Canoeing in Tropical America. 
The Start from Magangue in a Mahogany Dugout 
By FRANCIS C. NICHOLAS 
A FORMER companion in explorations, Don 
Francisco Gomez, was perhaps one of the 
most successful canoe owners in Tropical 
America. He died several years ago, but his 
memory is still held in esteem along the routes 
of canoe travel in Colombia. During his life he 
was reticent when it came to telling of his ad¬ 
ventures, but at night time when the camp was 
made we would sometimes hear of strange scenes 
and wild lawlessness. The secrets of the camp 
are as confidences not to be told very freely, for 
men are at such times in that close relation of 
dependence, one on the other, that presently all 
reserve is broken, and the tongue is unrestrained, 
but the confidence has rarely been misplaced. 
Gomez has passed away and he will not care 
now, perhaps even he would like to have made 
known some of the stirring scenes in which he 
had taken part. For m 3 ' own part I love to turn 
back in memory to those days in the tropics and 
think of them, feeling the influences of the lull¬ 
ing idleness of the gliding onward and onward 
in quiet waters, and fancy that one might catch 
for an instant the odors from the deep forests 
along the water courses. 
One August day some ten years ago I stood on 
the deck of one of the numerous river steamers 
with Gomez, or Don Pacho, as he was usually 
called, at my side; that is, he was at my side 
part of the time. Don Pacho was good com¬ 
pany—fat, enthusiastic, a property owner of con¬ 
sideration who had something to say to every¬ 
one and to whom every one in return accorded 
an eager welcome. 
We were approaching Magangue, a city of im¬ 
portance just below the junction of the Cauca 
and Magdalena rivers in Colombia. The broad 
muddy current went rolling past as the steamer 
splashed along, its great stern paddle wheel beat¬ 
ing violently on the water, the whole influence 
of the motion being as a protest from a wheezy 
old body anxious to be at ease. We were near¬ 
ing the landing, or palaya, in front of the city. 
Here a number of boats were tied up for the 
night and great numbers of river canoes lay at 
their moorings. The old steamer grated against 
the bank, excited men jumped over the side with 
ropes, which willing hands on the shore were 
eager to take, and presently we were securely 
tied. Then a rough plank was run out to the 
shelving mud bank and we hurried ashore. In¬ 
stantly a crowd of friends and relatives sur¬ 
rounded Don Pacho. We were helped up the 
bank, for a little shower had refreshed the coun¬ 
try and the mud was slippery. Presently we 
were in an old Spanish house, thick-walled and 
cool, and there had supper, evening having come 
just as the steamer was landing, and shortly 
after we reached the house it had grown dark. 
Supper is not a meal of great importance in 
tropical America, though many people like to eat 
a little shortly after sunset. 
For my part I was glad to have something to 
eat, because the fare provided by the steamer 
was not very much to my taste. The natives 
thought it magnificent, but their principal pleas¬ 
ure was to partake of quantities of melted lard 
served with their food. It was colored a bright 
yellow with annotto berries, and everything was 
saturated with it. Even the fried eggs, when we 
had them, were brought to the table floating 
about almost in this melted lard sauce. It was 
not nice and I never have been able to under¬ 
stand how it can be that in the tropics, where 
the heat is excessive and light food would seem 
the most desirable, people persist in using such 
quantities of melted lard, but they do and seem 
to like it. I do not, and that evening, by dint 
of earnest persuasion, got some toasted beef and 
dry bread with a good supply of black coffee. 
Somehow or other it did not seem quite right. 
Supper finished, such as it was, the men who 
were to take us on our canoe trip came for 
orders, and each one was introduced to me with 
becoming ceremony. Spanish America is a coun¬ 
try of equality. The black man, however rough 
he may be, is a person of consideration and not 
without reason, for if magnificent physique and 
manly independence can command respect, the 
negroes of the Colombian lowlands are in many 
instances well entitled to it. On the other hand 
many of them are a mangy', scurvy lot, diseased 
and repulsive. Such men seem to know and re¬ 
sent their inferiority. A more dangerous lot 
could scarcely be found, and one is never safe 
with them. 
Fortunate]}' our men were of the best type. 
The captain, Don Agusto Ancon, was a grave 
man, black as tar, literally black, the effect per¬ 
haps of the intense tropical heat. The boys, 
however, were ordinary colored men. There 
were four of them, muscular fellows and all 
pretty well matched for size and strength. Their 
names were Carlos, Ramon, Vincente and Pedro, 
each with an appropriate Don before his name. 
I had not learned to tell them apart yet, and I 
am not sure even now that I could tell which 
was which. I called them all Don Vincente and 
that seemed to answer for a starter. Directions 
were given about the baggage and the equipment, 
advances were paid and the men all went away. 
Don Pacho assured me they would not be drunk 
in the morning, but I had my doubts; experience 
makes one a little suspicious. 
Morning came with a damp chill, fog hang¬ 
ing over the river and along the banks, a sticky 
heat developing out of the chill which made one 
feel very uncomfortable after a time, and there 
were mosquitoes enough to keep the mind occu¬ 
pied with earthly things. Taking it all in all, it 
was not exactly a heavenly prospect, but then it 
was new and strange, and that made the situa¬ 
tion interesting. Coffee was served with bread 
and white cheese, and in a few moments we had 
eaten enough for the first part of the day. Break¬ 
fast would be cooked later when we stopped for 
the siesta. I 11 the tropics one is not expected to 
eat in the early morning. Our things had been 
taken to the canoe and now Don Agusto came 
to say that all was ready. Down to the river we 
went, and there found a large boat waiting. It 
was nearly too big to be called a canoe. Seven 
men composed our party. Each had some bag¬ 
gage and, I had more than my share, yet there 
was room enough. The canoe or boat had been 
made from a single log of mahogany and would 
carry three to four tons. It was a typical ex¬ 
ample of the river boats in the tropics which at 
one time were among the principal means of 
transportation, though of late years small steam¬ 
ers and launches have been crowding them out 
of commission. 
Our canoe had been prepared for comfortable 
traveling. In the after part a shelter had been 
constructed by bending flexible poles between the 
sides of the canoe to make a frame something 
like that of a covered wagon. This had been 
carefully thatched, and under it Don Pacho and I 
would travel safe from the sun and rain, but in 
rather close quarters, yet with room enough to 
be a little bit comfortable. The men had thrown 
off their clothes, using their shirts as aprons. 
This was the ordinary costume for men when 
they were working the canoes, and all about us 
men thus scantily clad were making ready to get 
their boats under way. 
“Ho, Don Vincente,” I called, “help me get 
aboard.” I remembered that name, and instantly 
one of the young men came, extending his hand. 
I noticed that he was heavy-limbed and wide be¬ 
tween the eyes, a good sign, and I felt confidence 
and comradeship. Over the side I scrambled and 
tumbled in beside Don Pacho. Then the men 
set up a monotonous chant, took their long poles, 
there was vigorous pushing, a tremor passed 
through the canoe and we were out on the cur¬ 
rent where the waters of the river came splash¬ 
ing and rippling against the bow. A cool, fresh 
