Piranha
The most vicious creatures on Earth.
BBC. VE. -- The Llanos plains of Venezuela cover an area of nearly a quarter of a million square miles, stretching from Bolivia in the south to the Orinoco Delta in the north. Vast, flat, empty save for 12 million cattle and abundant wildlife, in the rainy season the Llanos flood and turn into a gigantic marshland. And among the many freshwater fish perfectly adapted to this singular environment is the piranha.
It was, however, a fascinating journey. In the fields all around stood scores of capybaras. These brown furry animals, found only in South and Central America, are the biggest rodents in the world - and yet they could be mistaken for some giant and extraordinarily cuddly version of a guinea pig. They stood at the side of the road - or quite often in it - watching the car, their soft snouts raised to sniff the air, big eyes blinking. They formed a pleasant welcoming committee after the long journey.
Hato El Cedral is a working ranch of 55,000 hectares. A dozen or so comfortable bungalows were grouped under trees around a central swimming pool and ranch-house. The only other residents were a few vaqueros (cowboys) - most of the cattle were grazing elsewhere - and the kitchen staff. The Llanos is the least-visited area of Venezuela, and Llaneros, people elsewhere in Venezuela will tell you, are somewhat dour types.
There was nothing dour about life at Hato El Cedral. At dinner the radio blasted out local joropo music with harps and guitars. Solid country food - as often as not industrial-size slabs of beef - appeared on the table. A black-clad cook fussed and chivvied her serving girls; the vaqueros entered, gave polite buenas noches, removed their hats and sat at another table. The slightly cracked but nice Juanito, someone's middle-aged relative, wrestled with his corkscrew and usually managed to open the requested bottle of wine a few moments before the end of the meal. At 9.30 the tables were cleared and the ranch turned in for the night.
In the days, we explored by boat, skimming across the flooded plains in an aluminium skiff. The birdlife on the river was astounding, with more than 300 species. In one early evening sojourn I spotted red-breasted fly-eaters among the reeds, an eagle hovering overhead, and herons and egrets in the trees.
We also went fishing for piranha. This is not as difficult as it seems: piranhas will take almost anything off a hook. We baited up with scraps of meat, dangled lines over the side, and suddenly the water was swirling with movement. The piranha's fierce reputation is not exaggerated. They are quite possibly the most vicious creature on the planet. Those we pulled out locked their jaws on anything they could, including, if you were not careful, your fingers. The small ones we threw back were instantly devoured by their former mates.
Piranha meat, incidentally, is full of bones, which makes soup the best way to eat it.
In this idyllic way, three days passed. On the last night we brought the boat back at sunset accompanied by bird calls and screeches, a wispy orange sunset, and lightning forking behind the clouds off to the east. That night we turned in earlier than usual for the next day's journey - from the bottom to the top of the world.
The first stage was by taxi to the town of Barinas, a few hours away. The taxi was an ancient Ford with plush imitation velvet seats like armchairs, and a wraparound sound system so deafening that Mrs Mansfield, in the back seat, had to don a set of earplugs to avoid aural injury. The driver adjusted his sunglasses, grunted, and set off down the empty roads like a bullet. By now the sun had broken through and you could feel the heat building up. Soon the inside of the taxi was like an oven.
Barinas is a cattle town, a flat grid of scorching streets; prosperous, modern and functional. At the airport, middle-aged ladies with heavy make-up and chunky gold jewellery were catching flights back to Caracas while their husbands remained at work on the ranch.
We collected our hire car and headed out of town, to where the jagged purple outline of the Andes rose like a stage set. From here, the only way to go was up.
The road climbed steadily up through a damp rainforest. Wild orchids stood at the roadside, as did a disturbing number of wooden crosses, marking the scenes of fatal accidents. By now we had dispensed with the car's air-conditioning and wound down the windows. Mist filled the valleys, which slowly became more bare, until they resembled part of Wales or Scotland, even down to the dry-stone walls.
Now we were running across the edge of a deep ravine, emerald green in colour, with a waterfall to one side and a river snaking through the valley below. We reached a plateau, where potatoes and wheat were being farmed in strips. A horseman came clattering down the street; overladen pick-ups crawled slowly up the hill spouting exhaust fumes. Time to wind up the windows and switch on the heater.
Finally the road levelled at about 10,000ft. The view all around was dazzling. This was the páramo, or high steppes of the Andes, a place of denuded brown rock, scree and snow-streaked mountain peaks, with clear, sharp air and dazzling sunlight. Wild flowers and mountain heather added colour to the bare landscape. To have come from sweltering savannah to this high place in the space of just a few hours seemed hardly possible.
The mood of unreality was exacerbated at the Hotel Los Frailes. This simple white building, with its wooden verandahs and high bell tower, was once a monastery - a plaque on the wall is inscribed with the date 1643. Now it is one of the most remote and atmospheric hotels in the world.
First, though, you have to check in. We advanced up the staircase to reception out of breath and sweating. At this altitude, moving slowly and breathing deeply are vital. Inside was a tiled courtyard with greenery, stone fountains and guest rooms with terracotta roofs.
Ours had stone floors, a double-bed with brass bedstead, and dark wood fittings rich with the smell of polish. The ancient central heating came on and the pipes chugged and creaked all night.
There were about a dozen guests in this lovely little hotel; the majority of them weekending caraqueños. I spotted one shy honeymoon couple holding hands, and indeed, there can be few more romantic places to stay anywhere in the world. As night came down the temperature dropped towards freezing, and we repaired to the leather sofas and log fire of the bar. Los Frailes had a peculiarly agreeable hybrid feel: a cross between Alpine ski resort, country house hotel, Latin American posada and hunting lodge. The barman brought cannelitas - an apéritif of fortified wine laced with cinnamon - and added logs to the fire.
In the dining-room, formally dressed waiters hovered at the tables. It was immediately apparent that dinner at Los Frailes was going to be a long, drawn-out affair - and that most of the time would be spent ordering. We studied the lengthy menu, made our choice, which the waiter duly took down, laboriously checking each detail. He then returned minutes later to report that several items were unavailable.
The whole process was then repeated. Then repeated again. . .
But what with the smell of woodsmoke and the warm log fire; the glimpses of the mountains outside, and the inner glow provided by a second cannelita, it was impossible to grow impatient. In the end we ate well, on soup, chicken and fresh fish. This time the fish was fresh out of the stream running through the courtyard: and not an ugly little piranha, but a delicious, bone-free, user-friendly fillet of trout.
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