The days before and after the eclipse were accompanied by strange atmospheric phenomena. We were in the season called winter here, that is, when clouds build up and release short stormy downpours. From the 10th of October to the 3rd of November the horizon is covered over each night by a reddish mist, quickly spreading across the sky-blue vault in a more or less thick veil. When this reddish mist lightly covered the sky not even the brightest stars could be seen even at their highest points. They twinkled at all altitudes as if after a rainstorm.

A journey to the Tenerife volcano's summit is not solely interesting for the amount of phenomena available for scientific research but far more for the picturesque beauties offered to those who keenly feel the splendors of nature. It is a hard task to describe these sensations for they work on us so much more powerfully the more they are vague. When a traveler must describe the highest peaks, the river cataracts, the tortuous Andes valleys, he risks tiring his readers with the monotonous expression of his admiration. It seems better suited to my intentions in this narrative of my journey to evoke the particular character of each zone. We get to know the features of each region better the more we indicate its varying characteristics by comparing it with others. This method enables us to discover the sources of the pleasures conferred by the great picture of nature.

We crossed the malpaís slowly; for it is hard to walk securely on lava fragments. Nearer the Station of the Rocks the path down was extremely difficult; the short thick grass was so slippery that we were constantly forced to lean our bodies backwards in order not to fall. In the sandy plain of retama the thermometer rose to 22. this heat seemed suffocating after the cold we had suffered on the summit. We had no more water; our guides had not only secretly drunk our small supply of malmsey wine but had also broken our water jugs.

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 history of the jade, or green Guianan stones, is intimately linked with that of the warlike women named Amazons by sixteenth-century travelers. La Condamine has produced many testimonies in favor of this tradition. Since returning from the Orinoco and Amazon I have often been asked in Paris if I agreed with that learned man, or thought that he said what he said to satisfy a public eager for novelties. A taste for the marvelous and a wish to describe the New World with some of the tones of antiquity no doubt contributed to the reputation of the Amazons. But this is not enough to reject a tradition shared by many isolated tribes. I would conclude that women, tired of the state of slavery in which men have held them, united together and kept their independence as warriors. They received visits once a year from men, and probably killed off their male babies. This society of women may have been quite powerful in one part of Guiana. But such is the disposition of man's mind that, in the long succession of travelers discovering and writing about the marvels of the New World, each one readily declared that he had seen what earlier ones had announced.

The treatment of the copper-colored Indians was accompanied by the same acts of inhumanity that later were meted out to the black Africans, with the same consequences of making both conquered and conquering wilder. From that time wars between the Indians became more common; prisoners were dragged from the interior to the coasts to be sold to whites who chained them to their boats. Yet the Spaniards at that period, and long after, were one of the most civilized nations of Europe. The light that art and literature shed over Italy was reflected on every nation whose language stemmed from the same source as that of Dante and Petrarch. One might have expected a general sweetening of manners as the natural consequence of this noble awakening of the mind, this soaring of the imagination. But across the seas, wherever the thirst for riches led to the abuse of power, the nations of Europe have always displayed the same characteristics. The noble century of Leo X was marked in the New World by acts of cruelty that belonged to a barbaric past.

On the evening of the 18th of May we reached a place on the bank where wild cacao trees grew. The seed of these cacao trees is small and bitter; the Indians suck the pulp and throw away the seed, which is then picked up by mission Indians who sell it to those who are not too fussy about how to prepare cocoa. 'This is Puerto del Cacao (Cacao Port)', said our pilot. 'Here the Fathers sleep on their way to Esmeralda to buy Saracens (blowpipes to shoot poison arrows) and jovial (Brazil-nuts). Only five boats a year pass along the Casiquiare. Since Maypures, that is, for a month, we had not met anyone on the rivers outside the missions. We spent the night south of Lake Duractumuni in a forest of palm trees. It poured with rain, but the pothoses, arums and lianas made such a thick trellis that we sheltered underneath.