The apparent proximity of the hamlets, vineyards and coastal gardens from the summit is increased by the surprising transparency of the air. Despite the great distance we could not only pick out the houses, the tree trunks and the sails on the vessels, but also the vivid coloring of the plain's rich vegetation. The Pico de Teide is not situated in the Tropics, but the dryness of the air, which rises continuously above the neighboring African plains and is rapidly blown over by the eastern winds, gives the atmosphere of the Canary Islands a transparency which not only surpasses that of the air around Naples and Sicily, but also of the air around Quito and Peru. This transparency may be one of the main reasons for the beauty of tropical scenery; it heightens the splendors of the vegetation's coloring, and contributes to the magical effects of its harmonies and contrasts. If the light tires the eyes during part of the day, the inhabitant of these southern regions has his compensation in a moral enjoyment, for a lucid clarity of mind corresponds to the surrounding transparency of the air.

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.

We left the Conorichite mouth and the Davipe mission and at sunset reached the island of Dapa, picturesquely situated in the middle of the river. We were amazed to find cultivated ground and, on top of a hill, an Indian hut. Four Indians sat round a small brushwood fire eating a kind of white paste spotted with black that aroused our curiosity. These black spots proved to be vachacos, large ants, whose abdomen resemble lumps of grease. They had been dried and blackened by smoking We saw several bags of ants hanging above the fire. These good people paid little attention to us, yet there were more than fourteen Indians lying completely naked in hammocks hung one above the other in the hut. When Father Zea arrived they received him joyously. Two young Indian women came down from their hammocks to make cassava cakes for us. Through an interpreter we asked them if the land on the island was fertile. They answered saying that cassava grew poorly but that it was a good place for ants. Vachacos were the subsistence diet of Río Negro and Guianan Indians. They are not eaten out of greed but because, in the missionary's terms, the fat is very nutritious. When the cakes were ready, Father Zea, whose fever seemed to increase rather than decrease his appetite, asked for a bag of smoked ants to be brought to him. Then he mixed these crushed insects into the cassava flour and urged us to taste. It tasted rather like rancid butter mixed with breadcrumbs. The cassava was not acid, but vestiges of our European prejudices restrained us from praising what the missionary called an excellent ant pâté".

The fresh north-east wind blew us at full sail towards the boca de la tortuga. At eleven in the morning we landed on an island, which the Indians of the Uruana mission regard as their own, situated in the middle of the river. This island is famous for the fishing of turtles or, as is said here, the cosecha, or annual harvest of eggs. We found a group of Indians camping in palm-leaf huts. This camp-site had over 300 people in it. As we had been used, since San Fernando de Apure, to seeing only deserted beaches, we were struck by the bustle. Apart from Guamos and Otomacs, seen as two wild and untamed tribes, there were Caribs and other Indians from the Lower Orinoco. Each tribe camped separately, and could be recognized only by the different paints on their skins. We also found, among this noisy reunion, some white men, mainly pulperos, the small traders from Angostura, who had come upstream to buy turtle-egg oil from the Indians. The Uruana missionary, from Alcalà de Henares, came to meet us, extremely surprised to see us there. After inspecting our instruments, he exaggeratedly described the hardships we would suffer going further upstream beyond the cataracts. The purpose of our journey seemed very mysterious to him. 'How is anyone to believe, he said, 'that you left your homeland to come up this river to be eaten by mosquitoes and measure lands that do not belong to you? Luckily we were armed with recommendations from the guardian father of the Franciscan missions, while the brother-in-law of the Barinas governor accompanying us soon resolved the doubts that the whites there had about our dress, accent and arrival on the island. The missionary invited us to share a frugal meal of bananas and fish with him. He told us he had come to camp with the Indians during the harvesting of the eggs 'to celebrate open-air mass every day, to get oil for the lights in his church, and above all to govern this Republica de Indios y Castellanos where individuals wanted to profit selfishly with what God had given to everybody'.

As night fell we camped on a deserted island in the middle of the river. We dined in the moonlight sitting on scattered empty turtle shells. How pleasing it was to be safe and together! We imagined how it would be if one man had saved himself alone, wandering these deserted banks, meeting more and more tributaries and unable to swim because of the crocodile and caribe fish. We pictured this sensitive man never knowing what had happened to his companions, more worried about them than himself. If you like surrendering to these sad thoughts it is because escaping from danger makes you feel the need for strong emotions.

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.

We saw several beautiful species of large aras (guacamayos) in the hands of Indians who had killed them in the nearby jungle to eat them. We began to dissect their enormous brains, though they are far less intelligent than parrots. I sketched the parts while Bonpland cut them apart; I examined the hyoid bone and the lower larynx, which cause this bird's raucous sounds. It was the kind of research that Cuvier had recently instigated in anatomy and it appealed to me. I began to console myself for the loss of my barometer. Night did not allow me to determine our latitude through the stars. On the 20th of April at three in the morning, while it was still delightfully fresh, we set off for the Magdalena river landing-stage in the village of Barancas Nuevas. We were still in the thick jungle of bamboos, Palma amarga and mimosas, especially the inga with purple flowers. Halfway between Mahates and Barancas we came across some huts raised on bamboo trunks inhabited by zambos. This mixture of negro and Indian is very common around here. Copper-colored women are very attracted to African men and many negroes from Choco, Antioquia province and Simitarra, once they gained their freedom by working hard, have settled in this river valley. We have often reminded you how the wisdom of the oldest Spanish laws favored the freeing of black slaves while other European nations, boasting of a high degree of civilization, have hindered and continue to hinder this absurd and inhuman law. (146)