Notes of a naturalist in South America

For the first time since leaving England the heat at Panama during the midday hours was felt to be oppressive, and we were content with a short stroll, which, to any one familiar with old Spain, offered little novelty. Unlike such mushroom spots as Colon, Panama has all the appearance of an old Spanish provincial town. It has suffered less from earthquakes than most of the places on the west coast, and a large proportion of the buildings, including a rather large cathedral, remain as they were built two or three centuries ago.

As the anchorage for large steamers is about three miles from the town, we had an early summons to go on board a small tender that lay alongside of a half-ruined wharf, but were then detained more than an hour, for no apparent reason other than as a tribute to the habits of the population of this region. The time was not wholly wasted, as even the least observant passengers were struck with admiration at the performances of a swarm of small birds, many hundreds in number, that seemed to have selected the space over the shallow water opposite the town for their evolutions. For more than half an hour they continued to whirl in long loops or nearly circular sweeps, with no other apparent motive than the pleasure of the exercise. Seen from a distance, the appearance was that of a wreath; nearer at hand, the arrangement was seen to be constantly varying. Sometimes the birds were so close together that it seemed as if their wings must jostle; sometimes they were drawn out into long curves, looking silvery white when the sun fell upon their breasts, and of a darker tint at other incidences. Mr. W – asserted that the bird is a kind of snipe, but I have no doubt that it is a tern.

BIRDS IN PANAMA BAY.

At last the little tender glided from the wharf, and for the first time we gained a general view of the town, which has a full share of that element of picturesqueness which is so strangely associated with decay. The old ramparts fast crumbling away, here and there rent by earthquakes, and backed by time-stained buildings, would offer many a study to the painter. Sunset was at hand when we reached the steamer Islay, anchored under the lee of one of the small islands of the bay, and were fortunate in finding among the not too numerous passengers several whose society added to the interest of the voyage.

One of the effects of the habitual use of maps on a small scale is that untravelled persons, even though conversant with the facts of geography, feel it difficult to realize the great dimensions of the more distant parts of the world as compared with our diminutive European continent. Thus it came on me with something of surprise that the Bay of Panama is fully a hundred and twenty sea miles across from headland to headland, and that the run from Panama to Callao, which is scarcely one-third of the length of the South American continent, is rather longer than that from Bergen to the Straits of Gibraltar. The case, of course, is much worse with those accustomed to use maps on Mercator’s projection. It profits nothing to explain, even to the most intelligent youth, the nature and amount of the errors involved in that mode of representing a spherical surface on a plane. I verily believe that all the mischief done by the stupidity, ignorance, and perversity of the writers of bad school-books is trifling compared to the amount of false ideas spread through the world by the productions of that respectable Fleming.

The steamers of the Pacific Mail Company employed for the traffic between San Francisco and Valparaiso are as perfectly suited to the peculiar conditions of the navigation as they would be unfit for long sea-voyages in any other part of the world. In the calm waters of this region, rarely ruffled even by a stiff breeze, the fortunate seamen engaged in this service know no hardships from storm or cold. Their only anxiety is from the fogs that at some seasons beset parts of the coast. In each voyage they pass under a vertical sun, but the air and the water are cooler than in any other part of the equatorial zone; and all that is needed for their physical comfort, and that of their passengers, is free ventilation and shade from the sun. These desiderata are fully secured. The main-deck is open to the air, and the steerage passengers, who are encamped amidships and on the fore-deck, are satisfied at night with the amount of privacy secured by hanging some piece of stuff to represent a curtain round each family group. On the upper deck are ranged the state rooms of the first-class passengers, each with a door and window opening seaward. Above this, again, a spar-deck carried flush from stem to stern affords ample opportunity for exercise, and is itself sheltered from the sun by an awning during the hot hours. In such conditions, where merely to breathe is to enjoy, the only danger is that of subsiding into mere lotus-eating. From this I was fortunately preserved by the rather troublesome task of drying in satisfactory condition the plants which I had hastily gathered in Jamaica and in crossing the isthmus.

PACIFIC COAST STEAMERS.

I had supposed that the distinctly green colour of the water in Panama Bay, so different from the blue tint of the open Atlantic, might be due to some local peculiarity; but on the following day, April 7, while about a hundred miles from land, I observed that the same colour was preserved, and I subsequently extended the observation along the coast to about 5° south, where we encountered the antarctic current. Farther south I should describe the hue of the water as a somewhat turbid dark blue, reminding one of the water of the North Atlantic as seen in approaching the British Islands.

At daybreak on April 8 we found ourselves approaching the port of Buenaventura. Long before it was possible to land I was ready, thrilling with interest and curiosity respecting a region so entirely new – an interest enhanced, perhaps, by the extent of ignorance of which I was inwardly conscious. Knowing this place to be the only port of an extensive tract, including much of the coast region of New Granada, lying only a few degrees from the equator, and rich in all sorts of tropical produce, I had formed a very undue idea of its importance. Although the rise and fall of the tide are very moderate on this coast, the ricketty wooden wharf could not be reached at low water. There was nothing for it but to land on the mud, and scramble up the slippery slope to the top of the bank of half-consolidated marl, from twenty to forty feet above the shore, on which the little town is built. It consists of some two hundred houses and stores, nearly all mere plank sheds, but, as usual throughout South America, the inhabitants rejoice in dreams of future wealth and importance to be secured by a railway communicating with the interior. There was no time to be lost; notice had been given that the ship’s stay was to be very brief, and even before landing it was apparent that the tropical forest was close at hand. In truth, the last houses are within a stone’s throw of the skirts of the forest. Just at this point I was attracted by a leafless bush, evidently one of the spinous species of Solanum, with large, yellow, obversely pear-shaped fruits. As I was about cutting off a specimen, the people, who here seemed very friendly, rushed out of the nearest house and vociferated in warning tones, “Mata! mata!” I was afterwards assured that the fruit is here considered a deadly poison. It appears to be one of the rather numerous varieties of Solanum mammosum, a species widely spread through the hotter parts of America.

FIRST VIEW OF A TROPICAL FOREST.

Being warned not to go out of hearing of the steam-whistle that was to summon us back to the ship, I was obliged to content myself with three short inroads into the forest, through which numerous paths had been cleared. The first effect was perfectly bewildering. The variety of new forms of vegetation surrounding one on every side was simply distracting. Of the larger trees I could, indeed, make out nothing, but the smaller trees and shrubs, crowded together wherever they could reach the daylight, were more than enough to occupy the too short moments.

Of the general character of the climate there could be no doubt. In spite of the blazing sun, with a shade temperature of about 85° Fahr., the ground was everywhere moist. Ferns and Selaginellæ met the eye at every turn, with numerous Cyperaceæ; and in an open spot, among a crowd of less familiar forms, I found a minute Utricularia, scarcely an inch in height. But the predominant feature, and that which interested me most keenly, was the abundance and variety of Melastomaceæ. Within the first ten minutes I had gathered specimens of seven species, all of them but one large shrubs. Of the climbers and parasites that give its most distinctive features to the tropical forest, I could in so hurried a peep make out very little. I owe one beautiful species, hitherto undescribed, to my friend W – , who, having wandered in another direction, spied the scarlet flowers of the epiphyte, which I have named Anthopterus Wardii, on the trunk of a tree, which was promptly climbed by the active negro who had accompanied him.1

Too soon came the summons of the steam-whistle. As we called on our way at the office of the Pacific Company’s agent, we were shown a number of the finer sort of so-called Panama hats, which are chiefly made on this part of the coast. Even on the spot they are expensive articles, a hundred dollars not being considered an unreasonable price for one of the better sort.

Some writers of high authority on geographical botany have held that the most marked division of the flora of tropical South America is that between the regions lying east and west of the Andes. It would be the extreme of rashness for one who has seen so little as I have done of the vegetation of a few scattered points in so vast a region to attempt to draw conclusions from his own observations; but, on the other hand, writers in Europe, even though so learned and so careful as Grisebach and Engler, are under the great disadvantage that the materials available, whether in botanical works or in herbaria, are generally incomplete as regards localities. How is it possible to form any clear picture of the flora of a special district when so large a proportion of the plants recorded are merely said to come from “Columbia” or “Ecuador,” the one larger than Spain, France, and the Low Countries put together, the other equal in extent to the Austrian Empire, and both traversed by mountain ranges varying from fifteen thousand to over eighteen thousand feet in height? I shall have later to make some remarks on the climatal conditions of the coast region extending from Panama to the Bay of Guayaquil, but I may here mention that when I afterwards acquired some slight acquaintance with the flora of Brazil, I was struck with the fact that, although separated by an interval of nearly three thousand miles, and by the great barrier of the Andes, the plants seen in and around the forest at Buenaventura were almost all nearly allied to Brazilian forms.

FLORA OF TROPICAL SOUTH AMERICA.

Further reflection, and such incomplete knowledge as I have been able to acquire as to the flora of inter-tropical South America, lead me to the conclusion that the present vegetable population of this vast region is, when we exclude from view a certain number of immigrants from other regions, mainly derived from two sources. There is, in the first place, the ancient flora of Guiana and tropical Brazil, which has gradually extended itself through Venezuela and Columbia, and along the Pacific coast as far as Ecuador, and, in an opposite direction, through Southern Brazil, to the upper basins of the Uruguay, the Paranà, and the Paraguay. The long period of time occupied by the gradual diffusion of this flora is shown by the large number of peculiar species, and not a few endemic genera that have been developed throughout different parts of this vast region, whose nearest allies, however, are to be found in the original home, Guiana or Brazil. Along with this stock, which mainly occupies the lower country, we find, especially in Venezuela, Columbia, and Ecuador, the modified descendants of vegetable types characteristic of the Andes. Of the Andean flora I shall have something to say in a future page; but I may express the belief that if we go back to the remote period when most of the characteristic types of the vegetation of South America came into existence, we must seek the ancestors of the Brazilian flora, and to a large extent also those of the Andean flora, in the ancient high mountain ranges of Brazil, where we now see, in the vast extent of arenaceous rocks, and in the surviving pinnacles of granite, the ruins of one of the greatest mountain regions of the earth.

Early on Easter Sunday morning, April 9, we were off Tumaco, a small place on one of a group of flat islands lying at the northern extremity of the coast of Ecuador.2 These islands are of good repute as having the healthiest climate on this coast. Although close to the equator, cattle are said to thrive, and, if one could forget the presence of a fringe of cocos palms along the shore, the island opposite to us, in great part cleared of forest, with spreading lawns of green pasture, might have been taken for a gentleman’s park on some flat part of the English coast. We here parted with General Prado, ex-president of Peru, who has purchased one of the islands, and hopes to end his days peacefully as a cattle-breeder. Nothing in his manner or conversation announced either energy or intelligence, but it is impossible not to recognize some kind of ability in a man who, having held such a post at such a time, not only succeeded in escaping the ordinary fate of a Peruvian president – his two immediate predecessors having been assassinated – but also in snatching from the ruin of his country the means of securing an ample provision for himself at a safe distance from home.

In the almost cloudless weather that has prevailed for some days, the apparent path of the sun could not fail to attract attention. Being still so near the vernal equinox, this could not be distinguished from a straight line. Rising out of the horizon at six o’clock, the sun passed exactly through the zenith, and went down perpendicularly in the west into the boundless ocean. Who can wonder that this daily disappearance of the sun has had so large a share in the poetry and the religion of our race? In every land, under every climate, it is the one spectacle which is ever new and ever fascinating. Use cannot stale it; and knowledge, which is said to be driving the imagination out of the field of our modern life, has done nothing to weaken the spell.

We awoke next day to find ourselves in the southern hemisphere, having crossed the line about three a.m. As the morning wore on we passed abreast of the Cabo San Lorenzo, and towards evening, keeping nearer to the coast, were within a few miles of Cabo Santa Elena. This forms the north-western headland of the Gulf of Guayaquil, a wide bay that extends fully a hundred miles eastward from the coastline.

At daybreak, April 11, we were inside the large island of Puna, and soon after entered the mouth of the river Guayas. Although it drains but a small district, this has a deep channel, as wide as the Thames at Gravesend, making the town of Guayaquil, which is about thirty miles from its mouth, the natural port for Western Equatorial America. As we steamed northward up the stream, every eye was turned eastward with the hope of descrying some part of the chain of the Andes. It was, indeed, obvious that a great mountain barrier lay in that direction, and beneath the eastern sun dark masses from time to time stood out to view; but along the crest of the range heavy banks of cloud constantly rested, and the summits remained concealed. We knew that the peak of Chimborazo is scarcely more than seventy miles distant from Guayaquil, and is easily seen from the town in clear weather; but we did not know that clear weather is a phenomenon that recurs only on about half a dozen days in the course of the year, and it is needless to say that we did not draw one of these prizes in the lottery. I had been conscious of a distinct change of climate during the preceding night, and this was still more marked after we entered the river. The increase of temperature was but trifling. The thermometer at sea during the two preceding days had ranged from 77° to 79°, and here at nine a.m. it marked only 80°; nor did it ever rise above 84° while we lay opposite Guayaquil. But the sense of oppressive closeness was more or less felt by every one, and, whatever may be the cause, it seems safe to conclude that the notoriety of this city as one of the most unhealthy in South America is intimately connected with it.

PHYSIOLOGICAL EFFECTS OF HOT CLIMATES.

There is, no doubt, much yet to be learned as to the effects of climate on the human constitution, but a few points seem to be sufficiently ascertained. To those whose constitution has been hereditarily adapted to a temperate or cold climate, the enfeebling effect of hot countries depends much more on the constant continuance of a high temperature than on its amount. A place with a mean temperature of 80° Fahr., which varies little above or below that point, is far more injurious to a European than one where intervals of great heat alternate with periods of cooler weather. Still more important, perhaps, is the effect of a hot climate in places where the air is habitually nearly saturated with aqueous vapour. When the temperature of the skin is not much greater than that of the surrounding air, if this be near the point of saturation but little evaporation can take place from the surface. The action of the absorbent vessels is thus checked, and the activity of all the functions is consequently lowered. As it usually happens that the two agencies here discussed act together in tropical countries, the places having a uniform temperature being also for the most part those having an atmosphere heavily charged with vapour, it is easy to understand that Europeans whose vitality is already depressed are especially exposed to suffer from whatever causes induce endemic or epidemic disease. The difficulty in connection with this subject is to explain certain exceptions to the general rule. In several places in the tropics, usually insular stations, where a steady high temperature is combined with the presence of much vapour, the climate is said to have no injurious effects. But the most marked exception seems to be that of seamen. Excluding that large majority whose calling involves frequent changes of climate, there must be now a considerable body of experience respecting those who for a series of years have navigated tropical seas exposed to nearly uniform temperature. I am not aware that there are any facts to sustain the supposition, which might à priori seem plausible, that such a life tends to enfeeble the European constitution.

Between a broad fringe of mangrove swamp, backed by a narrow border of forest on either bank, with little to break the monotony of the way, we reached Guayaquil before ten a.m. Seen from the river, with many large buildings and stores covering more than a mile of frontage on the western bank, and a straggling suburb stretching to the base of a low hill to the northward, the city presents an unexpectedly imposing appearance. The present amount of trade is inconsiderable, but if ever these regions can attain to the elementary conditions of good government the development of their natural resources must entail a vast increase of business. The territory of Ecuador includes every variety of climate, and is in great part thoroughly suited to Europeans. All tropical products are obtainable, and, with good management and kindly treatment, the supply of efficient negro labour at moderate wages is considerable. Among other products of the soil, the tobacco of the country about Guayaquil deserves to be better known. Of the many varieties of the coarser kind which are grown throughout Central and South America, this appears to me the best, as it certainly is the cheapest. The hawkers who came on board sold at less than seven shillings a hundred cigars of very fair quality, making, as I was told, a profit of fifty per cent.

ALLIGATORS OF THE RIVER GUAYAS.

It might be not unworthy of the notice of the great steamboat companies to recommend to their agents some little consideration for passengers who travel to see the world. It commonly happens that on the arrival of a steamer, after the first conference between the agent and the captain, a time is fixed for departure which has no relation to the hour really intended. We were told this morning that the steamer was to start at one p.m. The time was clearly too short for an excursion to the neighbouring country, and the inducement to spend a couple of hours in the streets of such an unhealthy town was very trifling. Two young Englishmen went up the river in a boat with the hope of shooting alligators. These creatures abound along the banks of the Guayas, basking in the mud, and looking from a distance like the logs that are floated down by the stream. Our sportsmen had the usual measure of success, and no more. For a bullet to pierce the dense covering that shields this animal is a happy accident, but it suffices to disturb the creature from his rest, and to induce him to crawl or roll into the river, and to accomplish this is at least a new experience. Through the courtesy of a native gentleman, the travellers were induced to land at a hacienda on the river, where horses were provided, and they galloped back to the town before one o’clock. Meanwhile the Jamaica story was repeated. It was announced that the agent had decided to keep the steamer till three p.m.; and finally we learned that we should remain at our moorings till early next morning.

On her last voyage the Islay had started too late; night fell before she cleared the mouth of the river, and, in the dark, she had run down a chatta– one of the cumbrous native barges that ply along the stream. Of fifteen natives in the barge thirteen were saved, three of them by the courage and activity of the chief officer, who jumped into the river to their rescue. Our captain very properly objected to the risk of another similar accident, and decided to wait for daylight. The cause of the delay remained a mystery, for all that was shipped of passengers and cargo was of a kind that did not seem likely to be very remunerative. At first sight it appeared merely as a characteristic of a rude state of society that the country people around Guayaquil are used to embark on the southward-bound steamers with tropical fruit raised by themselves, which they carry to Lima, and even as far as Valparaiso, dispose of at a handsome profit, and then return home. As most of the profit must go into the coffers of the Pacific Steam Company, the motive is not very obvious; but after a little further experience I fully understood it. Even if they clear little more than the price of their passage, these people find their advantage in undertaking an annual expedition of this kind. Apart from the very positive benefit to health, they gain what they like most in the world – a season of absolute idleness, with the amusement of seeing new objects and talking to new people. For the remainder of the voyage the main-deck was crowded and somewhat encumbered by picturesque groups of rough men, some accompanied by womankind, alternating with huge heaps of tropical fruit – pineapples and bananas, a single bunch of the latter sometimes weighing more than a hundred pounds.

GULF OF GUAYAQUIL.

The thermometer scarcely varied by a small fraction from 80° throughout the night and the following day, until we had cleared the Gulf of Guayaquil; and even at this moderate temperature the feeling of lassitude continued as on the previous day. Of the famous mosquitos of the river Guayas we had little experience. They are said sometimes to attack in swarms so numerous and ferocious that, even by day, it becomes difficult for officers and men to manage a ship on the river.

The sun had set on the following evening, April 12, before we were well abreast of Cabo Blanco, the southern headland of the Gulf of Guayaquil, and we saw nothing of its southern shore. About one-half of this belongs to Peru, and close to the frontier-line is the little port of Tumbez, sometimes visited by passing steamers. I was assured by two of the ship’s officers that the climate and vegetation of this place are much the same as at Guayaquil, but there are few parts of the American coast that better deserve careful examination by a scientific naturalist.