We set off before sunrise, at five in the morning, with the slaves carrying our instruments. Our party consisted of eighteen people, and we advanced in Indian file along a narrow path on a steep grassy slope. From La Puerta the path becomes steep. You have to lean forward to climb. The thick grass was very slippery because of the prolonged drought. Cramp-irons and iron-tipped sticks would have been very useful. Short grass covers the gneiss rocks; it is impossible to grip it or dig steps into it as in softer soil. More tiring than dangerous, the climb soon disheartened the men accompanying us who were not used to mountain climbing. We wasted a lot of time waiting for them, and did not decide to continue alone until we saw them returning down the mountain instead of climbing up after us. Bonpland and I foresaw that we would soon be covered in thick fog. Fearing that our guides would use the fog to abandon us we made those carrying the instruments go ahead of us. The familiar chatting of the negroes contrasted with the taciturn seriousness of the Indians who had accompanied us up to then. They joked about those who had spent hours preparing for the ascent, and then abandoned it straightaway.

We visited the Cayo Bonito, which deserves its name (pretty) as it is covered with lush vegetation. On a layer of sand and shells 5 to 6 inches thick rises a forest of mangroves. From their shape and size they look from afar like laurels. What characterizes these coral islands is the wonderful Tournefortia gnaphalioides of jacquin, with silvery leaves, which we found here for the first time. This is a shrub some 4 to 5 feet high that gives off a pleasing scent. While we were botanizing our sailors looked for lobsters among the rocks. Irritated at not finding any they took revenge by climbing into the mangroves and slaughtering young alcatras nesting in pairs. This alcatras builds its nest where several branches meet, and four or five nest on the same trunk. The younger birds tried to defend themselves with their long beaks, while the older ones flew above our heads making hoarse, plaintive cries. Blood streamed from the trees for the sailors were armed with long sticks and machetes. We tried to prevent this pointless cruelty but sailors, after years at sea, enjoy slaughtering animals. The ground was littered with wounded birds struggling against death. When we arrived on the scene it was strangely silent, as if saying, 'man has passed this way'.

The military establishment of this frontier consists of seventeen soldiers, ten of whom are detached in neighboring missions. The humidity is such that hardly four rifles work. The Portuguese have twenty-five better-dressed and better-armed men in the fort of San Jose de Maravitanos. In the San Carlos mission we found a garita, or square house, built with unbaked bricks, with six rooms. The fort, or as they prefer to call it, the Castillo de San Felipe, is on the right bank of the Río Negro, vis-à-vis San Carlos. The commander showed some scruples, and refused to allow Bonpland and myself to visit the fort as our passports clearly stated we could measure mountains and perform trigonometric operations on land, but we could not see inside fortified places. Our fellow traveler, Don Nicolás Soto, a Spanish officer, was luckier, and was allowed to cross the river.

The shock of the waves was felt in our boat. My fellow travelers all suffered. I slept calmly, being lucky never to suffer seasickness. By sunrise of the 20th of November we expected to double the cape in a few hours. We hoped to arrive that day at La Guaira, but our Indian pilot was scared of pirates. He preferred to make for land and wait in the little harbor of Higuerote (65) until night. We found neither a village nor a farm but two or three huts inhabited by mestizo fishermen with extremely thin children, which told us how unhealthy and feverish this coast was. The sea was so shallow that we had to wade ashore. The jungle came right down to the beach, covered in thickets of mangrove. On landing we smelled a sickly smell, (66) which reminded me of deserted mines.

The tribes of the Upper Orinoco, the Atabapo and the Inirida, worship only the forces of nature. The principle of good is called Cachimana; it is the manitu, the great spirit, that controls the seasons and ripens fruit. Next to Cachimana there is the principle of evil, Jolokiamo, less powerful but more astute and, especially, more dynamic. When the jungle Indians go to missions it is difficult for them to conceive of a church or an image. 'These good people, said our missionary, 'like only outdoor processions. Recently when I celebrated the village's saint's day the Inirida Indians came to mass. They told me: Your god is locked into a house as if he was old and sick; our god is in the jungle, in fields, in the Sipapu mountains from where the rains come. In the larger, and thus more barbarous tribes, peculiar religious societies are formed. Some of the older Indians claim to be better initiated in divine matters and guard the famous botuto that they play under palm trees to make the fruit ripen. On the Orinoco banks no images or idols can be found, but the botuto, the sacred trumpet, is worshipped. To be initiated into the mysteries of the botuto you must be pure and celibate. The initiated are subject to flagellations, fasting and other disciplinarian practices. There are few sacred trumpets. The most famous is found on a hill at the confluence of the Tomo and Guainia rivers. It is said it can be heard at a distance of 10 leagues. Father Cerezo assured us that Indians talk of this botuto as the object of a cult common to several neighboring tribes. Fruit and alcoholic drinks are placed round this sacred trumpet. Sometimes the great spirit Cachimana himself blows the botuto, sometimes he speaks through whoever guards the instrument. As these tricks are very ancient (the fathers of our fathers, the Indians say) you should not be surprised that there are many believers. Women are not allowed to see the marvelous trumpet, and are excluded from all religious service. If one has the misfortune to see it she is mercilessly killed. The missionary told us that in 1798 he was lucky enough to save a young girl whom a jealous lover had accused of having followed the Indians who sounded the botuto. 'They would have murdered her publicly, said Father Cerezo. 'How could she have protected herself from Indian fanaticism, in a country where it is so easy to be poisoned? I sent her away to one of the missions on the Lower Orinoco.