We left the Esmeralda mission on the 23rd of May. We were not exactly ill, but emaciated and weak thanks to the torment of mosquitoes, the bad food and the long journey on that narrow and damp pirogue. We did not go further up the Orinoco than the mouth of the Guapo; had we wanted to reach the Orinoco sources we would have gone beyond this point, but private travelers are not authorized to leave pacified areas. From the Guapo river to the Guaharibo cataract there are only 15 leagues. But the cataract is crossed by a liana bridge where Indians armed with bows and arrows stop whites from entering their lands. Up to the present time the Orinoco posed two distinct problems for geographers: its sources, and the nature of its communications with the Amazon. This latter was the aim of our journey.

We stopped to observe the howler monkeys, which move in lines across the intricate branches linking the jungle trees in packs of thirty and forty. While watching this new spectacle we met a group of Indians on their way to the Caripe mountains. They were completely naked, like most Indians in these lands. Behind them came the women, laden with heavy packs, while all the men and boys were armed with bows and arrows. They walked in silence, staring at the ground. We would have liked to ask them if the Santa Cruz mission, where we hoped to spend the night, was far off. We were exhausted, and thirsty. The heat was increasing as the storm approached, and we had not found any springs. As the Indians invariably answered si padre and no padre we thought they understood a little Spanish. In their eyes every white is a monk, a padre. In the missions the color of the skin characterizes the monk more than the color of his habit. When we asked those Indians if Santa Cruz was far off they answered si or no so arbitrarily that we could make no sense of their answers. This made us angry, for their smiles and gestures showed that they would have liked to direct us as the jungle became thicker and thicker. We had to leave them; our guides, who spoke the Chaima language, lagged behind as the loaded mules kept falling into ravines.

From the mouth of the Meta, the Orinoco seemed freer of shoals and rocks. We navigated in a canal 500 toises wide. The Indians stayed in the pirogue, rowing without towing or pushing it with their hands, tiring us with their wild screams. It was already dark when we found ourselves by the Raudal de Tabaje. The Indians did not want to risk crossing the cataract and so we spent the night on land on a site that was extremely uncomfortable, on a rock bench with a steep slope sheltering a cloud of bats in crevices. All night we heard the cries of jaguars. Our dog answered by howling back. The deafening noise of the Orinoco waterfalls contrasted with the thunder grumbling over the jungle.

In this part of the cavern the rivulet deposits blackish earth, a mixture of silex, clay and vegetable detritus. We walked in thick mud to a place where, to our shock, we discovered underground vegetation. The seeds that the birds bring into the grotto to feed to their chicks germinate wherever they fall on to earth covering the calcareous Incrustations. Blanched stalks with rudimentary leaves rose to some 2 feet. It was impossible to identify the plants as the absence of light had completely transformed their form, color and aspect. These traces of plant life in the dark struck the Indians, usually so stupid and difficult to impress. They examined the plants in a silence inspired by a place they fear. You could have said these pale, deformed, underground plants seemed like ghosts banished from the earth's surface. For me, however, they recalled one of the happiest days of my youth when during a long stay at the Freiberg mines I began my research into the effects of blanching plants.