On the evening of the 25th of June we left Santa Cruz and set our course for South America. A strong north-westerly was blowing and tight, sharp waves were caused by strong currents. We soon lost sight of the Canary Islands above whose high peaks a reddish mist appeared; only the Pico de Teide reappeared briefly from time to time as the wind dispersed the clouds surrounding the peak. For the first time we realized how deeply we are stirred by the sight of land situated on the limits of the torrid zone, where nature appears so opulent, grandiose and marvelous. We had stayed at Tenerife for a few days only, yet we left the island feeling we had lived there for a long time.

An alley of avocado trees led us to the Aragonese Capuchins' hospice. We stopped in front of a Brazil-wood cross, surrounded with benches on which the sick monks sit and say their rosaries, in the middle of a spacious square. The convent backs on to an enormous perpendicular wall of rock, covered with thick vegetation. Dazzling white stone appears every now and then through the foliage. It would be hard to imagine a more picturesque place. Instead of European beeches and maples you find here the imposing ceiba trees and the praga and irasse palms. Numerous springs bubble out from the mountainsides that encircle the Caripe basin and whose southern slopes rise to some 1, feet in height. These springs issue mainly from crevices or narrow gorges. The humidity they bring favors the growth of huge trees, and the Indians, who prefer solitary places, set up their conucos along these ravines. Banana and papaw trees grow around groves of arborescent ferns. This mixture of wild and cultivated plants gives a special charm to this place. From afar, on the naked mountainside, you can pick out the springs by the thick tangles of vegetation, which at first seem to hang from the rock, and then, as they descend into the valley, follow the meandering streams.

They grow banana and cassava, but not maize. Like the majority of Orinoco Indians, those in Maypures also make drinks that could be called nutritious. A famous one in the country is made from a palm called the seje, which grows wild in the vicinity. I estimated the number of flowers on one cluster at 44, the fruit that fall without ripening amount to 8,000. These fruit are little fleshy drupes. They are thrown into boiling water for a few minutes to separate the pulp, which has a sweet taste, from the skin, and are then pounded and bruised in a large vessel filled with water. Taken cold, the infusion is yellowish and tastes like almond milk. Sometimes papelòn (unrefined sugar) or sugar cane is added. The missionary said that the Indians become visibly fatter during the two or three months when they drink this seje or dip their cassava cakes in it. The piaches, or Indian shamans, go into the jungle and sound the botuto (the sacred trumpet) under seje palm trees 'to force the tree to give a good harvest the following year'.

Frightened about being exposed too long to the unhealthy Cartagena airs we moved to the Indian village of Turbaco (once called Tarasco) on the 6th of April. It is situated in a delicious place where the jungle begins some 5 leagues south-south-east of Pipa. We were happy to leave a foul inn (fonda) packed with soldiers left over from General Rochambeau's unfortunate expedition. (144) Interminable discussions about the need to be cruel to the blacks of Santo Domingo reminded me of the opinions and horrors of the sixteenth-century conquistadores. Pombo lent us his beautiful house in Turbaco, built by Archbishop Viceroy Gòngora. We stayed as long as it took us to prepare for our journey up the Magdalena, and then the long land trip from Honda to Bogotà, Popoyàn and Quito. Few stays in the Tropics have pleased me more. The village lies some 180 toises above sea-level. Snakes are very common and chase rats into the houses. They climb on to roofs and wage war with the bats, whose screaming annoyed us all night. The Indian huts covered a steep plateau so that everywhere you can view shady valleys watered by small streams. We especially enjoyed being on our terrace at sunrise and sunset as it faced the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta, some 35 leagues distant. The snow-covered peaks probably San Lorenzo - are clearly seen from Turbaco when the wind blows and brings cooler air. Thick vegetation covers the hills and plains between the Mahates dyke and the snowy mountains: they often reminded us of the beautiful Orinoco mountains. We were surprised to find, so close to the coast in a land frequented by Europeans for over three centuries, gigantic trees belonging to completely unknown species, such as the Rhinocarpus excelsa (which the creoles call caracoli because of its spiral-shaped fruit), the Ocotea turbacensis and the mocundo or Cavanillesia platanifolia, whose large fruit resemble oiled paper lanterns hanging at the tip of each branch.

The Río Conorichite played an important role in the time when the Portuguese traded in slaves in Spanish territory. The slave-traders went up the Casiquiare and the Caìo Mee to Conorichite; then they carried their canoes over land to the Rochuelas de Manuteso, and thus reached the Atabapo. This abominable trade lasted until about 1756. The Caribs, a warrior and trading people, received knives, hooks, mirrors and glass objects from the Dutch and Portuguese. In exchange, they urged Indian caciques to fight each other, and then bought their prisoners of war, or cunningly grabbed them, or used force to get them. These Carib incursions covered an enormous region.

How hard it is to express the pleasure we felt arriving at Angostura, capital of Spanish Guiana. The discomforts felt at sea in small boats cannot be compared to those felt under a burning sky, surrounded by swarms of mosquitoes, cramped for months on end in a pirogue that does not let you budge an inch because of its delicate balance. In seventy-five days we had traveled along the five great rivers of the Apure, the Orinoco, the Atabapo, the Rio Negro and the Casiquiare for 500 leagues, rarely sighting inhabited places. Although, after our life in the jungle, our clothes were not in good order, we hurried to present ourselves to the provincial governor Don Felipe de Ynciarte. He received us in the most considerate way, and lodged us in the house of the Secretary of the Intendencia. Coming from such deserted places we were struck by the bustle of a town of only 6, people. We appreciated what work and trade can do to make life more civilized. Modest houses seemed luxurious: anybody who spoke to us seemed witty. Long deprivations make small things pleasurable: how can l express the joy we felt on seeing wheat bread on the governor's table. I may be wrong in repeating what all travelers feel after long journeys. You enjoy finding yourself back in civilization, though it can be short-lived if you have learned to feel deeply the marvels of tropical nature. The memory of what you endured soon fades; as you reach the coasts inhabited by European colonists you begin to plan to make another journey into the interior.