Читать книгу The Mighty Orinoco - Jules Verne - Страница 14

CHAPTER VI

Island after Island

Their trip along the central Orinoco was now under way. How many tedious hours, how many dreary days would go by aboard these falcas! And how slow their progress would be on this river that was so ill-suited for rapid travel! But of course it would not be tedious for M. Miguel and his friends. They could hardly wait to reach the junction of the Guaviare and Atabapo rivers, where they would carry out their geographers’ work. They would complete the hydrographic survey of the Orinoco, study the layout of its tributaries no less numerous than its islands, plot the exact locations of its rapids, and finally correct the errors still contained in the maps of these territories. For scholars on a quest for knowledge, time flies!

It was regrettable that Sergeant Martial had been so against them all traveling in the same boat, because the hours would have passed less slowly. But on this point the uncle had been absolutely adamant that this was their only choice, and the nephew had not objected.

So Jean had to settle for reading and rereading the work of M. Chaffanjon, as thorough and meticulous on every aspect of the Orinoco as he was. The young man could not have found a better guide than this French explorer.

Once the Maripare and the Gallinetta had reached midriver, one could see hills rising from the surface of the nearby plains. Toward eleven o’clock in the morning, a cluster of huts came into view at the foot of a granite slope on the left bank. This was the village of Cabruta, consisting of some fifty straw huts, and if you were of a mind to multiply that number by eight, you would have a fair idea of the total population. In these parts, mixed breeds had replaced the area’s original residents—the now-scattered Guamo Indians whose skin is lighter than a mulatto’s.¹ But since it was the rainy season, Sergeant Martial and Jean de Kermor could see close up a number of these Guamos, who often return in their bark canoes during this time to do some fishing.

The Gallinetta’s skipper spoke Spanish, so the lad asked him many questions, all of which Valdez was happy to answer. And that evening, while their falca was heading toward the right bank, Valdez told Jean, “There’s Capuchino, an old mission that’s been deserted for years.”

“Do you plan to stop there, Valdez?” Jean asked.

“We must, since the wind dies down after dark. Besides, it’s better to sail the Orinoco only in the daytime, because the channels do a lot of shifting around. You can’t steer if you can’t see.”

In fact, it was standard procedure for boatmen to moor overnight by the river’s edge or by one of its islands. So the Maripare made its berth alongside the steep bank of Capuchino. Supper featured a kind of bluegill, bought from fishermen in Cabruta. Then the river travelers fell sound asleep.

As their skipper, Valdez, had predicted, the breeze dropped off by early evening, but it returned at daybreak from the northeast. The two falcas hoisted sail and, with the wind at their backs, headed upriver with little difficulty.

Opposite Capuchino was the mouth of the Apurito, a branch of the Apure. The delta of this major tributary showed up two hours later. After leaving Caicara, this was the route the Simón Bolívar took to travel through some territories of Colombia that are bounded on the west by the Andes.

And on this subject, M. Miguel asked his two friends why, after all, the Apure could not be identified as the true Orinoco, instead of the Atabapo or Guaviare.

“Oh, good grief!” M. Felipe retorted. “The river here is nearly three thousand meters across! How could the Apure be anything but a tributary?”

“And the whole way from Ciudad Bolívar, the water has been crystal clear.” M. Varinas insisted. “But look at the Apure—see how cloudy and turbid it is!”

“All right, all right!” M. Miguel said, smiling. “The Apure’s out of the running—but there are a lot of candidates still to come!”

And M. Miguel might have added that, in any case, the Apure irrigates lusher plains than those along the Orinoco, and that it definitely seems to be heading west, whereas the other makes a sharp turn at this point coming from the south all the way from San Fernando. But since steamboats dare not continue upstream, they take the Apure and go along its course more than five hundred kilometers, almost to Palmirito. It has been aptly nicknamed “the plains river” after these wide open spaces so good for farming and for raising livestock and home to the healthiest, hardest-working people in central Venezuela.

Giant specimens of Crocodilia

It is also relevant to note—and Jean could corroborate this with his own two eyes—that there are plenty of alligators² in these waterways, whose murkiness allows these reptiles to approach their prey. Some of these monster saurians were frolicking just a few feet away from the Gallinetta. Giant specimens of Crocodilia some six meters long abound in the Orinoco’s tributaries, whereas the caimans run smaller in the streams flowing through the plains.

And when Jean questioned Valdez about these animals, the skipper answered, “They aren’t always dangerous. There are some, like the bavas, that don’t even bother swimmers. Then there are the cebados, the ones who’ve already tasted human flesh. They’ll practically jump into your boat to get you!”

“Let them come!” Sergeant Martial growled.

“No, don’t let them come, uncle!” Jean responded, pointing out one of the brutes that was noisily opening and closing his huge jaws.

Anyhow, crocodilians are not the only ones to infest the Orinoco and its tributaries. There are also piranhas, or caribes, fish so tough they can instantly bite through the strongest hooks. They are genuine aquatic cannibals, so they have been named after the Carib Indians. Plus there are electric rays to deal with, as well as electric eels locally known as trembladors. Equipped with a sophisticated electrical generating mechanism, they can kill other fish with discharges of current that would jolt even human beings.

That day the falcas skirted some islands where the current was particularly strong, and once or twice they were obliged to bring out the espilla and loop it around some sturdy tree roots.

While they were in front of the island of Verija de Mono, which was buried under dense vegetation, several shots rang out from the Maripare. Half a dozen ducks fell to the surface of the river. M. Miguel and his friends had shown off their skill as sharpshooters.

Soon after, their dinghy pulled up to the Gallinetta. “A little change of pace at dinnertime,” M. Miguel said, handing over a brace of duck.

Jean de Kermor thanked M. Miguel, while Sergeant Martial gave a mildly appreciative grunt.

After asking the lad how his two days of sailing had gone, and receiving a generally positive answer, M. Miguel said good evening to both nephew and uncle. The dinghy returned him to its boat.

“A little change of pace at dinner time,” M. Miguel said.

At nightfall, the two falcas moored off Pajaral Island, since the river’s right bank was obstructed by scattered boulders. It was on these rocks that M. Chaffanjon had seen several inscriptions, carved there by the knives of traders who frequent this part of the river.

They ate a hearty supper. Sergeant Martial, who had learned cooking as a canteen chef in his regiment, personally prepared the two ducks, whose meat was fragrant, flavorful, and a good deal better than any European variety. At nine o’clock that evening they went to bed; Jean lay down on his cot in the section of the deckhouse that served as a bedroom, while his uncle went through the usual routine of carefully covering the lad with mosquito netting.

This precaution was not for naught. There were so many mosquitoes, and such mosquitoes! And, as Sergeant Martial found out, M. Chaffanjon was not guilty of exaggeration when he wrote that they are “probably the hardest thing about traveling the Orinoco.” Thousands of poisonous stingers jab you without letup, then the punctures become inflamed, grow increasingly painful over the next two weeks, and can lead to a high fever.³

So the uncle took great care to adjust the protective veil around his nephew’s bed. Then he blew out huge puffs of smoke from his pipe to drive the cursed insects away, at least temporarily. And if any tried to sneak under some rumple in the netting, he swatted them with all his strength.

“My dear Martial, you’ll fracture your wrists!” Jean told him more than once. “No need going to all this trouble. Right now, nothing could keep me awake!”

“Maybe not,” the old soldier answered, “but I don’t want a single one of those little brutes buzzing in your ears!”

And every time he heard a telltale humming, he took appropriate measures. Finally, after he saw that Jean was sound asleep, he went to bed himself. To his credit, he laughed off a fair number of these aerial attacks. But though he claimed he was too thick-skinned to feel them, in truth he smarted like anybody else and scratched himself until the boat shook.

Next morning the falcas cast off and left under sail. The wind was favorable but sporadic. A blanket of big, puffy clouds hung midway in the sky. The rain fell in sudden, savage downpours, so the travelers had to spend the day in their quarters.

There were rather strong currents to overcome, because the shrinking river was now peppered with numerous tiny islands. It was essential to hug the left bank where the water offered less resistance.

This bank had a swampy look about it, containing a tangle of canals and bayous. And it continued like this from the mouth of the Apurito to that of the Arauca, over a distance of two hundred kilometers. The region was teeming with wild duck. They could be seen flying over the plains, speckling the skies like thousands of black dots.

“They are as numerous as the mosquitoes, but they are much less annoying!” Sergeant Martial exclaimed. “Besides, these you can eat!”

It was a perfectly apt comparison.

And it does prove that Professor Elisée Reclus was right when he quoted Carl Sachs. They assure us that if a regiment of cavalry camped for fifteen days along a lagoon in this region and ate nothing but wild duck from the surrounding wetlands, they still would not make a measurable dent in the local bird population.⁴

The hunters from the Gallinetta and the Maripare—like the aforementioned cavalry regiment—effected no noticeable reduction in these legions of feathered creatures. The travelers settled for shooting only a couple dozen, which they drifted down in their curiares to retrieve. Jean fired several excellent shots, to Sergeant Martial’s intense satisfaction. The old soldier, saying to himself that one good deed deserves another, delivered part of his bounty to M. Miguel and company. They already had plenty, but he obviously did not want to feel indebted to them in any way.

That day the skippers of the two falcas faced a real test of skill: they had to dodge sharp rocks in the river. Colliding with one of these could mean losing a boat in the midst of rain-swollen waters. Not only did this maneuvering require a flawless technique with the stern paddle, but one also needed to watch for drifting tree trunks and avoid crashing into them. These trees had been uprooted from the island of Zamuro, which for years had been coming apart bit by bit. Our travelers could verify that this island, eaten away by the encroaching water, was almost to the point of vanishing completely.

The falcas eventually spent the night moored off the upstream tip of Casimirito Island. There they found an adequate refuge from the unusually violent squalls. A few deserted huts, ordinarily used by turtle fishermen, offered travelers a more substantial shelter than their standard deckhouse. At least they did to travelers on the Maripare, since those on the Gallinetta declined to go ashore, despite the invitations extended to them.

But it probably was not the height of prudence to set foot on Casimirito Island, which is overrun with apes, not to mention cougars and jaguars. Luckily, the nasty weather convinced these beasts to stay inside their lairs, and the shore party never came under attack. Even so, during lulls in the rainstorm, ferocious snarls could be heard along with the riotous bawling of the local apes, who have been dubbed howler monkeys by naturalists, and no wonder.

The following day, the skies looked more friendly. The clouds had retreated during the night. Those heavy rains from the higher zones were followed by a light drizzle, a sort of powdered water that stopped altogether after daybreak. The sun shone from time to time, and there was a strong northeasterly breeze. Since the river detours to the east and passes Buena Vista before going south again, the falcas set sail with a brisk wind behind them.

As natives of Nantes, Jean de Kermor and Sergeant Martial had to be struck by the Orinoco’s appearance, now much wider. And so the old NCO could not help making this comment: “Take a look, nephew—see where we’ve ended up!”

The young man left the deckhouse and stood in the bow of the vessel, its billowing sail now behind him. Under clear skies the distant grasslands were visible on the horizon.

Then Sergeant Martial added, “Could we have gotten turned around and returned to Brittany?”

“I see what you mean,” Jean answered. “Along this stretch, the Orinoco looks just like the Loire.”⁵

“Exactly, Jean, our very own Loire both above and below Nantes! Look at those yellow sandbars! Put half a dozen barges with big square sails in line over there, and you’d think we were heading in to Saint-Florent or Mauves!”

“You’re right, my dear Martial, it’s amazingly similar. What’s more, those wide plains extending beyond the two banks of the river remind me of the prairies along the lower Loire near Pellerin or Paimboeuf.”

“You’ve got me believing it, nephew! Any minute now I expect to see the steam launch from Saint-Nazaire—the ‘pyroscaphe’ she’s called, one of those Greek names that I can never understand.”

“And when this pyroscaphe actually shows up, uncle,” the lad replied with a smile, “we won’t climb aboard. We’ll let her go right on by because, by then, my father will be back in Nantes, won’t he?”

“Yes, the gallant colonel will be home again! Once we find him and he realizes he isn’t alone anymore, we’ll all sail back down the river, hop aboard the Simón Bolívar, and in no time we’ll be off to France on the Saint-Nazaire liner. And then he’ll be back for good!”

“Please, Lord, hear this man’s prayer!” Jean murmured.

And as he uttered these words, his eyes turned upstream toward the hills whose distant silhouettes stood out in the southeast.

Returning to Sergeant Martial’s very apt comment on the similarity between the Loire and this section of the Orinoco, he said, “All the same, sometimes you can see things on these sandy shores that you’d never see along the Loire.”

“Like what?”

“Every year toward mid-March, turtles come to lay and bury their eggs.”

“Turtles?”

“Thousands of them. See that river off the right bank? Before they began to call it Chaffanjon River, it was known as Turtle River.”⁶

“If that’s so, it probably deserved the name somehow. But around here I don’t see a single—”

“Have a little patience, Uncle Martial. Even though their nesting season is over, you’ll see an incredible number of these turtles.”

“But if they’re done laying eggs, we can’t help ourselves to their eggs, which are supposed to be a treat.”

“Indeed, and the meat of the turtles themselves is just as tasty. So I’m counting on our skipper, Valdez, to catch us a couple for our cookpot.”

“We’ll have turtle soup!” the Sergeant chortled.

“Right, and for once it won’t be made of leftover veal like back home!”

“Nobody should come all this way,” Sergeant Martial agreed, “and have to settle for veal stew!”

Jean was correct when he said their boats were approaching the waterways where the large quantity of these hard-shelled reptiles attracted Indians from the entire region. The natives now come only during fishing season, but they used to show up in huge numbers. The Taparitos, Panares, Yaruros, Guamos, and Mapoyos all fought furiously over this territory. Earlier on, the Otomacos⁷ were solidly entrenched in these parts, but nowadays they are scattered over the lands to the west. According to Humboldt’s accounts, these Indians, who claim their line dates back to the Stone Age, are staunch handball players, even more adept than those European Basques who have emigrated to Venezuela.⁸ They are also listed among those geophagous tribes, who, outside fishing season, will eat pellets of clay, actual potter’s earth lightly roasted. It is a custom, moreover, that still continues. This vice—what else can it be called?—is picked up in childhood and becomes addictive. Geophagists eat dirt like Chinese smoke opium—they are driven to it by an irresistible craving. M. Chaffanjon came across some of these poor wretches, who had reached the point of licking the clay of their adobe huts.⁹

That afternoon the falcas faced a thousand difficulties of navigation, giving their crews an exhausting workout. The current picked up speed tremendously in this part of the river, restricted by the encroaching sandbars.

The sky was threatening, the atmosphere was saturated with electricity, and thunder rumbled to the south. A giant storm was coming up from the southwest. Soon the breeze blew itself out, and there was barely a puff of air to be felt.

Under these circumstances it was only common sense to head for shelter, because one never knows how Orinoco storms will turn out, whether or not they will lead to violent atmospheric disturbances. So most boatmen automatically seek cover, docking in some cove whose steep sides can shield them from the fierce gusts.

Unfortunately, there was not one decent harbor in this part of the river. On both banks the grasslands stretched as far as the eye could see, vast prairies stripped bare of trees, which storms could sweep across without encountering a single obstacle.

M. Miguel, questioning Martos about his next move, asked the skipper if he would be forced to drop anchor in midriver until the next day.

“Too risky,” Martos answered. “There’s no place where our anchor will catch hold. The storm would toss us ashore, tip us over, and smash us to bits.”

“Then what can we do?”

The sky was threatening.

“Try getting to the next village upstream. Or if that won’t work, we’ll backtrack to Casimirito Island where we were last night.”

“And what’s the next village?”

“Buena Vista, on the left bank.”

In fact, this move was so clearly indicated that Valdez felt no need to confer with Martos and was already making for that village.

The deflated sails hung from the masts. The crewmen lowered them into the boat so the wind would not catch them. It was possible that the storm would be an hour or two in coming; the ash-colored clouds seemed to be stalled over the southern horizon.

“Bad weather?” Sergeant Martial asked the Gallinetta’s skipper.

“Very bad,” Valdez replied, “but we’ll try to outrun it.”

By this point the two boats were abreast of each other, no more than fifty feet apart. Their crewmen used long, forked poles as boat hooks, pulling themselves along the shoals. In all, it was a lot of work to little avail, because they barely made any headway against the current. But it was the only thing they could do. They had to get close to the left bank, where they could haul themselves along using the espilla.

This crossing took them a solid hour. Since they were determined not to drop anchor, the falcas were in constant danger of being swept downstream and possibly dashed against the rocks. But, thanks to the skill of their skippers and the effort of their crews, seconded by MM. Miguel, Felipe, and Varinas on one hand and by Sergeant Martial and Jean on the other, the two boats finally succeeded in arriving alongside the left bank without losing too much ground while going diagonally across the river.

Then they made use of their espillas. By expending much energy, they could at least be certain of not being carried downstream.

At Valdez’s suggestion, the boats were roped together one behind the other, and their two crews teamed up to haul them along. When the shoreline permitted, they went ashore and towed the boats while the skippers steered with their paddles. When the shoreline became impassable, they took the espilla some forty meters ahead and looped it around a rock or stump. Then the boatmen went back on board the Maripare and tugged on the espilla all together.

In this manner they passed the islands of Seiba, Cururuparo, and Estillero off the port side. A little later they went by Posso Redondo Island, nearer to the right bank.

Meanwhile the storm was growing stronger. Streaks of lightning shot across the southern horizon with extraordinary frequency, and the blinding flashes were accompanied by endless peals of thunder. Luckily, by about eight o’clock in the evening, while the skies were unleashing a violent hailstorm over the Orinoco’s left bank, the two falcas had made it safely to the village of Buena Vista.¹⁰