Fifteen Hundred Miles Through Venezuela With the Scriptures
[The introduction of the Bible into the spiritually dark countries is a very important part of God's work on earth. We feel sure the readers of the REVIEW will follow with deep interest the experiences of Stephen B. Adams, a colporteur of the British and Foreign Bible Society, on a recent tour into the interior of Venezuela, as published in the Bible in the World, from the leaves of his diary.] ON a July morning I set out from Caracas on a long tour down into the valley of the great Orinoco River. I was fortunate in having as my companion Mr. Williams, of Valencia, a much-traveled missionary, whose experience was invaluable. A young Brazilian also accompanied us part of the way. We started on horseback upon the long journey to San Fernando de Apure, which lies right in the heart of the republic. Descending from Caracas, we found our first stopping place at Cagua. With as little loss of time as possible we offered our books from door to door; but the priest warned the people not to buy. His presence hindered our sales, but we sold a few copies. Leaving Cagua, after much trouble with our pack horse we reached Villa de Cura. Here the people were very poor and under the power of the priest; nevertheless our sales were good. One young woman assured me that of all men I was “the most wicked,” because I had sold a New Testament to her mother. Near a village called Para-para, we encountered a melancholy sight—a poor native being carried to his last resting place; the corpse was wound in a sheet, with the head and feet uncovered. There was neither coffin, nor priest, nor funeral ceremony for him; he was just dumped into a hole like a dead animal. We were astonished at the number of empty houses, but these and the telltale faces of the inhabitants reminded us that we were on the border of the great fever-haunted plains, the much-dreaded llanos. Para-para we found half deserted and in ruins, with a sick person in every house. Considering the circumstances, our sales were good in this stricken village. At another place, which merited its name of “Deserted Village,” war and malaria had done their deadly work, and what was once a thriving town with 12,000 citizens had been reduced to less than 4,000 inhabitants. We found the streets overgrown with grass, up to the very church door. We made good sales here, better than we had expected. The river Guanico was reached one evening, and we saw the cattle taking their evening bath. We did not feel overconfident of getting across without a wetting. I was riding the pack horse; and by carefully following the ripple on the water, we avoided the deep parts, and got safely across before dark. In a few moments we left behind the beautiful foliage that grows on either bank, and found ourselves again in the open plain, where more than ever we needed to use our eyes to discover the path among the long grass, where a false step might lead us miles out of our way. The hosts of mosquitoes that attacked us were beyond description; to draw one's hand over his horse's neck meant to get it covered with blood. When the welcome moon made its appearance, and the track grew more visible, we rode forward singing. At 10 P. M. we reached a hut, where we tethered our horses, slung our hammocks, and in a few moments gained respite from the mosquitoes under our mosquito nets. We rose refreshed next morning, and the good man of the hut gave us a cup of coffee and milk, all he had to offer us; on the strength of that we had to ride three miles. At another lonely hut where we stayed all night we preached to some cowboys, and our host bought three New Testaments. Next morning we came to another river. This had to be crossed by canoe, the horses swimming alongside, while a dusky native paddled us over. It was an ideal day for traveling, so we pushed on to catch the ferry for Camaguan, on the Portuguesa River; but we11missed it by a few minutes. There was nothing left but to wait under a broiling sun for three hours, without shelter of any description. We had had nothing to eat since the previous evening, and while our thirst was terrible; at last we gave in, and drank from a muddy water hole. All our strong resolutions to drink nothing but boiled water failed before that unbearable thirst. Finally there arrived the ferryboat, a long, narrow canoe dug out of a tree trunk, and in this we crossed, while the poor tired horses had to swim for over a mile. We spent that night at Camaguan, a quaint little town by the river, composed chiefly of huts built of mud and wood and thatched with palm leaves. The streets were merely deep sand, where pigs, donkeys, chickens, and children could all enjoy a good sand bath. The sound of war was in the air; a strong detachment of government troops had passed the day before and had commandeered all the canoes, so we had difficulty in hiring one. Finally we made arrangements with an old man who had a canoe hidden away; but he could find no one to help him, so his wife and little son had to be the “seamen.” It was very pleasant to glide down this river after a hard month in the saddle. The boatman sat at the stern and steered with a big flat paddle, while his wife and son took turns at paddling with a smaller one. These boat people are perfectly at home on the water, and it was amusing to watch the woman wash a garment over the side, and then dry it on the large brim of her hat, at the same time enjoying one of the usual long native cigars. We were now in the home of the alligator, and anxious to see a real, live specimen in his native element. We had not long to wait, for a large brute lay sunning himself on the bank, with his head under water. As we drew nearer, he quietly slid into the stream. Alligators soon ceased to be a novelty, however, for all down the river they lay basking until dusk, sometimes with their huge mouths gaping wide open. The boatman told us some weird stories about alligators and the people they had killed. He said that their great enemy was the tiger, which caught them asleep on the bank. We passed hour after hour admiring the rich vegetation, the beautiful birds, and the strange, singing monkeys, one species of which makes a noise like the howling of the November wind in Scotland. At 5 P. M. we drew to the bank for a meal of black coffee, with a piece of new maize bread and two sugar canes. In the evening we reached San Fernando, the end of the first stage of our journey—360 miles from Caracas. San Fernando is a big town for Venezuela, and a very good business center; but on this occasion it was all unrest, and every second man seemed to be a soldier. It lies on the bank of the Apure River, and is perfectly flat. I cannot describe the very unsanitary condition of this place. The sewage from the houses runs in cement drains into the open street, where it lies and forms a wallowing pool for the pigs, a home for the croaking frogs, and a breeding place for mosquitoes, while the odor is unbearable. Nor shall we soon forget the first night in our lodgings; the fleas and mosquitoes made our bodies one mass of blisters. The following night, before going to bed we bathed ourselves with creolin, and flooded the floor with a strong sheep wash, which had good results. Staying four days here, we had excellent sales. Among the people who came to buy was an Arab visitor to the town, who said he wanted to make his wife a present of the novel entitled “The Love of the Devil.” We spoke to him, however, of the love of God, and he left us with a copy of the Book which proclaims that love.