Showing the limits of his open-mindedness, Humboldt found that all the Chaymas tended to look alike: There were no distinguishing signs of age in individuals from twenty to fifty years old—no gray hair, no facial wrinkles—with the result that he often couldn’t tell father from adult son or mother from grown daughter. In addition, all the Chaymas had “a sort of family look,” which Humboldt ascribed to inbreeding as well as the vapidity of mission life. “Both in men and animals the emotions of the soul are reflected in the features; and the countenance acquires the habit of mobility, in proportion as the emotions of the mind are frequent, varied and durable. But the Indian of the Missions, being remote from all cultivation . . . drags on a dull, monotonous life . . . [and] this uniformity, this sameness of situation, is pictured” on the face.
In his letter to the queen, Columbus had suggested that it would be well “to teach [the Indians] to go clothed.” But, three centuries later, the Chaymas still had not taken to the habit, despite the urging of the missionaries. In fact, the Indians expressed a sense of shame at being covered, and men and women alike remained naked in their houses, where they wore only a guayuco,a strip of cloth two or three inches wide and tied to the waist with a string. On trips to the village, they put on a short cotton tunic for the benefit of the padre, but out of the boundaries of the mission, they would carry the tunics rolled up under their arm, especially during the rainy season. The tunic was the extent of their wardrobe, for, as Humboldt reports, “Among the Chaymas, as well as in all the Spanish Missions and the Indian villages, a pair of drawers, a pair of shoes, or a hat, are objects of luxury unknown to the natives.”
Leaving the mission, the party pressed farther south, where the road ran through a humid valley filled with small plantations. In the village of Arenas, the chief attraction was a man of Spanish descent named Francisco Lozano, who had reportedly suckled his child with his own milk. The child’s mother had fallen ill shortly after the birth, and when the thirty-two-year-old father had held the boy to his breast to comfort him, he’d had been amazed to see that the irritation of the sucking had caused thick, very sweet milk to flow. His breasts had grown, and he had breastfed his son two or three times a day for the next five months, during which the child had had no other nourishment.
Lozano wasn’t in the village when the visitors passed through, but later the man journeyed to Cumaná to give the Europeans a look at him, along with his son, now thirteen or fourteen years old. Bonpland, who had trained as a physician, examined the man and found that his breasts were indeed enlarged and wrinkled, like those of an old woman who had suckled a child. The left breast was especially prominent, and Lozano explained that that one had been the more productive.
Though Lozano’s case was rare, it wasn’t unique. Aristotle and the Talmud had both reported instances of men suckling children, and Humboldt had heard similar stories from Russia, Syria, and Ireland. He also recalled seeing a he-goat in Germany that had produced more milk than any female. Other human cases were reported throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, leading medical science to verify that under certain circumstances, stimulation of a man’s nipples can in fact cause milk to flow, just as Humboldt reported in the strange case of Francisco Lozano.
At the town of Cumanacoa, Humboldt heard of a great crevice in the mountains from which flames were said to sometimes shoot several hundred feet in the air. During the earthquake that had destroyed Cumaná two years before, a dull subterranean rumble had reportedly issued from the same location. This promise of geologic pyrotechnics was too much to be resisted, and he and Bonpland set out to have a look at the site, accompanied by Indian guides eager to show the visiting expert what they hoped were gold deposits nearby. “In these colonies,” Humboldt lamented , “every Frenchman is supposed to be a physician, and every German a miner.” He neglected to mention that he and Bonpland, by virtue of their respective training, did nothing to belie these stereotypes.
The Indians hacked a path through the woods, and on September 10, Humboldt, Bonpland, and their guides set out for the crevice. Entering the gorge carved by the Río Juagua, they came across a porcupine that had recently been disemboweled by a jaguar, and the Indians ran back to the farm to fetch some small dogs—they wouldn’t fend off the jaguars, they explained, but in the event of an attack, the cats could be apt to spring on the animals rather than on the more imposing men.
The party inched along a precipice two or three hundred feet above the river. When the path became too narrow, they picked their way down to the river, forded it, and clambered up the opposite bank. The farther they advanced, the thicker the vegetation grew, till the way became overhung with vines. But the terrain didn’t prevent Humboldt and Bonpland from collecting botanical specimens, which they carried with some difficulty. The Europeans particularly admired the abundant mosses and lichens; the ten-foot-tall amomums (aromatic shrubs resembling ginger); the tree ferns; a twenty-foot-tall plant with brilliant purple flowers (Brownia racemosa); a previously unknown type of dragon’s blood (a croton, or type of spurge); and the striking red and gold tropical woods, which Humboldt foresaw would one day be sought out by European cabinetmakers.
The travelers followed the Río Juagua till they came to the reputed gold mines, which had been dug into the walls of blackish limestone common in the area. As expected, Humboldt saw that the “gold” was worthless pyrite. But the Indians weren’t convinced, and they bend over and scooped the glittering stones out of the water when they thought no one was watching.
Tired and soaked from crossing and recrossing the river, the party finally arrived at the cavern of Cuchivano, whence the subterranean flames were said to emerge. But Humboldt was crestfallen to see that the cave was totally inaccessible, set in the middle of an eight-hundred-foot-high, sheer rock wall. Resting at the foot of the cliff, he mused over the source of the pyrotechnics. Could they be caused by hydrogen gas issuing from the cavern? Probably not, he decided, since sulfur was more likely to issue from volcanoes than hydrogen was. Ultimately he concluded that the accompanying earthquakes were probably the result of events taking place not near the surface at all but at enormous distances belowground. It was not a viewpoint that would have been endorsed by Abraham Gottlob Werner, Humboldt’s neptunist mentor back at Freiburg, and it was leading toward a radical new approach to geology.
On September 12, the travelers set out for the monastery of Caripe, the principal mission among the Chayma. After an arduous climb back up the coastal mountains, they stopped for three days to rest at the modest farm of a transplanted Spaniard, where Humboldt felt a deep pang of homesickness: “Nothing can be compared to the majestic tranquility which the aspect of the firmament presents in this solitary region,” he lamented. “When tracing with the eye, at nightfall, the meadows which bounded the horizon,—the plain covered with verdure and gently undulated, we thought we beheld from afar, as in the deserts of Orinoco, the surface of the ocean supporting the starry vault of Heaven. The tree under which we were seated, the luminous insects flying in the air, the constellations which shone in the south; every object seemed to tell us how far we were from our native land,” Humboldt found. “If amidst this exotic nature we heard from the depth of the valley the tinkling of a bell, or the lowing of herds, the remembrance of our country was awakened suddenly. The sounds were like distant voices resounding from beyond the sea, and with magical power transporting us from one hemisphere to the other. Strange mobility of the imagination of man, eternal source of our enjoyments and our pains!”
To reach the monastery, the party needed to cross a ridge called the Cuchilla de Guanaguana, whose name (cuchilla is Spanish for “kitchen knife”) hints at the ruggedness of the terrain. The path was only fourteen inches wide in places, and was bordered on either side by a steep, grassy slope, so that if a traveler slipped, he would careen straight down for seven or eight hundred feet. Not yet experienced climbers, Humboldt and Bonpland found the crossing difficult, but the mules were surefooted and i
nspired confidence. When the animals felt themselves in danger, they would stop and look to the right and the left, during which they were oblivious to any attempt to hurry them, before choosing their path. “In proportion as a country is wild,” Humboldt noted, “the instinct of domestic animals improves in address and sagacity.”
At the foot of the ridge, the party plunged into a dense forest. Owing to its coolness, Caripe was the only one of the high valleys of New Andalusia that was much inhabited. The monastery was magnificently situated, in front of an enormous wall of white rock covered with thick vegetation and studded with numerous springs. The travelers were received with great hospitality by the monks, and as at every other mission they visited throughout their journey, Humboldt detected no hint of intolerance on account of his Protestantism. “No mark of distrust, no indiscreet question, no attempt at controversy, ever diminished the value of the hospitality they exercised with so much liberality and frankness.” The superior gave up his own room to Humboldt, who was impressed by the extent of the library he found there. The patio of the convent proved ideal for setting up their instruments.
The mission had a large conuco, with five thousand coffee trees plus maize, sugarcane, and other crops, which the Indians were required to work from six to ten every morning, under the watchful gaze of the alcaldes, the native foremen appointed by the superior. The alcaldes, Humboldt noted, “are looked upon as great state functionaries, and they alone have the right of carrying a cane. . . . The alcaldes came daily to the convent, less to treat with the monks on the affairs of the Mission, than under the pretense of inquiring after the health of the newly arrived travelers. As we gave them brandy, their visits became more frequent than the monks desired.”
Other than its cool climate, the foremost natural feature of the Valley of Caripe was the Cave of the Guácharo, now known to be the largest cave in Venezuela, with more than five miles of underground passageways. Meaning “one who cries or laments” in Spanish, guácharo was the name given to a species of nocturnal bird residing in the huge cavern. About the size of a chicken, with a wingspan of three and a half feet, it had dark, bluish-gray plumage streaked by black, with white, heart-shaped spots on the head, wings, and tail. At nightfall, the birds would leave the cavern to feed on fruits. The creature was previously unknown to naturalists, and Humboldt classified the guácharo creature (Steatornis caripensis) in a genus of its own.
On September 18, Humboldt and Bonpland, accompanied by the alcaldes and most of the monks, set out for the cavern, located nine miles from the monastery in the base of a high mountain. The entrance to the cave was immense, eighty feet wide and seventy-two feet high, surmounted by spectacular foliage and with a river flowing from the mouth. So huge was the opening that the party penetrated more than four hundred feet before they had to light the resin torches they carried. Entering the cave, they could make out the hoarse, far-off cries of the birds. As the men advanced, the shrieks rose to a piercing crescendo, as the birds were startled by the light from the torches. Fixing a torch to the end of a long pole, the guides illuminated the funnel-shaped nests in the ceiling, fifty or sixty feet above.
Once every summer, the local Indians would come to the cavern armed with such poles. As the guácharos hovered overhead, defending their young and making the terrible cries for which their kind was named, the nestlings would be knocked to the ground and gutted on the spot. The area from the abdomen to the anus was loaded with fat, which would be cut out and carried to huts built from palm fronds at the entrance to the cave, where it was rendered in clay pots over fires of brushwood. The half-liquid, clear, odorless fat, called manteca (“lard”) or aceite (“oil”) del guácharo,was used for cooking and illumination, and was so pure that it could be kept for more than a year without becoming rancid. The crops and gizzards of the birds were full of hard, dry fruits called semilla del guácharo (“guacharo seed”), which were carefully collected and circulated across the valley as a treatment for fever. Though several thousand young were killed each year in this way, the species was saved from extinction because many more birds roosted deep in the cavern, where the Indians would not venture.
Eager to explore the cave, Humboldt persuaded the guides to penetrate farther than their annual hunting expeditions had taken them. But even the monks couldn’t cajole them to pass beyond a sharp incline with a waterfall. The Indians believed that the souls of their ancestors inhabited the cavern, and in fact, “to go and join the guácharos” was a local euphemism for death. Though disappointed, Humboldt also confessed to being “glad to be beyond the hoarse cries of the birds, and to leave a place where darkness does not offer even the charm of silence and tranquility.” Two hundred years later, the guácharos, now legally protected, still roost in the cave that bears their name.
Despite Humboldt’s misgivings about the Church’s treatment of the Indians, the following days at the monastery passed in a pleasant routine. The daylight hours the travelers would spend out of doors in the mountains and forests, collecting plants and returning to the monastery only when the bell tolled for meals. The evenings were devoted to making notes and sketches and drying their specimens. The only disappointment in the Valley of Caripe was that the winter weather prevented any astronomical observations.
On rainy days, Humboldt and Bonpland would visit the huts of the Indians or the community garden, or drop in on the alcaldes’ evening councils. Sometimes they would attend the early-morning religious lessons, where the Indians’ tenuous grasp of Catholic doctrine was evident, along with their imperfect knowledge of Spanish. Because the monks didn’t speak Chayma, for instance, it was surpassingly difficult to convey the idea that infierno, “hell,” and invierno, “winter,” were as different as hot and cold: Since the Chaymas knew no winter but the rainy season, they imagined the padres’ hell as a place where the wicked were exposed to frequent showers.
Though he was surrounded by tropical plants, strange animals, and foreign peoples, Humboldt’s predominant impression was not how alien the monastery seemed but rather how much the place reminded him of Europe. “The aspect of this spot presents a character at once wild and tranquil, gloomy and attractive,” he wrote. “In the solitude of these mountains we are perhaps less struck by the new impressions we receive at every step, than with the marks of resemblance we trace in climates the most remote from each other. The hills by which the convent is backed, are crowned with palm-trees and arborescent ferns. In the evenings, when the sky denotes rain, the air resounds with the monotonous howling of the alouate apes [howler monkeys], which resembles the distant sound of wind when it shakes the forest,” he found. “Yet amid these strange sounds, these wild forms of plants, and these prodigies of a new world, nature everywhere speaks to man in a voice familiar to him. The turf that overspreads the soil; the old moss and fern that cover the roots of the trees; the torrents that gush down the sloping banks of the calcareous rocks; in fine, the harmonious accordance of tints reflected by the waters, the verdure, and the sky; everything recalls to the traveler, sensations which he has already felt.”
So taken were the visitors with the charms of the valley that they unintentionally overstayed their welcome. Belatedly, they realized that two extra places at the table were straining the meager resources of the monks, who were too kind to object. The brothers had already eliminated their own shares of wine and bread, which were considered luxuries, and Humboldt and Bonpland’s portion of bread had been cut to a quarter of its original level—yet heavy winter rains prevented the visitors from leaving for another two days. “How long did this delay appear!” Humboldt lamented. “It made us dread the sound of the bell that summoned us to the refectory.” At last, the rain stopped on September 22, and the travelers were able to say their abashed farewells, accompanied by their Indian guides and their mule train, now grown to four animals laden with instruments and plants.
Continuing their descent toward the coast, the party crossed an uninhabited plateau, then encountered a daunting slope the m
issionaries called Baxada del Purgatorio, or Descent of Purgatory. Consisting of loose sandstone and clay, the Baxada was so steep and so treacherous that the mules were forced to draw up their hind legs and slide down in stages, while the riders dropped the reins and allowed the animals’ instinct to do its work.
At the foot of the Baxada, they entered the dense forest called Montaña de Santa María, where the going was even rougher. “It is difficult to conceive of a more tremendous descent; it is absolutely a road of steps, a kind of ravine, in which, during the rainy season, impetuous torrents dash from rock to rock. The steps are from two to three feet high, and the beasts of burden, after measuring with their eyes the space necessary to let their load pass between the trunks of the trees, leap from one rock to another. Afraid of missing their mark, we saw them stop a few minutes to scan the ground, and bring together their four feet like wild goats.” The local Creoles had enough confidence in the animals to stay in the saddle during this process, but “fearing fatigue less than they did,” Humboldt and Bonpland dismounted.
The forest was dominated by trees of stupendous height and breadth, draped with orchids and succulents, and the warm, wet air was permeated with the aromas of flowers, fruits, and exotic woods. Though the day was cloudy, the heat and humidity were oppressive. Thunder rolled at a distance, and the howling of the monkeys warned of an advancing storm. Stopping to observe a troop of the animals, Humboldt’s party encountered a group of Indians, traveling single file on the road. Naked, the Indians moved silently through the forest, their eyes on the ground. The women carried heavy loads, while the men, and even the youngest boys, bristled with bows and arrows.
Exhausted and overcome with thirst, the Europeans were eager to know how much farther it was to the mission of Santa Cruz, their destination for the night. The Indians smiled and gestured helpfully, but to every question answered only, “Sí, Padre,” or “No, Padre” (since to them every white man was a missionary). Unable to get a meaningful answer, Humboldt and the others continued on, with the forest seeming to grow denser and more forbidding by the moment. The mules were stumbling at nearly every step, and as the muleteers struggled with the animals, Humboldt and Bonpland went on ahead. After a torturous descent of seven hours, the forest suddenly gave way to a great green savannah, stretching beyond the horizon. Crossing several terracelike plateaus, the travelers finally arrived at the mission of Santa Cruz, in the center of the plain. They settled into the “King’s House” there for only one night before pressing on through the dense forest.
Humboldt's Cosmos Page 10