At nightfall we ordered our instruments to be disembarked; and to our relief none had been damaged. We hired a spacious and well-situated house for our astronomical observations. When the sea wind blew we enjoyed the cool air. The windows did not have glass panes, nor the paper squares that replace glass in most Cumana houses. All the passengers on the Pizarro left the ship, but those with the malignant fever recovered very slowly. Some were still terribly pale and emaciated after a month of illness, despite the care lavished on them by their compatriots. In the Spanish colonies the hospitality is such that a European who arrives without money or recommendations is almost sure to find help should he disembark sick in any port. Catalans, Galicians and Basques maintain an intense trade with America, where they form three distinct bodies, and exercise a great influence on the customs, industry and commerce of the colonies. The poorest inhabitant of Sitges or Vigo may be assured of being received in the house of a Catalan or Galician merchant (pulpero) (26) whether in Chile or Mexico or the Philippines. I have witnessed moving examples where strangers are looked after assiduously for years. Some may say that hospitality is no virtue in a land with such a magnificent climate, with plenty of food, and where indigenous plants supply efficient medicines, and a sick person finds necessary refuge in a hammock under a covering. But does not the arrival of a stranger in a family imply more work? Are not the proofs of disinterested sympathy, the spirit of sacrifice in the women, the patience that long convalescence requires, worthy of note? It has been observed that, with the exception of some populated cities, hospitality has not really decreased since the arrival of the Spanish settlers in the New World. It distresses me to think that this change will happen as the colonial population and industry progress rapidly, and that the state of society that we have agreed to call advanced civilization might banish 'the ancient Castilian frankness'.

After three days' journey we finally glimpsed the Cumanà mountains between the llanos or, as they say here, 'the great sea of green' ('los llanos son como un mar de yerbas'), and the Caribbean coast. Although some 800 toises high, the Brigantín is visible from over 27 leagues away; however, the atmosphere prevented us from seeing that attractive curtain of mountains. At first it appeared as a layer of mist; gradually this mass of mist turned blue and took on its fixed outline. What a sailor sees on approaching new land is what a traveler experiences on the borders of the llano. A llanero, or llano inhabitant, only feels at ease when, so the popular saying goes, 'he can see all around him'. What appears to us as covered in vegetation, a rolling land with slight hills, is for him a terrible region bristling with mountains. After having lived for months in the thick Orinoco jungles where you see stars as if from a well, a gallop across the steppes is quite agreeable. The novelty of all you feel strikes you, and like a llanero you too feel happy 'to see everywhere around you'. But this new pleasure (which we ourselves experienced) does not last long. To contemplate an immense horizon is imposing whether from Andean summits or the Venezuelan plains. Limitless space reflects a similar quality inside us (as poets in all languages have written) it suggests higher matters, and elevates the minds of those who enjoy solitary meditation. However, there is also something sad and monotonous about the dusty and cracked steppes. After eight to ten days' journey you get used to the mirages and the brilliant green of the tufts of mauritia palms, and seek more variety, like seeing tall jungle trees or wild cataracts or cultivated lands.

From the 14th to the 21st of May we slept out in the open air; but I cannot point out where exactly we camped. This country is so wild and so deserted that, apart from a few rivers, the Indians could not name anything from my compass bearings. No observations of stars could reassure me about our latitude. After passing the place where the Itinivini separates from the Casiquiare to go west towards the granite Daripabo hills, we found the muddy banks covered with bamboo. These arborescent gramina rise up to 20 feet; their stalks arch towards the top. It is a new species of long-leafed bamboo. Bonpland rejoiced to find one in flower. Nothing is more rare in the New World than seeing these gigantic gramina in flower. Mutis (117) herbalized for over twenty years without ever finding one in flower.

I use the word 'savage' grudgingly because it implies a cultural difference between the tamed Indians living in missions and the free ones, which belies the facts. In the South American jungles there are Indian tribes who live peacefully in villages under their chiefs, who cultivate banana trees, cassava and cotton in large areas of land, and weave their hammocks with cotton fibers. They are not more barbarous than the naked Indians of the missions who have learned to make the sign of the cross. In Europe it is a common fallacy to assume that all Indians who are not tamed are nomadic hunters. In Terra Firma agriculture was known long before the arrival of the Europeans, and today is still practiced between the Orinoco and Amazon rivers in jungle clearings never visited by missionaries. What the missionaries have achieved is to have increased the Indians' attachment to owning land, their desire for secure dwelling places, and their taste for more peaceful lives. It would be accepting false ideas about the actual condition of South American Indians to assume that 'Christian', tamed' and 'civilized' were synonymous with 'pagan', 'savage' and free'. The tamed Indian is often as little a Christian as the free Indian is an idolater. Both, caught up in the needs of the moment, betray a marked indifference for religious sentiments, and a secret tendency to worship nature and her powers.

We were struck to see in the Parurama camp that old women were more preoccupied in painting themselves than young ones. We saw an Otomac woman having her hair rubbed with turtle oil and her back painted with annatto by her two daughters. The ornaments consisted of a kind of lattice-work in crossed black lines on a red background. It was work needing incredible patience. We came back from a long herborization and the painting was still only half done. It is all the more amazing that this research into ornament does not result in tattooing, for the painting done so carefully washes off if the Indian exposes herself to a downpour. Some nations paint themselves to celebrate festivals; others are covered in paint all year round. With these Indians annatto is seen as so indispensable that men and women have less shame in appearing without a guayuco (97) than without paint. The Orinoco guayucos are made from bark and cotton. Men wear larger ones than women who, according to the missionaries, seem to feel less shame than men. Shouldn't we attribute this indifference, this lack of shame in the women in tribes that are not depraved, to the state of numbness and slavery to which the female sex has been reduced in South America by the injustice and power of men?