The Mighty Orinoco. Jules Verne

lounges and cabins while the lower deck was for cargo, the whole thing recalling American steamboats with their balancing poles and superelongated connecting rods. All of it was painted in gaudy colors right up to the posts of the helmsman and the captain, a pilothouse sitting on the top story beneath the flutterings of the Venezuelan flag. As for the steam engine, it was fed by the forests ashore, and already you could see, far down both banks of the Orinoco, endless piles of timber felled by the axes of loggers.

      Although Ciudad Bolívar was located over 420 kilometers from the Orinoco’s outlet, the ocean tide could still be felt there, but at least it did not disrupt the normal flow of the current. Consequently, this tide was no help to boats sailing upstream. All the same, at this location the water level can rise more than forty or fifty feet, overflowing into the city itself. But as a general rule the Orinoco rises steadily until mid-August and stays at the same level until the end of September. Then its waters abate till November, swell just a little at that point, then take until April to finish receding.

      So M. Miguel and his colleagues—these feuding Orinocophiles, Guaviarians, and Atabapoists—were starting out at the most propitious time for this expedition.

      Down at the loading dock of Ciudad Bolívar, a huge congregation of their followers were on hand to see the geographers off. This was merely for their departure, so just imagine the return! Supporters of the Orinoco shouted raucous encouragement, as did backers of the two upstart tributaries. Amid the carambas, carays,³ and assorted other cusswords from porters and sailors making ready for departure, and over the ear-splitting whistle of boilers and the whinnying of steam escaping through valves, you could still catch these shouts:

      “Hurray for the Guaviare!”

      “Three cheers for the Atabapo!”

      “Let’s hear it for the Orinoco!”

      Then arguments broke out between the proponents of these various viewpoints, and things threatened to get seriously out of hand, although M. Miguel tried to intervene between the fiercest contenders.

      Up on the promenade deck, Sergeant Martial and his nephew were watching these rambunctious goings-on, not understanding a thing.

      “What are all those people up to?” the old soldier exclaimed. “They must be trying to overthrow the government!”

      That could not have been happening here, since in Spanish-American countries governments were never removed without assistance from the military. And out of those seven thousand Venezuelan generals on the standard headquarters staff, there was not a single one in sight.⁴

      Jean and Sergeant Martial were not likely to put this squabble behind them, because one thing was certain—this debate would keep M. Miguel and his two colleagues at each others’ throats for the entire cruise.

      In a flash, the captain’s final orders were passed along—first an order to the engineer to get steam up, then an order to sailors fore and aft to loosen the moorings. All those people scattered on the different decks of the ship who were not going along on the trip had to head back to the pier. Finally, after a bit of pushing and shoving, only the passengers and crew were left on board.

      As soon as the Simón Bolívar got under way, the cheers increased, the good-byes became an uproar, and the Orinoco and its two tributaries were honored by outbursts of cheering. The steamboat headed out into the current, her mighty paddle wheel fiercely churning the waves and the pilot steering her toward the center of the river. Fifteen minutes later the town on the left bank had disappeared beyond a bend, and on the opposite bank those houses on the outskirts of Soledad soon passed from view.

      The departure of the Simón Bolívar

      The grassy plains of Venezuela cover an area of some five hundred thousand square kilometers. They are open prairies, almost perfectly flat. In a few scarce locations, the landscape will add a little variety and sprout an outcrop or two, which the locals call bancos, or will swell into one of those steep-sided, flat-topped hills known as mesas. The plains rise significantly only as they approach the mountains, which were already drawing nearer. The only other bulges in the terrain are sandbars alongside the river. It is through these wide open spaces, lush and green during the rainy season, yellow and faded during the dry season, that the Orinoco flows along its semicircular course.

      Moreover, if any passenger on the Simón Bolívar wanted to learn about the Orinoco from a twofold geographic and hydrographic perspective, they only had to consult MM. Miguel, Felipe, and Varinas to understand it all. These learned men were always ready to furnish the minutest details about the villages and towns, the tributaries, and the various tribes that roamed or stayed put in the vicinity of the Orinoco. You could not have asked for trustier guides, and how amiably and eagerly they placed their wisdom at the travelers’ disposal!

      Alas, among the Simón Bolívar’s passengers, the great majority had no curiosity whatever on the subject of the Orinoco, having gone up and down it twenty times already, some to the mouth of the Apure, others to the town of San Fernando de Atabapo. Most of them were merchants and traders carrying their wares inland, or exporting them to the ports back east. The usual merchandise included cocoa, cowhide, buckskin, copper ore, phosphate rock, timber, cabinetwork, marquetry, dye, tonka beans, rubber, sarsaparilla, and above all livestock, because cattle breeding is the main industry of the ranchers scattered over the Venezuelan plains.

      Venezuela is in the equatorial zone. Its normal temperature range is twenty-five to thirty degrees centigrade. But in mountainous terrain it is different: it gets intensely hot between the coastal and western Andes, specifically over the lands where the Orinoco riverbed begins its curve, regions out of range of any ocean breezes. Even the major air currents—trade winds from the north and east—pull up short at the mountain barrier on the coast and do little to ease the inland heat.

      That day, under an overcast sky that threatened rain, travelers did not suffer too much from the high temperatures. The steamboat met a head wind out of the west, and her passengers lounged in relative comfort.

      Up on the promenade deck, Sergeant Martial and Jean observed the shores of the river, a sight in which their fellow travelers showed positively no interest. Only our trio of geographers scrutinized the passing scenery, arguing over details with their usual animation.

      There is no doubt that, if Jean had consulted the geographers, he would have received up-to-the-minute information. But green-eyed, stiff-necked Sergeant Martial would not have allowed strangers to enter into such a conversation with his nephew, and anyway the lad did not need help in identifying the various villages, islands, and windings of the river. For a guidebook, Jean had a copy of M. Chaffanjon’s chronicle of his two journeys, written at the behest of France’s minister of public instruction. M. Chaffanjon’s first expedition, in 1884, covered that portion of the lower Orinoco between Ciudad Bolívar and the mouth of the Caura, plus the exploration of this important tributary. His second trip, in 1886–1887, covered the river’s whole course from Ciudad Bolívar back to its source. The French explorer’s descriptions were highly precise, and Jean thought they would be of great help.⁵

      Sergeant Martial, needless to say, had enough money converted into piasters to handle any travel expenses. Nor had he forgotten to take along a number of articles for barter—scraps of cloth, knives, mirrors, glassware, hardware items, and cheap knick-knacks—all to facilitate relations with Indians out on the plains. These items filled up two footlockers, stowed with other luggage in the depths of the uncle’s cabin, located next to his nephew’s.

      So, with his nose in his guidebook, Jean diligently studied the Orinoco’s two riverbanks as the Simón Bolívar churned its way upriver. It is true that back in the days of M. Chaffanjon’s expedition, Jean’s less fortunate countryman had to go by sailboat to the mouth of the Apure, tacking and rowing over the same route that steamers run today. But from that point on, Sergeant Martial and his young friend would likewise have to resort to this more primitive form of transportation, necessitated by all those obstacles in the river that are so exasperating to travelers.