When we first glance at geographical maps, and read the narratives of navigators, we feel a special charm for certain countries and climates, which we cannot explain when older. These impressions exercise a considerable hold over what we do in life, and we instinctively try to connect ourselves with anything associated with these places. When I first studied the stars to identify them I was disturbed by a fear unknown to those who love sedentary life. It was painful to me to have to renounce the hope of seeing the beautiful constellations near the South Pole. Impatient to explore the equatorial regions I could not raise my eyes to the sky without dreaming of the Southern Cross and remembering a passage from Dante. Our joy over discovering the Southern Cross was vividly shared by those sailors who had lived in the colonies. In the solitudes of the oceans you wave at a star as if it is a friend you haven't seen for ages. Portuguese and Spaniards are particularly susceptible to this feeling; religious sentiments attach them to a constellation whose shape recalls the sign of the faith planted by their ancestors in the deserts of the New World.

After travelling several hours downhill over scattered blocks of stone we suddenly found we had reached the end of the Santa María jungle. As far as our eyes could see a vast plain spread out, its grass revived by the rainy season. Looking down on to the tree-tops it seemed as if we were looking at a dark green carpet below us. The jungle clearings seemed like huge funnels in which we recognized the delicate pinnate leaves of the praga and irasse palms. The countryside is extremely picturesque due to the Sierra of Guàcharo whose northern slopes are steep and form a rocky wall some 3, feet high. There is little vegetation on this wall, so you can follow the calcareous strata. The peak itself is flat.

We stopped to observe the howler monkeys, which move in lines across the intricate branches linking the jungle trees in packs of thirty and forty. While watching this new spectacle we met a group of Indians on their way to the Caripe mountains. They were completely naked, like most Indians in these lands. Behind them came the women, laden with heavy packs, while all the men and boys were armed with bows and arrows. They walked in silence, staring at the ground. We would have liked to ask them if the Santa Cruz mission, where we hoped to spend the night, was far off. We were exhausted, and thirsty. The heat was increasing as the storm approached, and we had not found any springs. As the Indians invariably answered si padre and no padre we thought they understood a little Spanish. In their eyes every white is a monk, a padre. In the missions the color of the skin characterizes the monk more than the color of his habit. When we asked those Indians if Santa Cruz was far off they answered si or no so arbitrarily that we could make no sense of their answers. This made us angry, for their smiles and gestures showed that they would have liked to direct us as the jungle became thicker and thicker. We had to leave them; our guides, who spoke the Chaima language, lagged behind as the loaded mules kept falling into ravines.

During my navigation up the South American rivers, and over land, I had written a very brief itinerary where I described on the spot what I saw when I climbed the summit of a volcano or any other mountain, but I did not continue my notes in the towns, or when busy with something else. When I did take notes my only motive was to preserve those fugitive ideas that occur to a naturalist, to make a temporary collection of facts and first impressions But I did not think at the time that these jotted-down notes would form the basis of a work offered to the public. I thought that my journey might add something to science, but would not include those colorful details that are the main interest in journeys.

The last days of our crossing were not as peaceful as the mild climate and calm ocean had led us to hope. We were not disturbed by the dangers of the deep, but by the presence of a malignant fever that developed as we approached the West Indies. Between the overcrowded decks the heat was unbearable; the thermometer stayed at 36'C. Two sailors, several passengers and, strangely, two blacks from the Guinean coast and a mulatto child were attacked by an illness that threatened to turn into an epidemic. The symptoms were not as serious in all the sick; but some of them, even among the most robust, became delirious on the second day and lost all body strength. With that indifference which on passenger ships affects everything that is not to do with the ship's movements and speed, the captain did not for a moment think of applying the simplest remedies. He did not fumigate. A phlegmatic and ignorant Galician surgeon prescribed bleedings, attributing the fever to what he called the heat and corruption of blood. There was not an ounce of quinine on board and we, on boarding, had forgotten to bring a supply, more concerned for our instruments than for our health as we had not predicted that a Spanish ship would be without this Peruvian bark febrifuge.

We observed that fern trees are usually far rarer than palm trees. Nature has limited them to temperate, humid and shady places. They shun the direct rays of the sun and while the pumos, corypha of the steppes, and other American palms prefer the naked, burning plains these tree fern, which seen from afar look like palms, maintain the character and habits of cryptogams. They prefer solitary places, shade, humidity and damp. Sometimes you find them on the coast, but only when protected by thick shade.

Until the middle of the last century the mountains surrounding the Aragua valley were covered in forests. Huge trees of the mimosa, ceiba and fig families shaded the lake shore and kept it cool. The sparsely populated plain was invaded by shrubs, fallen tree trunks and parasitical plants, and was covered in thick grass so that heat was not lost as easily as from cultivated ground, which is not sheltered from the sun's rays. When the trees are felled, and sugar cane, indigo and cotton are planted, springs and natural supplies to the lake dry up. It is hard to form a fair idea of the enormous amount of evaporation taking place in the torrid zone, especially in a valley surrounded by steep mountains where maritime breezes blow, and whose ground is completely flat as if leveled by water. The heat prevailing on the lake shore is comparable to that in Naples and Sicily.