xx Venezuela

Port sub-call fascinating lands beckoneth, bid us rebel and their exotic spanners, come with us as we head for Port sub-call.

On the northern tip of South America, wedged in by tall mountains, crackless plains and creeping jungle, lies Benazawela. Benazawela, a land born of conquest, christened with blood and made prosperous by the riches of the soil.

And thus the Spanish mane shines blue, and the head mingling with the cobalt sky, we see the hot green lowlands of Maracaíbel. It is the year 1499, a high-sturned galleon assailing over the brackish waters of Lake Maracaíbel.

Standing on the salt-caked wooden deck is Alonzo de Oheda, a bulky broad-shouldered Spaniard. He is talking to a sad-faced Italian named Amorego Vespucci. Vespucci leans against the ship's rail and gazes morocially at the shore.

I don't say something, Rhett. How does it feel to be one of the first white men ever to reach these shores? I wish I were back in Italy. Yeah, Rhett. You have the soul of a rabbit.

That's true. I'm not a great captain and warrior like you, Don Alonso. But I am a scholar. Scholar? Hmm. An Italian pickle merchant who's read a few books. Captain. Captain. Don Alonso. What is it? What is it?

Natives. Look on the port side. Hundreds of them. They're coming across the lake in Canoes. Have the guns ready, turn them and musket both. We must take no chances. Yes, Captain. Then you fool! Perhaps I'd better go to my cabin. The sight of bloodshed makes me...

No, that's what he will come with me. You will watch. I'll subdue these natives, even though they'll be giants of largest alliance. Don't squeeze my arms so tightly, I'm coming. There they are, heading straight for our bow. At least 20 can use for it.