I still have to refer to the most isolated of the Christian colonies of the Upper Orinoco. Opposite the point where the Orinoco bifurcates there is a granite mass called Duida, in the form of an amphitheater. The missionaries call this mountain of nearly 8, feet a volcano. Because its slopes on the south and west are very steep it looks grand. The peak is bare and stony; but everywhere else in the less steep slopes earth has collected and jungles seem to hang from the air. At the foot of the Duida lies the Esmeralda mission, a small village of eighty people, surrounded by a lovely plain, and fed by little black-watered but limpid streams; a proper prairie with groups of mauritia palms, the American breadfruit. As you approach the mountain the marshy plain becomes a savannah that stretches along the lower reaches of the chain. There you find enormous, delicious pineapples. These bromelia always grow solitary among the grasses.

There is no missionary at Esmeralda: the monk appointed to celebrate mass here lives in Santa Barbara, some 50 leagues away. To come upstream takes him four days and he only appears five or six times a year. An old soldier welcomed us in a friendly way; he took us for Catalan shopkeepers come to trade with the missions. When he saw our wads of paper for drying plants he laughed at our naive ignorance: 'You have come to a land where nobody is going to buy such a thing. Here few write. We use dried maize, banana and vijaho (heliconia) leaves, as you do paper in Europe, to wrap up small objects like needles, hooks and other things you have to look after carefully. This old soldier was both the civil and spiritual authority. He taught children, if not the catechism, then at least how to say the rosary, and he tolled the bells as a hobby. Sometimes he used the sacristan's stick in ways that did not amuse the Indians.

To reach the peak we had to approach as near as possible to the great cliff that falls to the coast. We needed three quarters of an hour to reach the top. While sitting on the peak observing the inclination of the magnetic needle I saw a great number of hairy bees, somewhat smaller than the northern European ones, crawling all over my hands. These bees nest in the ground and rarely fly. Their apathy seemed to derive from the cold mountain air. Here they are called angelitos (little angels) because they hardly ever sting. Until you are sure about the harmlessness of these angelitos you remain suspicious. I confess that often during astronomic observations I almost dropped my instruments when I realized my face and hands were covered with these hairy bees. Our guides assured us that these bees only attacked when you annoyed them by picking them up by their legs. I did not try.

The race of guàcharo would long ago have become extinct had not diverse circumstances combined to preserve them. The superstitious Indians rarely dare to penetrate deep into the grotto. It appears that these birds also nest in other nearby caves inaccessible to man. Perhaps this great cave is repopulated by colonies coming from smaller ones because the missionaries assured us that these birds had not diminished in numbers. When the gizzards of the young birds in the cave are opened they contain all kinds of hard and dried fruits, which, under the name of semilla del guàcharo, are a famous remedy against intermittent fevers. The adult birds carry these seed to their young. They are carefully collected and sent to the sick at Cariaco.

There is a saying that a mountain is high enough to reach the rhododendron and befaria limit, in the same way one says one has reached the snow limit. In employing this expression it is tacitly assumed that under identical temperatures a certain kind of vegetation must grow. This is not strictly true. The pines of Mexico are absent in the Peruvian Andes. The Caracas La Silla is not covered with the same oaks that flourish in New Granada at the same height. Identity of forms suggests an analogy of climate, but in similar climates the species may be very diversified.