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CHAPTER XVIJ

CARACAS AND ENVIRONMENTS

HREE thousand feet above the sea, less than

seven miles in direct line from the coast, yet separated from it by mountain peaks which tower fully six thousand feet above its streets, stands "picturesque Caracas," the "little Paris" of South America, the political capital and literary centre of the Republic of Venezuela.

The city is situated in the centre of the beautiful little Chação valley, a deep basin in the eastern cordillera of the Andes, less than twelve miles long by four wide. Around this little valley stands a cordon of blue mountains and green foot-hills, fringed with coffee estates and sugar plantations; and coursing through it, north and south, is the rapidly running little river Guira, fed by limpid streams of pure mountain water. The spot is as beautiful as a picture; the climate is equable and temperate; the air is soft and balmy; and a stranger, seeing the place for the first time, is apt to conclude that it must be indeed the "earthly paradise" it is sometimes represented.

Near the western extremity of the valley, and only a few miles from the sources of the Guira beyond, stands the unique little village of Antémino; unique, because it is one of the few places in Spanish-America which you fail to associate with the remnants of a former age. In other words, it is comparatively a new

place, and has a modern, up-to-date look. It is sometimes called the "Little Tyrol" of Venezuela; perhaps not so much by reason of a fancied resemblance to the favorite villa of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette, as it is for having been the favorite country residence of every President of the Republic for more than a quarter of a century past. It is within easy distance of the capital, and is connected with it, and also with the town of Los Teques in the mountains beyond, by a modern steam railway.

This railroad, by the way, is a German enterprise, and has been the source of perennial diplomatic disputes and international unpleasantnesses for the past decade. In a season of enthusiasm, when coffee crops were good, prices high, and the country was visited by one of those periodical debauches of prosperity so common in the western world, the government incautiously agreed to guarantee seven per cent annually on the capital necessary to the construction and equipment of the road, provided only that the cost should not exceed $100,000 per mile, and its net earning should fall short of a seven per cent. The calculation was that the road could be built for much less than $100,000 per mile, and that when completed it would hardly fail to pay at least seven per cent on the amount invested. How little the government knew of the methods of modern railway companies! The stockholders claimed that the road cost more than $100,000 per mile, notwithstanding it is narrow gauge and all the machinery and appliances had been imported free of duty; and that, when completed, it never paid actual running expenses. The outcome has been endless controversy, demands for the stipulated guarantee of seven per cent, interpositions by the German government, threats of customs seizure, one serious diplomatic rupture, and

an uncomfortable burden upon the national treasury of the Republic.

But to return to the Chação valley. It is not quite so attractive on further acquaintance. You discover that the atmosphere is somewhat damp and malarious, and that mountain fevers, catarrh, liver complaints, and inflammatory rheumatism are common ailments. Thick fogs gather at night, during certain seasons, and hover over the entire valley till nine and ten o'clock in the morning; and when these clear away, the sun shines out with uncommon power and sends the mercury up from sixty-five to seventy-five degrees. Between five and six in the afternoon, a steady gale sets in from the mountain passes on the northwest, hurling fogs and mists through the valley as through a funnel, and by seven the thermometer is down again to sixty-five or even lower. During the months of July, August, and September, the valley, and more particularly the city, is sometimes visited by a species of violent fever which occasionally becomes epidemic. It is not the genuine "yellow jack" of the coast cities, or rather such as we see in Havanna or New Orleans; but it is something very near akin to it, and is often even more rapid and fatal in its results. It is known as la fiebre perniciosa, or "pernicious fever," and is a genuine terror to unacclimated foreigners. Strangers liable to be affected by such epidemics should never come here in midsummer. If they come after November or before March, they may remain all the year without reasonable apprehension; but in any case they must live temperately, and avoid night drafts if they would keep well.

There has been considerable discussion by the curious as to the origin of the name "Caracas." It is said to have been the name of a tribe of Indians who inhabited this valley at the time of the Spanish conquest, early in