The Mighty Orinoco. Jules VerneЧитать онлайн книгу.
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