We did not leave the Pericantral farm until dark. We spent a very uncomfortable night in the narrow, overloaded pirogue. At three in the morning we found ourselves at the mouth of the Manzanares river. As the sun rose we saw the zamuro vultures (Vultur aura) perched in flocks of forty and fifty in the coconut palms. To sleep, these birds line up together on branches like fowl, and are so lazy that they go to sleep ages before sunset and do not wake up until the sun is up. It seems as if the trees with pinnate leaves share this laziness with the birds. The mimosas and tamarinds close their leaves when the sky is clear some twenty-five to thirty-five minutes before sunset, and in the morning do not open them again until the sun is high up.

South of the ravine, in the plain that stretches to the lake shore, another less hot and less gassy sulphurous spring gushes out. The thermometer reached only 42°C. The water collects in a basin surrounded by large trees. The unhappy slaves throw themselves in this pool at sunset, covered in dust after working in the indigo and sugar-cane fields. Despite the water being 52°C to 14°C warmer than the air the negroes call it refreshing. In the torrid zone this word is used for anything that restores your strength, calms nerves or produces a feeling of well-being. We also experienced the salutary effects of this bath. We had our hammocks slung in the trees shading this pond and spent a whole day in this place so rich in plants. Near this bãno de Mariara we found the volador or gyrocarpus. The winged fruits of this tree seem like flying beings when they separate from the stem. On shaking the branches of the volador, we saw the air filled with its fruits, all falling together. We sent some fruit to Europe, and they germinated in Berlin, Paris and Malmaison. The numerous plants of the volador, now seen in hothouses, owe their origin to the only tree of its kind found near Mariara.

As we approached the shoal surrounding Cape Arenas we admired the phosphorescence of the sea. Bands of dolphins enjoyed following our boat. When they broke the surface of the water with their broad tails they diffused a brilliant light that seemed like flames coming from the depths of the ocean. We found ourselves at midnight between some barren, rocky islands in the middle of the sea, forming the Caracas and Chimanas groups. The moon lit up these jagged, fantastic rocks, which had not a trace of vegetation. All these islands are uninhabited, except one where large, fast, brown goats can be found. Our Indian pilot said they tasted delicious. Thirty years back a family of whites settled here and grew maize and cassava. The father outlived his children. As he had become rich he bought two black slaves, who murdered him. Thus the goats ran wild, but not the maize. Maize appears to survive only if looked after by man. Birds destroy all the seeds needed to reproduce. The two slaves escaped punishment, as nothing could be proved. One of the blacks is now the hangman at Cumanà. He betrayed his companion, and obtained pardon by accepting being hangman.

If America does not occupy an important place in the history of mankind, and in the revolutions that have shattered the world, it does offer a wide field for a naturalist. Nowhere else does nature so vividly suggest general ideas on the cause of events, and their mutual interrelationships. I do not mean by this solely the overpowering vegetation and freshness of organic life, the different climates we experience as we climb the cordilleras and navigate those immense rivers, but also the geology and natural history of an unknown continent. A traveler can count himself lucky if he has taken advantage of his travels by adding new facts to the mass of those previously discovered!

Our interpreters could give us no details about the age of these baskets and vessels. However, the majority of the skeletons did not seem to be more than a hundred years old. Among the Guareca Indians there is a legend that the brave Atures, chased by the cannibalistic Caribs, hid in the cataract rocks, where they died out, leaving no trace of their language. The last survivor of the Atures could not have lasted much longer, for at Maypures you can still see an old parrot that 'nobody understands because', so the Indians say, 'it speaks the language of the Atures'.