The climate of the Javita mission is extremely rainy: Rains fall all year round and the sky is constantly clouded. The missionary assured us that he had seen it rain for four and five months without stopping. I measured the rainfall on the lit of May over five hours and registered 46. millimeters.

March 31st. (92) A contrary wind forced us to stay on the river bank until midday. We saw a part of the cane fields devastated by a fire spreading from a nearby forest. Nomadic Indians set the forest alight everywhere they set up camp for the night; during the dry season vast provinces would be in flames if it was not for the extreme hardness of the wood, which does not completely burn. We found trunks of desmanthus and mahogany (cahoba) that were hardly burned more than 2 inches deep.

We continued to climb from this pine to the crater of the volcano without crossing one valley, for the ravines do not merit this name. To the eyes of a geologist the whole of the island is one mountain whose oval base is prolonged to the north-east and in which several systems of volcanic rock, formed in different periods, may be distinguished.

Seated on the crater's external edge we turned our eyes towards the north-east where the coasts are decorated with villages and hamlets. At our feet masses of mist, continually tossed about by the winds, changed shape all the time. A uniform layer of cloud between us and the lower regions of the island had been pierced here and there by wind currents sent up from the heated earth. The Orotava bay, its vessels at anchor, the gardens and vineyards round the town, appeared in an opening that seemed to enlarge all the time. From these solitary I regions our eyes dived down to the inhabited world below; we enjoyed the striking contrasts between the peak's arid slopes, its steep sides covered with scoriae, its elevated plains devoid of vegetation, and the smiling spectacle of the cultivated land below. We saw how plants were distributed according to the decreasing temperatures of altitudes. Below the peak lichens begin to cover the scorious and polished lava; a violet (Viola cheiranthifolia) similar to the Viola decumbens climbs the volcano's slopes up to 1, toises above all other herbaceous plants. Tufts of flowering broom decorate the valleys hollowed out by the torrents and blocked by the effects of lateral eruptions. Below the retama lies the region of ferns, and then the arborescent heaths. Laurel, rhamnus and strawberry-tree woods grow between the scrub and the rising ground planted with vines and fruit trees. A rich green carpet extends from the plain of brooms and the zone of alpine plants to groups of date palms and banana trees whose feet are bathed by the ocean.

The old Indian called 'master of the poison' was flattered by our interest in his chemical procedures. He found us intelligent enough to think that we could make soap; for making soap, after making curare, seemed to him the greatest of human inventions. Once the poison was poured into its jars, we accompanied the Indian to the juvias fiesta. They were celebrating the Brazil-nut harvest, and became wildly drunk. The hut where the Indians had gathered over several days was the strangest sight you could imagine. Inside there were no tables or benches, only large smoked and roasted monkeys lined up symmetrically against the wall. These were marimondas (Ateles belzebuth) and the bearded capuchins. The way these animals, which look so like human beings, are roasted helps you understand why civilized people find eating them so repulsive. A little grill made of a hard wood is raised about a foot from the ground. The skinned monkey is placed on top in a sitting position so that he is held up by his long thin hands; sometimes the hands are crossed over his shoulders. Once it is fixed to the grill a fire is lit underneath; flames and smoke cover the monkey, which is roasted and smoked at the same time. Seems Indians eat a leg or arm of a roasted monkey makes you realize why cannibalism is not so repugnant to Indians. Roasted monkeys especially those with very round heads, look horribly like children. Europeans who are forced to eat them prefer to cut off the head and hands before serving up the rest of the monkey The flesh of the monkey is so lean and dry that Bonpland kept an arm and a hand, roasted in Esmeralda, in his Paris collections. After many years it did not smell in the least.

The city, dominated by the fort, lies at the foot of a hill without greenery. Not one bell-tower nor one dome attract the traveler from afar; just a few tamarind trees and coconut and date palms stand out above the flat-roofed houses. The surrounding plains, especially near the sea, appear sad, dusty and arid, while fresh, luxuriant vegetation marks out the winding river that divides the city from its outskirts and the European settlers from the copper-colored Indians. The isolated, bare and white San Antonio mountain, with its fort, reflects a great mass of light and heat: it is made of breccia, whose strata contain fossil marine life. Far away towards the south you can make out a dark curtain of mountains. They are the high calcareous New Andalusian alps, topped with sandstone and other recent geological formations. Majestic forests cover this inland mountain chain linked along a forested valley with the salty, clayey and bare ground around Cumana. In the gulf and on its shores you can see flocks of fishing herons and gannets, awkward, heavy birds, which, like swans, sail along the water with their wings raised. Nearer the inhabited areas, you can count thousands of gallinazo vultures, veritable flying jackals, ceaselessly picking at carcasses. A gulf whose depths contain hot thermal springs divides the secondary from the primary and schistose rocks of the Araya peninsula. The two coasts are bathed by a calm blue sea lightly rippled by a constant breeze. A dry, pure sky, only lightly clouded at sunset, lies above the sea, over a peninsula devoid of trees and above the Cumana plains, while one sees storms building up and bursting into fertile downpours around the inland mountain peaks.

Our stay in Turbaco was extremely agreeable, and useful for our botanical collection. Even today those bamboo forests, the wild fertility of the land, the orchids carpeting the old ocotea and Indian fig-tree trunks, the majestic view of the snowy mountains, the light mist covering the valleys at sunrise, bunches of gigantic trees like green islands above a sea of mist, all return incessantly to my imagination. Our life at Turbaco was simple and hard-working; we were young, linked by similar tastes and characters, always full of hope in the future, on the eve of a journey that would take us to the highest Andean peaks, and volcanoes on fire in a country where earthquakes are common. We felt happier than at any other moment in our expedition. The years that have passed since then, not without bitterness and hardships, have added to the charms of these impressions; I would like to think that in his exile in the Southern hemisphere, in the isolation of Paraguay, my unfortunate friend Bonpland (145) might still recall our delightful herborizings. As Bonpland's health had cruelly suffered during our journey on the Orinoco and Casiquiare we decided to follow the advice of the locals and supply ourselves with all the comforts possible on our trip up the Magdalena. Instead of sleeping in hammocks or lying on the ground on skins, exposed to the nightly torment of mosquitoes, we did what was done in the country, and got hold of a mattress, a country-bed that was easy to unfold, as well as a toldo, a cotton sheet, which could fold under the mattress and make a kind of closed-off tent that no insects could penetrate. Two of these beds, rolled into cylinders of thick leather, were packed on to a mule. I could not praise this system more; it is far superior to the mosquito net.