Near San Fernando the evaporation caused by the sun's rays was so intense that, although lightly dressed, we soon became as soaked as if we had had a steam bath. Along the road a kind of bamboo (Bambusa gadua) (46) that the Indians call iagua or gadua grows to a height of some 40 feet. It is hard to imagine anything more elegant than this arborescent grass. The form and disposition of its leaves give it a lightness that contrasts agreeably with its height. The smooth and shiny trunks of the iagua generally lean towards the river banks, swaying at the slightest breeze. However tall canes (Arundo donax) may grow in southern Europe they cannot compare with the arborescent grasses; and if I dare resort to my own experience I would say that the bamboo and fern tree are, of all tropical vegetation, what strikes the traveler's imagination most.

'You cannot imagine, said the old Mandavaca missionary, 'how perverse this familia de indios (family of Indians) is. You accept individuals from another tribe into your mission; they seem tame, honest, good workers; you let them out on a foray (entrada) to capture wild Indians and you can scarcely stop them throttling all they can and hiding pieces of the corpses. We had with us in our pirogue an Indian who had escaped from the Guaisia river. In a few weeks he had become very civilized. At night he helped us prepare our astronomical instruments. He was as cheerful as he was intelligent, and we were ready to employ him. Imagine our disappointment when through an interpreter we heard him say that 'Marimonda monkey meat, although blacker, had the same taste as human meat. He assured us that 'his relations - that is, his tribal brothers -preferred to eat the palms of human hands, as well as those of bears'. As he spoke he gestured to emphasize his brutal greed. We asked this young, pacifistic man through our interpreter if he still felt a desire to 'eat a Cheruvichanena Indian' and he answered calmly that 'in the mission he would eat only what he saw los padres (the fathers) eating'. It is no point reproaching Indians about this abominable practice. In the eyes of a Guaisia Indian, a Cheruvichanena Indian is totally alien to him; to kill one was not morally very different from killing a jaguar. Eating what the fathers ate in the mission was simply convenience. If Indians escape to rejoin their tribes, or are driven by hunger, they quickly fall back into cannibalism.

I will not go into further details about the physiological properties of these New World poisons that kill so quickly without ever making you sick if taken in the stomach, and without warning you of death by violently exciting the marrow in your spine. On the Orinoco river banks you cannot eat chicken that has not been killed by a poison arrow. Missionaries claim that animal flesh is only worth eating if killed in this way. Though ill with tertiary fever Father Zea insisted every morning that a poison arrow and the live chicken due to be eaten by us be brought to his hammock. He did not want anybody else to kill the bird, despite his weakness. Large birds like the guan (pava de monte) or the curassow (alector), pricked in their thighs, die in two to five minutes, but it takes ten to twelve minutes for a pig or peccary to die. Bonpland found that the same poison bought in different villages revealed enormous differences.

We spent seven agreeable days at the Hacienda de Cura in a small hut surrounded by thickets; the house itself, located in a sugar plantation, was infected with bubos, a skin disease common among slaves in the valleys. We lived like the rich; we bathed twice a day, slept three times and ate three meals in twenty-four hours. The lake water was warm, some 24°C to 25°C. The coolest bathing place was under the shade of ceibas and zamangs at Toma in a stream that rushes Out of the granite Rincòn del Diablo mountains. Entering this bath was fearsome, not because of the insects but because of the little brown hairs covering the pods of the Dolichos pruriens. When these small hairs, called pica pica, stick to your body they cause violent irritations. You feel the sting but cannot see what stung you.

The Catuaro mission is situated in a very wild place. The church is surrounded by tall trees. At night jaguars hunt the Indians' chickens and pigs. We lodged in the priest's house, a monk of the Observance congregation, to whom the Capuchins had given this mission because they did not have enough priests in their own community. He was a doctor in theology, a little, dried-up and petulant man. He entertained us with stories about the trial he had had with the superior of his convent, with the enmity of his brothers and the injustice of the alcaldes, who, ignoring his privileges, once threw him in jail. Despite these set-backs he had conserved an unfortunate liking for what he called metaphysical questions. He wanted to know what I thought of free will, of how to raise the soul from the prison of the body, and, above all, about animal souls. When you have crossed a jungle in the rainy season you do not feel like these kind of speculations. Besides, everything about this little Catuaro mission was odd, even the priest's house. It had two floors, and had become the object of a keen rivalry between secular and ecclesiastical authorities. The priest's superior found it too luxurious for a missionary; and wanted the Indians to demolish it; the governor opposed this strongly, and his will prevailed.

As night fell we camped on a deserted island in the middle of the river. We dined in the moonlight sitting on scattered empty turtle shells. How pleasing it was to be safe and together! We imagined how it would be if one man had saved himself alone, wandering these deserted banks, meeting more and more tributaries and unable to swim because of the crocodile and caribe fish. We pictured this sensitive man never knowing what had happened to his companions, more worried about them than himself. If you like surrendering to these sad thoughts it is because escaping from danger makes you feel the need for strong emotions.

Leaving the tableland of Guardia we descended to the Indian village of Santa Cruz. First we reached a steep, extremely slippery slope that the missionaries strangely named Bajada del Purgatorio, or Descent of Purgatory. It consists of eroded slaty sandstone, covered with clay; the slope seems terribly steep. To go down, the mules draw their hind legs to their forelegs, lower their rumps and trust their luck sliding downhill. The rider has nothing to fear as long as he drops the reins and leaves the mule alone. From here to the left we saw the great pyramid of Guàcharo. This calcareous peak looks very picturesque, but we soon lost it to view when we entered the thick jungle known as Montana de Santa María. We spent seven hours crossing it. It is hard to imagine a worse path; a veritable ladder, a kind of gorge where, during the rainy season, torrent water rushes down the rocks step by step. The steps are from 2 to 3 feet high. The hapless animals first have to calculate how to pass their loads between the tree trunks, and then jump from one block to another. Scared of slipping they wait a few moments, as if studying the terrain, and then draw their four legs together like wild goats do. If the mule misses the nearest rock it sinks deep into the soft ochre clay that fills in the gaps between the rocks. When there are no rocks, the rider's feet and the mule's legs are supported by a tangle of enormous tree roots. The creoles have faith in the skill and instinct of their mules and remain in the saddle during the long dangerous descent. We preferred to dismount because we feared fatigue less than they do, and were more prepared to travel slowly as we never stopped collecting plants and examining the rocks.