Down the Orinoco in a Canoe — Inside the Classic

n the South American Republic of Colombia. We passed into the open road, and turned our horses and our minds northwards.

From south to north, as far as eyes could see, stretched the road, an old Spanish causeway, bordered on either side by low-lying stone fences, in front of which were ditches filled with water and covered with vegetation.

The ground was hard with the consistency of baked clay. As no rain had fallen for weeks, the dust was thick, and the horses’ hoofs rang like hammer-strokes upon muffled or broken brass. We let the reins hang loose, and the horses, knowing their way, started at a brisk canter. Wrapped in thought and in our _ponchos_, we journeyed on.

No sound was audible; we seemed to be travelling through a deserted or dead world; the neighbouring meadows, black beneath the moon, contrasted with the grayish white line of the broad causeway. Now and then the solitary houses, some close to the road, some far back, loomed up with the magic-lantern effects of moonlight, and their white walls seemed like huge tombstones in that lonely cemetery. Sometimes we crossed bridges, under which the water lay motionless, as though enchanted by the universal stillness; only a gentle breeze, causing ripples on the neighbouring pools, made them glitter and revealed their presence. A cow or a stray heifer would poise its head across the stone fence and watch us with wondering moist eyes, whilst two tiny columns of condensed breath rose from its nostrils.

Beyond, black and frowning, misshapen and mysterious, the huge boulders of the Andes raised their vague outlines, forming a sort of irregular circle, in some directions quite close to us, in others lost in the darkness which the moon and the stars were too remote to overcome. Indeed, that other local poet was also right in thinking that under the brilliant moon those mountains looked like huge sepulchres, wherein are stored the ashes of dead worlds upon which judgment had been passed.

And so we journeyed on.

Many travellers have observed that whenever a voyage of a certain nature is undertaken—one that for some reason or other differs from the ordinary transference of one’s self elsewhere, when through circumstances beyond our control we know that the moment of starting necessarily marks an epoch in our lives, even as the beginning of a descent or an ascent from the summit or the foot of a mountain necessarily marks a change in our motions—our thoughts fly backwards, and not only cover the immediate time and space behind us, but, once started, plunge, so to speak, with the rapidity inherent to them, into the deepest recesses of our memory, so that, as our bodies are carried forward, our minds revisit old scenes, we hold converse with old friends, and the old-time world seems to live and throb again within our hearts.

Unheeding the clatter of the horses’ hoofs, which was the only perceptible noise, my mind flew across the few leagues that separated me from my dear quaint old native town, cradled there to the south at the foot of two hills, each crowned by a tiny church. I saw its streets meeting at right angles, its two streams, dubbed rivers, parched with thirst, crawling under the ancient arched Spanish bridges, its low houses, with their enclosing _patios_ planted with roses and flowers that bloom all the year round, with fountains murmuring in the midst, and creepers covering the columns and the ceilings of the open corridors, and then climbing out of sight; the numerous churches, each one with its familiar legend; the convents—solid, spacious—turned into barracks or public offices or colleges; the still old cells desecrated, their dividing walls torn down so as to convert the space into large halls, and, ruthless iconoclasm having carried away the statues of the saints, no other trace of religion left but a stone cross, or a carved saint’s face set too high above ground to be reached by irreverent hands.

Yes, there was the little Church of Holy Humility—El Humilladero—an _adobe_ structure, a mere hut, yet reverenced beyond words as being, so tradition said, the first church built in the land. And not far from it the Church of la Tercera and its convent, about which gruesome tales were told. Its monks never slept on mattresses, and, as they felt death approaching, would have themselves placed upon the ground to die close to their Mother Earth; and one of them, it was said, for some misdeameanour or possibly greater fault, had committed suicide, and wandered headless—people had seen him—on dark and stormy nights through the neighbouring street of the Arch, as it was called, though of the arch nothing but the memory remained. And close to that convent of la Tercera was the other one of the jolly Franciscan Fathers, four beautiful _patios_ surrounded with broad cloisters, into which opened over 600 cells, each provided, besides the sitting and sleeping room, with a snug kitchen, old Moorish style, an open hearth for charcoal fire, on which meats were roasted and earthenware saucepans simmered and purred all day long, extracting the juice from beef, mutton, plantains, mañoc, green corn, potatoes, and the other numerous vegetables of that region, forming a most substantial broth, a peculiarly rich _pot-au-feu_ which enabled the reverend monks to recruit their strength and spirits after the pious labours of the day; and with this came, it is said, a copious supply of that beer, _chicha_, brewed from molasses and Indian corn, strong and delicious—to those who like it. These reverend monks, it is said, owned broad lands and numerous herds, and each had a lay brother who looked after the material wants of his superior, and received daily rations sufficient for ten or twenty men, so that a great part of them was sold by the monks to the profane outside the cloister walls. As the lay brother looked after all these worldly interests, he enabled the monk to devote his whole time and attention to finding a smooth path to heaven, not only for himself, but for as many others of his fellow-creatures as he met.

But though of good cheer, they were not lacking in piety, nor were they unable to withstand temptation. Their church was beautiful, all full of gilt columns, carved woodwork, niches with statues of saints displaying rich silks and gems and gold embroidery.

And though many of these things had disappeared in my day, and of the monks only a few more vital spirits survived, downcast and forlorn, lamenting the good old times, yet enough remained to give an idea of the happier age.

A proof of the virtue of the monks was visible at the entrance of the church looking on the main street, where the Evil One himself had branded it, so to say, for the greater glory of God and the renown of the convent.

It was whispered that Father Antonio, who combined profane accomplishments with spiritual insight, skilled in playing the guitar, not averse to a song or two, fond of cards for a friendly quiet game with the Father Superior and two or three other plump, kind-hearted brethren, where small sums were staked merely to give zest to the game, discovered to his horror one night that the Evil One, possibly in memory of his namesake (the monk’s, not the Evil One’s), had decided to tempt his virtue, and appeared in his cell in the guise of a beautiful damsel.

Alas! the Evil One had reckoned without his host. Holy water was poured upon him, the cross with the Redeemer nailed on it which lay handy was taken up by Antonio, so that Beelzebub in his fright jumped out of the window with such force that his cloven foot left its imprint upon the granite slab outside the church, and this imprint I saw myself in my very young years. Although many people continue to see it, I have grown so short-sighted that, strive as I may, the stone now appears untouched and like the others. But then these things will happen, and they certainly should not lead us to doubt so pious a tradition.

And so all the old memories of the town kept passing before me. I saw a living panorama, silent, bathed in mysterious light, moving slowly in the background of the mind, large, infinite in its magnitude, with space in it for men and buildings and mountains and rivers and broad plains and leafy forests, and, what is more, with space in it for Time, the boundless Time that contains all and everything.

Schooldays, holidays spent in the neighbouring towns and villages which lie in the warmer valleys, my first voyage to a certain distance, and then across the ocean—life, in fact, with its ebb and flow under various suns and in different continents—all came back; but it were out of place to give my reflections on them here.

Then, pausing for one moment as a bird alights on the mast of a ship before launching forth into mid-ocean, my mind rested for an instant on the old cemetery where so many loved ones slumbered. Alas! when we leave the graves of those whom we have loved, not knowing when we shall again kneel upon the sod that covers them, we feel that death itself has not severed the link that bound us to those who were blood of our blood and bone of our bone.

A little geography may not be amiss here. A glance at the map will show that the city of Bogotá is situated upon a vast plateau, at an altitude of about 8,500 feet above sea-level, 4 degrees from the equator, and 75 degrees to the west of Greenwich. Its position in the continent is central. It is perched like a nest high up in the mountains. To reach the ocean, and thus the outer world, the inhabitants of Bogotá are even now still compelled to have recourse to quite primitive methods; true, there are some apologies for railways starting northward, southward and westward, but in some cases their impetus ends as soon as they reach the end of the plain, and in others long before attaining that distance. Once the railway journey finished—which does not exceed two or three hours on any of the lines—the traveller has to content himself with the ancient and slow method of riding, mostly mule riding. The ground is so broken and the roads are so bad that horses could not cross them as safely as that thoughtful, meditative, and much-maligned animal the mule. After covering a distance of some ninety to one hundred miles westward, the traveller reaches the town of Honda, which lies on the Magdalena River. Here steam-boats are to be found, stern-wheeled, shallow-bottomed, drawing no more than from 2½ to 3 feet, in which, within four or five days, he makes the journey down to the sea-coast.

The map of the country would seem to show that the easiest way from the capital to the ocean would be towards the Pacific, and as the crow flies such is the case; but between Bogotá and the Pacific Ocean the Andes, at some period of their youth, must have frolicked and gambolled amongst themselves and lost their way home, so that they now form the most rugged country imaginable. Geographers, with that thirst for classification that afflicts—or should I rather say animates?—men of science, speak of two or three chains of mountains. The average man, however, who has to travel over that country, conceives his task as corresponding to a start made from one end of a huge comb, following the developments of it from the root to the point of each tooth until Providence and Nature take pity on him, and land him, so to speak, on the sea-shore.

Bogotá is no thoroughfare. When you get there, there you are, and if you go there, it is because you were bent on it; it is not like other towns that may be on the road to somewhere else, so that travellers may chance to find themselves there.

The plateau of Bogotá proper was formerly—no one knows how many centuries or thousands of years ago—a lake of about eighty square miles encased between the surrounding mountains. The waters of the lake broke through the barrier of mountains towards the south, draining it, and leaving the plateau dry, save for some small lakes that dot it here and there, and a few rivers of no great importance. I could not help thinking that this immense lake thus held aloft upon that mighty pedestal at such an altitude formed a sort of gigantic goblet such as is rarely seen under the sun. The river that marks the course through which the waters are supposed to have been drained drags its sluggish waves meandering in many turns and twists from north to south along the plain, and gives a sudden leap of 750 feet through the open gap on the mountain-side, forming those magnificent waterfalls called the Tequendama. The river plunges headlong, as if to make up for its previous semi-stagnant condition; it disappears between two mighty walls of stone, polished as if chiselled by the hand of man; it roars with a deafening sound; its waters appear, as they curl over the abyss, white as the wool of a lamb, and their consistency conveys the impression of wool rather than that of snow. The morning sun plays upon the mass of waters, and crowns it with a halo of rainbows varying in size. On the borders of the river, at the place where the cataract springs, are to be seen evergreens and pine-trees, and other such plants belonging to the temperate or cold zones; down below, where the water falls, and the river reappears like a dying stream following its course in the lower valley, palm-trees and tropical vegetation are to be seen, and birds of variegated plumage, parrots, cockatoos, parroquets and others, fly like living arrows from the sunlight, and plunge into the mist with piercing shrieks amidst the deafening roar of the cataract.

As we journeyed on in the cool night air, it seemed to me that the whole country—north, south, east and west—lay at my feet, and to the mind’s eye it appeared with its vast interminable plains to the east crossed by numberless rivers, the mountain region to the north on the western side of the Magdalena Valley, the broad plains in the Lower Magdalena, and the rugged mountainous district of Antioquia on the western side of the river, and then mountains and more mountains towards the Pacific Ocean.

Surely, if a journey in these days presents such difficulties, the first journey undertaken by the conquerors who discovered the plateau of Bogotá, may be held for a feat worthy of those men who, whatever their faults, were brave among the bravest.

Towards the east of the Magdalena River, on the coast of the Atlantic, the city of Santa Marta had been founded somewhere in 1530. News of the vast empire alleged to exist in the interior of the country had reached the founders of the town, and they soon decided to conquer that region about which such marvels were told. In the month of August, 1536, an expedition of 700 soldiers, infantry, and 80 horse left Santa Marta to penetrate into the heart of the continent, confident in their courage, and lusting for gold and adventure. This part of the expedition marched by land, and 200 more men journeyed in boats along the river Magdalena.

A full narrative of their adventures would be long. They met foes large and small, from poisonous reptiles and the numerous insects which made life a burden, to tigers and alligators: add to these fevers and illnesses absolutely unknown to them. It is said that one man, whilst sleeping in camp with all his companions, was snatched from his hammock by a famished tiger. At times the rank and file seemed ripe for mutiny, but the captain was a man of iron. His name was Gonzalo Jiménez de Quesada. Though himself sore smitten by some disease peculiar to the locality, he kept the lead, and dragged the rest in his train. Praise is likewise due to the chaplain of the expedition, Domingo de las Casas, who stoutly supported the commander. This friar was a kinsman of that other friar Bartolomé de las Casas, whose unwearying efforts in behalf of the native races won for him the well-deserved name of ‘Protector of the Indians.’

After a while the boats and the shores of the great river were abandoned, and the men found themselves in a mountainous country where the temperature became more tolerable and pleasant as they climbed higher. Finally, their eyes beheld the Empire of the Chibchas. What a joy—after toil and suffering which had lasted over seventeen months, when only 160 of the original expedition were left—to gaze upon a land where cultivated fields were seen in all directions, and the hearth-smoke rising from the houses to heaven! This was the land of the Chibchas, who formed an empire second only to that of the Incas of Peru and the Aztecs of Mexico. They had a religion—by no means a bad one as religions went amongst the American aborigines—they had their code of laws, their division of time, their rules and codes in all matters appertaining to family life and administration of government; they tilled the soil, they believed in the immortality of the soul, they reverenced their dead, and practised barter according to well-defined laws.

The thousands and thousands of soldiers which the Zipa or King of the Chibchas could bring against the Spaniards were overawed rather than overcome by force. The greater sagacity of the Spaniards, coupled with their courage, soon made them masters of the land. Jiménez de Quesada founded the city of Bogotá in 1537. He chose a spot on the plains which suited him—where the city now stands—and, clad in full armour, surrounded by his companions and by a large crowd of Indians, plucked some grass from the ground, and, unsheathing his sword, declared that he took possession of the land for the greater glory of God as the property of his King and master, Charles V. of Spain. Then turning, with a fierce glance, to those who surrounded him, he challenged one and all to single combat should they dare to dispute his action. Naturally, no dispute arose, and so the title was acquired. They had their own peculiar ways, those old Spanish conquerors! A similar method was followed by Nuñez de Balboa, when, in the name of his King and master, he took possession of the Pacific Ocean with whatever lands and islands might border on it, stepping into the waters clad in full armour, holding the flag of Spain in his left hand, and his trusty Toledo blade—_la de Juanes_—in his right.

To speak of this conquest of the Chibcha Empire recalls the fact that the land of Bogotá was really the land of El Dorado. _El Dorado_ in Spanish means the gilt one, the man covered with gold, and all chroniclers and historians of the early period are agreed as to the origin of the tradition.