The Mighty Orinoco. Jules Verne

       The Orinoco River.

      It is only fair to mention that these two geographers were not the only ones to profess such an opinion. Despite the assertions of intrepid explorers who had gone up the Orinoco practically to its source, Diaz de la Fuente in 1760, Bobadilla in 1764, and Robert Schomburgk in 1840, and despite the exploration by the Frenchman M. Chaffanjon, the daring traveler who had raised the French flag on the slopes of the Parima as it oozed out the first drops of water of the Orinoco—yes! despite so many reports which appeared to be conclusive, the question was still not resolved for certain tenacious minds, disciples of Saint Thomas, who were as demanding about proof as was this ancient patron of incredulity.⁶

      However, to claim that this question impassioned the public of that day, in the year of 1893, would be exposing oneself to the charge of exaggeration. If, two years before, people had taken an interest in the drawing of borders when Spain, charged with the arbitration, set the definitive limits between Colombia and Venezuela, so be it. Likewise if it had involved an exploration to determine the border with Brazil. But out of 2,250,000 inhabitants, which include 325,000 Indians, “tamed” or independent in the middle of their forests and their prairies, and 50,000 blacks, then of mixed blood, half-breeds, whites, and foreigners of English, Italian, Dutch, French or German origin there was no doubt that only a very small minority could become worked up over this hydrographic thesis. In any case, there were at least two Venezuelans who were—Varinas, who claimed for the Guaviare the right to be called the Orinoco, and Felipe, who claimed the same right for the Atabapo—without counting a few partisans who, if need be, would lend them support.

      One should nevertheless not believe that M. Miguel and his two friends were just any old scholars, encrusted in science, bald-headed and with white beards. No! They were scholars who all three enjoyed a deserved reputation which went beyond the limits of their country. The oldest, M. Miguel, was forty-five, and the other two were a few years younger. Very intense and demonstrative, they were true to their Basque origins, much like the illustrious Bolívar or even the majority of whites in those republics of South America who sometimes had a bit of Corsican or Indian blood in their veins but not a single drop of Negro blood.⁷

      These three geographers would get together every day at the library of the University of Ciudad Bolívar. There both Varinas and Felipe, as determined as they were not to start it all over, let themselves be carried away in an interminable discussion about the Orinoco. Even after the very convincing exploration of the French traveler, the defenders of the Atabapo and the Guaviare stuck to their beliefs.

      This was clear in the few replies reported at the beginning of this story. And the dispute went on, continuing with greater intensity, despite M. Miguel, who was powerless to dampen the enthusiasm of his two colleagues.

      He was, however, an impressive person with his tall stature, his noble, aristocratic demeanor, his brown beard with a few silver strands in it, his position of authority, and his top hat, which he wore like the founder of the Spanish-American independence did.

      And that day M. Miguel repeated in a strong, calm, penetrating voice, “Don’t lose your tempers, my friends! Whether it flows from the east or the west the Orinoco is nonetheless a Venezuelan river, the father of the waters of our republic!”

      “It’s not a question of knowing whose father it is,” replied the boiling Varinas, “but whose son it is, if it was born on the Sierra Parima or in the Colombian Andes.”

      “In the Andes … in the Andes!” countered M. Felipe, shrugging his shoulders.

      Obviously, neither man would capitulate on the subject of the birth certificate, each attributing a different father.

      “Come, come, dear colleagues,” went on M. Miguel, desirous of bringing them to an agreement. “It is enough to cast your eyes on this map to recognize the following: wherever it comes from, and especially if it comes from the east, the Orinoco forms a graceful curve, a semicircle better shaped than that awkward zigzag that either the Atabapo or the Guaviare would give it—”

      “So what difference does it make whether the shape is harmonious or not?” exclaimed M. Felipe.

      “As long as it’s exact and conforms to the nature of the territory!” added M. Varinas.

      And, indeed, it was of little importance whether the curves were or were not artistically drawn. It was a purely geographical question, not a question of art. M. Miguel’s argument missed the point, but that was the way he felt. So the thought came to him to throw into the discussion a new element that would change its focus. It would, no doubt, not be the way to bring the two adversaries together. But, perhaps, like hunting dogs turned aside from their prey, they would charge off fiercely in pursuit of another wild boar.

      “Fine,” said M. Miguel, “let’s forget about that way of looking at it. You claim, Felipe, and with such obstinacy! that the Atabapo, far from being a tributary of our great river, is the river itself.”

      “That’s what I claim!”

      “And you hold the view, Varinas, and with equal obstinacy! that, on the contrary, the Guaviare must be the Orinoco in person.”

      “That’s my view.”

      “Well,” replied M. Miguel, whose finger followed on the map the watercourse under discussion, “why wouldn’t you both be making a mistake?”

      “Both of us?” exclaimed M. Felipe.

      “One of us is indeed wrong,” affirmed M. Varinas, “and it’s not me!”

      “Then listen to what I have to say,” said M. Miguel. “And don’t give me your answer until you’ve heard me out. There exist other affluents than the Guaviare and the Atabapo that flow into the Orinoco, tributaries with important characteristics in the routes they follow and the amount of water they contribute. Such are the Caura in the northern section, the Apure and the Meta in the western section, the Cassiquiare and the Iquapo in the southern area. Do you see them there, on this map? Well, I ask you, why should not one of these feeder streams be the Orinoco rather than your Guaviare, my dear Varinas, and your Atabapo, my dear Felipe?”

      It was the first time that this proposition had ever been suggested, and it is not surprising that the two opponents remained quite speechless at first upon hearing him spell it all out. What? The question was not limited simply to the Atabapo and the Guaviare? What did he mean, other candidates might emerge?

      “Come now!” exclaimed M. Varinas. “That’s not reasonable. You’re not talking seriously, M. Miguel!”

      “Very seriously, on the contrary! And I find the opinion quite natural, logical, and thus entirely admissible that other tributaries can contest the honor of being the true Orinoco.”

      “Surely you’re joking!” retorted M. Felipe.

      “I never joke when it’s a question of geography,” M. Miguel responded gravely. “On the right bank of the upper reach of the Padamo—”

      “Your Padamo is but a stream compared to my Guaviare!” countered M. Varinas.

      “A stream that geographers consider as important as the Orinoco itself,” answered M. Miguel. “On the left bank you’ll find the Cassiquiare—”

      “Your Cassiquiare is but a brook compared to my Atabapo!” shouted M. Felipe.

      “A brook that communicates between the Venezuelan and Amazonian basins! On the same shore there’s the Meta—”

      “But your Meta is only the faucet of a fountain!”

      “A faucet that turns out a flow of water that economists look upon as being the future route between Europe and the Colombian territories.”

      It was evident that M. Miguel was well documented and had an answer for all occasions, as he continued.

      “On the same bank,” he said, “there’s the Apure, the prairie river that ships can go up for more than five