excerpt
Apacuana
After leaving the land of the cacique Macarao, we pressed
further to the east. Because Losada had mentioned he might
want me to provide some account of our travels, I always remained
mindful of geography.
The valley of San Francisco was no more than three leagues away,
on the eastward course of the river Guaire, but Losada suspected the
reed beds along its banks offered ample room for ambushes. (I
secretly wished to remain near the riverbed, for reasons I dared not
admit, even to myself, but we turned south, traversing hills and
meadows until we reached the fertile lands ruled by the cacique
called Caricuao.)
Caricuao received us in the same spirit Macarao had, confirming
my belief that they had been tipped off about our coming and had
decided to offer no resistance. According to Losada’s tactic of no
delay, as I had come to call it, we left Caricuao’s hospitality on the
next day, following in Francisco Fajardo’s footsteps to the vast valley
of the river Turmero, which meandered from southwest to northeast.
Cloud-capped peaks rose to the south. To the east and west, hills
encircled the forests of the piedmont, which thinned to bamboo and
reed beds along the river. Fajardo had called this luscious region the
Valley of Cortés, for reasons of his own, but Losada renamed it Valle
de la Pascua because we spent Easter there.
Libros Libertad 