Читать книгу The Mighty Orinoco - Jules Verne - Страница 15

CHAPTER VII

Buena Vista to La Urbana

Disasters were in good supply that night. In its fury, the storm laid waste to a fifteen-kilometer area that extended as far as the mouth of the Arauca River. This was abundantly clear the next day, August 26,¹ from the wide variety of debris drifting down the river—whose water, normally so crystalline, had turned the color of mud. If the two boats had not taken refuge in this little harbor, if they had been caught out in the middle of the Orinoco, there would be nothing left of them but shapeless wreckage. Their crews and passengers would no doubt have been lost.

Luckily Buena Vista had been spared because the storm followed a diagonal path that lay more to the west.

Buena Vista sits on the side of an island that becomes wider in the dry season as the water recedes past the sandbars, then shrinks correspondingly in the rainy season when the water returns. This latter circumstance allowed the Gallinetta and the Maripare to cruise right up to the village’s doorstep.

Village? It was nothing more than a small cluster of huts that could lodge 150 to 200 Indians. They come here only to gather turtle eggs, from which they extract an oil that is popular in the Venezuelan marketplace. Consequently during the month of August this village is practically a ghost town, because the nesting season ends around mid-May. In Buena Vista there were barely half a dozen Indian families, who lived by hunting and fishing, so if the boats had been in need of provisions the natives would have been no help. But the travelers had ample supplies, enough to last them till they reached the town of La Urbana, where they could easily stock up again.

In any case, the falcas had not been damaged by the fierce high winds, and that was the important thing.

Furthermore, their passengers took the advice of the boatmen and decided to spend the night ashore. One local family lived in a fairly decent hut and offered to put them up. These Indians belonged to the Yaruro tribe, who used to be among the most common in this region; unlike their relatives, they had stayed on in Buena Vista even after the nesting season.

This family consisted of the husband, a vigorous man sporting the traditional guaiacum leaves² and loin cloth, his young wife, petite and well-built, wearing a long Indian gown, and a girl of twelve, as uncultivated as her mother. But these Indians were amenable to the gifts their guests offered—rum and cigars for the man, necklaces of glass beads and a little mirror for the mother and daughter. Cheap trinkets are held in the highest esteem by Venezuelan natives.³

By way of furnishings, their hut contained only some hammocks hanging from bamboo rafters and three or four baskets, locally known as canastos, in which Indians store their clothes and their most prized implements.

Despite Sergeant Martial’s consternation, the three colleagues from the Maripare were obliged to share these quarters with him and his nephew, because no other hut dwellers had offered their hospitality. M. Miguel, even more than his associates, was very considerate of the two Frenchmen. So Jean de Kermor had a chance to become better acquainted with his fellow travelers—while keeping his distance, of course, as his uncle’s scowling looks warned. From the outset, Jean was captivated by the little Indian girl, who seemed attracted by his friendliness.

So they chatted away while the storm howled outside. Their conversation was frequently interrupted. The peals of thunder echoed so noisily that they could not hear their own voices. Neither the little Indian girl nor her mother seemed at all alarmed, not even when thunder clapped and lightning flashed at the same instant. And more than once, as they would verify the following day, bolts of lightning shattered trees near the hut, making the appalling racket they had heard.

Such storms are commonplace along the Orinoco, so the Indians were used to them and did not feel the fear that even animals experience. They remained perfectly calm throughout this physical and emotional disturbance. Not so with Jean—like any strong-minded person, he had no deep-seated dread of thunder, but it still made him jumpy.

Inside the Indian hut, they continued to talk until midnight, and Sergeant Martial would have been a more active participant if his Spanish had been as proficient as that of his nephew.

At the suggestion of MM. Miguel, Felipe, and Varinas, the conversation focused on the egg hunting that had taken place three months earlier, an activity that draws many hundreds of natives each year to this part of the river.

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 him from his treacherous guide. And the young man felt deeply disturbed at the thought that his two fellow countrymen might have lost their lives, like so many other explorers in this part of South America.

Shortly past midnight, the storm began to die down. After that heavy downpour, the skies were clear again. Some stars came out, looking as damp as if the floodwaters had swept up to the far reaches of the firmament. This phenomenon was over almost immediately, but it was a sight often seen in these parts when the atmosphere has been troubled by discharges of electricity.

“Good weather for tomorrow,” the Indian commented as his guests took their leave.

They decided that the best course of action was to go back to their falcas, since it promised to be a calm, dry night. They would sleep better on their deckhouse cots than on the ground in that Indian hut.

The next day at dawn, the travelers were ready to leave Buena Vista. Not only did the sun rise above a tolerably clear horizon but also the wind was out of the northeast, and the sails could be used instead of the barge poles.

They had only a short distance to travel before they reached the town of La Urbana, where they could lay over for a day. Barring unforeseen circumstances, the falcas would be there that afternoon.

M. Miguel, his two friends, Sergeant Martial, and Jean de Kermor said good-bye to their Indian host and his family. Then, hoisting sail, the Gallinetta and the Maripare headed into the channels between the sandbars. The water level had risen enough to cover the shoals completely and to make the river several kilometers wide.

Aboard their boat, Sergeant Martial and young Jean stationed themselves in front of the deckhouse to breathe the fresh, bracing air of that lovely morning. Their sail shielded them from the rays of the rising sun, already quite bright.

Sergeant Martial, remembering the discussion in which he had participated the night before, struck up the following conversation: “Do tell me, Jean. Do you believe all those stories that Indian told us?”

“Which stories?”

“The ones about those thousands of turtles tramping around here like an army on the march.”

“Why shouldn’t I believe them?”

“I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous! Swarms of rats I can accept, people have seen ’em, but swarms of big animals a yard long—”

“People have seen those too.”

“Who has?”

“Our Indian host for one.”

“Bah! Tales from savages!”

“But explorers who’ve gone up the Orinoco toward La Urbana say the same thing.”

“Oh, that’s just stuff in books!” replied Sergeant Martial, a thorough skeptic on the subject of travel guides.

“You’re wrong, uncle. Not only is it completely plausible, it’s an established fact.”

“Fine … fine! Anyhow, if it’s true, I don’t see why M. Miguel’s all worried about us being in danger. So what if we meet up with a lot of turtles on the way!”

“Yet suppose they bar your path?”

“Well, you just walk right over them!”

“But if you accidentally slipped and fell in the midst of them, you could be crushed.”

“Oh come on! I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“We’re arriving a little too late,” Jean answered. “But four months ago during the nesting season, you could have seen it with your own two eyes.”

“No, Jean, no! It’s all just a pack of stories that explorers cook up to amuse the good folks who prefer staying home.”

“Oh, that’s just stuff in books!” replied Sesrgeant Martial.

“Much of it perfectly true, my dear Martial.”

“Then if there are so many turtles, how come we haven’t spotted any? On all these sandbars, you don’t see one single shell! Look, I’m not asking for much. I don’t need a hundred thousand of these turtles, not even fifty. Just give me a dozen! They’d furnish the kind of soup I’d be happy to dip my bread in!”

“You’d share your bowl with me, wouldn’t you, uncle?”

“I shouldn’t have to! With anything like five or six thousand of those critters, I’d think we could fill up your bowl and mine too! But there isn’t a blasted one! Where are they all hiding? In the imagination of that Indian, most likely!”

He was as skeptical as it was possible to be. But if Sergeant Martial did not see a single one of those errant reptiles, it was not for lack of looking. In fact, he would end up using his telescope to search for them.

Meanwhile, the two falcas continued up the river, propelled by the wind. So long as they could follow the left bank, the breeze was in their favor, and there was no call for the barge poles. They continued on in this way to the mouth of the Arauca, a major branch of the Orinoco whose waters partly originate in the Andes Mountains and whose riverbed is so narrow that it does not merge with any other tributary.

This portion of their journey lasted nearly all morning. Around eleven o’clock, they had to cross the river, since La Urbana is located on the right bank.

At this moment, the problems began, and they were serious enough to cause delays. Thanks to the high waters, the shoals of fine-grained sand were smaller, but the channels between them twisted and turned. Instead of having the breeze behind them, the falcas suddenly found themselves facing a head wind. As a result, they were obliged to lower the sails and resort to the barge poles—and everybody had to pitch in against the swift current, to keep from being dragged downstream.

Their pocket watches read two o’clock when the Gallinetta and the Maripare finally reached an island that carries the same name as the town they were heading for. In contrast to the riverside plains, this island was covered with trees; it even showed signs of being cultivated, a rarity in this part of the river where the Indians have no other occupations than hunting, fishing, and harvesting turtle eggs—a harvest so abundant that it calls for huge numbers of harvesters, regardless of what Sergeant Martial thinks.

They finally reached the island of La Urbana.

Since the boatmen were thoroughly exhausted from their exertions in the scorching midday heat, the two skippers felt it was time to stop for an hour, first to eat, second to rest. They would still be able to reach the town of La Urbana before evening. In fact, as soon as they had passed this island, the village would come into sight. It was the last town on the central Orinoco until Cariben, located two hundred kilometers upstream near the mouth of the Meta.

The falcas docked alongside the bank, and the travelers went ashore, where the dense foliage of some trees offered them shelter.

Sergeant Martial notwithstanding, a certain camaraderie began to spring up between the passengers of the two boats, and was that not perfectly natural on a trip like this? Acting standoffish would be unreasonable. More than ever, M. Miguel could not help showing the concern he felt for young Jean de Kermor, and if the lad had ignored these signs of good will, it would have been extremely discourteous. Sergeant Martial had to bow to the inevitable. He started to soften up, to lower his porcupine quills—but only after giving himself a good talking-to on the subject of his own foolish shortcomings.

Although parts of the island had been cultivated, it did not seem to contain any game animals. Moreover, only a small number of ducks or wood pigeons flew overhead, so if the hunters wanted a change of pace at their next meal, it was not going to be something they could shoot. However, La Urbana would have all they needed to restock the two falcas.

During this rest stop they engaged in conversation, while the boatmen napped under some shade trees.

Around three o’clock Valdez gave the signal to move on. Immediately the boats shoved off. At first they had to tow themselves along with their espillas until they were past the southern tip of the island. But from there it was a simple matter of angling over to the other side of the river.

This last part of the journey was completed without incident. While it was still light, the two falcas docked at La Urbana.