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.