charge of his crew, nine well-built natives who were old pros with the palanca, garapato, and espilla. He set a steep price on this trip, it was true. But when it came to settling such an important matter as the Guaviare versus the Atabapo versus the Orinoco, it was no time to pinch pennies.

The geographer was inclined to think that Jean de Kermor and Sergeant Martial were just as lucky in their choice—nine Banivas also, supervised by a Spanish-Indian half-breed who came with good credentials. This half-breed was named Valdez,⁴ and if his passengers needed to continue beyond San Fernando into the upper reaches of the Orinoco (which he had already sailed in part), he was ready to stay on in their employ. But that issue would be settled later, after they had obtained information about the colonel in San Fernando.

The two falcas had their own names. The craft containing MM. Miguel, Felipe, and Varinas was called the Maripare, after one of the Orinoco’s many islands. The one carrying Sergeant Martial and his nephew had been christened the Gallinetta, after another island. Topside both boats were white, while their hulls were black from stem to stern.

Needless to say, these vessels would travel as a twosome, neither one trying to outdistance the other—falcas are not Mississippi steamboats constantly racing to set new speed records.⁵ Besides, one must always watch out for hostile Indians from the riverside grasslands, and there is strength in numbers.

The Maripare and the Gallinetta could have set out that afternoon—the only thing left was to buy provisions. As for that, the shopkeepers of Caicara were all set to furnish the supplies one would need on a cruise of several weeks up to San Fernando, where one would be able to stock up again. They sold everything—canned food, clothing, ammunition, tackle for fishing and hunting—and were eager to do business, so long as the purchase price could be paid in piasters.

Of course, these Orinoco travelers could also count on the abundant game along the riverbanks and on the teeming fish of its waters. For one thing, M. Miguel was an expert hunter; for another, Sergeant Martial was a crack shot with his rifle. And in Jean de Kermor’s grip, even a small handgun could be very useful. But one cannot live by hunting and fishing alone; it is necessary to take along some sugar, cured meat, canned vegetables, flour extracted from cassava or manioc plants, which is a good substitute for flour from wheat or corn, plus a couple of kegs of rum and brandy. As for fuel, the riverside forests offer unlimited wood for the stoves on these boats. Finally, to cope with the cold, or rather the damp, it was no problem to buy some of those wool blankets that were on sale in every town in Venezuela.

These purchases took several days, but nobody minded the delay because, for forty-eight hours, the weather was especially bad. Caicara was struck by one of those exceptionally violent storms that the Indians call chubascos. It blew in from the southwest, with torrential rains that brought a noticeable rise in the river.

It gave Sergeant Martial and his nephew a preview of the difficulties of navigating on the Orinoco. Had they set out, the two falcas would neither have been able to go upriver against the swollen currents nor make any headway against those strong winds. Without the slightest doubt, they would have been forced back to Caicara, and maybe even been badly damaged.

MM. Miguel, Felipe, and Varinas were philosophical about this delay. It mattered little if their trip took a few weeks longer. By contrast, Sergeant Martial was in a vile mood; he grumbled, swore against the floodwaters, and cursed the storm in both French and Spanish, until Jean had to step in and calm him down.

“You’re a man of courage, my dear Martial,” the boy remonstrated, “but you must also be a man of patience! We’ll no doubt need much of the latter in the days to come!”

“I’ll be patient, Jean, but why is this accursed Orinoco treating us so badly at the beginning of our journey?”

“Look at it this way, uncle! If the river’s going to act up, isn’t it better now than later? Who knows, we might have to go all the way up to its source!”

“Yes, who knows!” Sergeant Martial muttered. “And who knows what may be in store for us there?”

During the day of the twentieth, the gale died down greatly as the wind shifted to the north. If it remained in that direction, the boats could be launched. At the same time the high waters began to recede, and the river returned to normal. The two skippers, Martos and Valdez, stated they could leave by midmorning on the next day.

And indeed they did depart under the most propitious circumstances. By ten o’clock the townspeople were down on the riverbank. Both falcas had Venezuelan flags flapping from the tips of their masts. Stationed in the bow of the Maripare, MM. Miguel, Felipe, and Varinas waved back to the cheering natives.

The Maripare and the Gallinetta

Then M. Miguel turned toward the Gallinetta. “Safe journey, Sergeant!” he called out heartily.

“Have a good trip, monsieur!” the old soldier answered. “Because if it’s good for you—”

“It’ll be good for us all!” M. Miguel chimed in. “Since we’re traveling in tandem!”

Barge poles shoved off from the bank, sails were hoisted up the mastheads, and the two boats were driven to midriver by a smart breeze, while the cheers soon faded behind them.