Image unavailable: Sketch Map of Southern Peru to illustrate the route of HIRAM BINGHAM from CUZCO to HUANCAYO[Larger version] [Largest version]
Soonafter our arrival at La Quiaca, at 9P.M.on November 15, 1908, we received a call from two rough-looking Anglo-Saxons who told us hair-raising stories of the dangers of the Bolivian roads where highway robbers driven out of the United States by the force of law and order and hounded to death all over the world by Pinkerton detectives, had found a pleasant resting-place in which to pursue their chosen occupation without let or hindrance. We found out afterwards that one of our informants was one of this same gang of robbers. Either he decided that we were disposed to regard his “pals” in a sufficiently lenient manner to make our presence in Bolivia immaterial to them, or else he came to the conclusion that we had nothing worth stealing, for we were allowed to proceed peaceably and without any annoyance wherever we journeyed in Bolivia. He put the case quite emphatically to us that it was necessary for them to make a living, that they were not allowed to do so peaceably in the States, that they desired only to be let alone and had no intention of troubling travellers except those that sought to get information against them. They relied entirely for their support on being able to overcome armed escorts accompanying loads of cash going to the minesto liquidate the monthly payroll. This they claimed was legitimate plunder taken in fair fight. The only individuals who had to suffer at their hands were those who took up the case against them. Having laid this down for our edification, he proceeded to tell us what a reckless lot they were and how famous had been their crimes, at the same time assuring us that they were all very decent fellows and quite pleasant companions. Don Santiago, who in his capacity as coach-master and stage-driver, has had to carry hundreds of thousands of dollars in cash over the unprotected Bolivian highways, assured us that he had never been molested by any of these highwaymen because he never troubled them in any way either by carrying arms or spreading information of their doings. If the Bolivian bandits are half as bad as they were painted to us that night, Don Santiago must lead a charmed life for he and his stages certainly offer an easy mark for any enterprising outlaw.
The view from our hotel the next morning across the sandy plaza of La Quiaca was anything but inspiring. The plateau is so high and dry that nothing grows here. Even the mountains, whose tops are really higher than our own far-famed Pike’s Peak, look stunted like low sand-hills. Partly finished adobe houses, which were gradually meeting the demands of the newly-born commercial life of La Quiaca add to the forlorn and desolate appearance of everything. There was nothing to make us wish to stay any longer in Argentina, and we eagerly welcomed Don Santiago and his eight-mule team that
Image unavailable: OUR COACH LEAVING THE HOTEL AT LA QUIACAOUR COACH LEAVING THE HOTEL AT LA QUIACA
rattled up to the door a few minutes after six o’clock.
A quarter of a mile north of the town we crossed the frontier and entered Bolivia. For the next four hours there was little in the landscape to relieve the monotony of the journey. As those who are familiar with stage travel know to their cost, bumping over rough roads of stone or sand, in a cloud of dust with nothing to see on either side except a brown, treeless, rolling plateau, is not exciting. Nevertheless the process of keeping eight mules on the go, up hill and down hill, is never absolutely devoid of interest. As it was quite impossible for the driver to reach the foremost mules with his long whip, he employed a strong-lunged boy to race alongside of the mules, pelt them with stones, curse them in his worst Spanish, and frighten them into frantic activity with the lash of a short-handled whip which he laid on with no delicate hand. The mules became so afraid of his mad rushes that when they heard him coming they bolted in the opposite direction, sometimes pulling the stage-coach a rod or two off the road.
In a rarefied atmosphere that would almost kill a foreigner who should try to run any distance, the Indian boy only found it necessary to take short rests on the running-board of the coach, and even then he had breath enough left to keep up shrill whistling and loud shouting so as to make the mules remember his presence. If he stopped this continuous performance he heard from the driver in no uncertain language. The result was that, notwithstanding the primitive cart-track, the stage was able to make thesixty miles between La Quiaca and Tupiza in twelve hours. To be sure, there are two changes of mules and the luggage is carried on a separate wagon. But the road is as bad as it possibly can be. So much of it is in the bed of a stream, the coaches can only run in the dry season, May to November. In the rainy season the road disappears under swollen rivers and resort has to be had to saddle and pack animals.
In this extremely arid region the business of feeding the mules is a most difficult one. The rainfall is very slight. It is only by irrigation that fodder will grow at all. The ground is not sterile but it is so dry and parched that it does not look as if it would ever grow anything. The Indians in the vicinity are Quichuas, who speak the same language as did their former masters, the Incas. They are a patient race with little ambition and few wants. This does not prevent them, however, from charging all the traffic will bear when any one desires to purchase alfalfa or barley straw for his mules. Don Santiago told me that he had once been obliged to pay as high as forty dollars, gold, for enough fodder to give an eight-mule team a proper luncheon. Needless to say, transportation is expensive. The coach-fare from La Quiaca to Tupiza was ten dollars, about sixteen cents a mile. A charge of two cents a pound is made for luggage. None is carried free.
Our first stop was at Mojo, to change mules and eat a “breakfast” which consisted of the customary highly-spiced mutton and potatoes. We were not “favored by the addition of an excellent roasted guinea pig” as was Edmond Temple when he stoppedhere in 1826. Yet guinea-pigs are still common hereabouts and we saw several on the road.
Mojo is a village of four hundred inhabitants. There is a small branch office of the Bolivian customs service here which is supposed to look after travellers and their baggage. The principal custom house for southern Bolivia is at Tupiza, a much more agreeable spot for the residence of the officials and a natural distributing point for the region.
A short distance from Mojo we began an abrupt descent. In one place the hill was too steep to permit the road to make a proper turn, so we all had to get out and help lift the stage-coach around a “switch back.” After this tortuous zigzag we came out on a broad plain over which we passed without difficulty to the banks of the river Suipacha.
The water was low and the cart-track attempted to steer a straight course up stream. But as the shrunken current meandered over the sandy river-bed, we were obliged to ford it every three or four minutes. This entailed constant difficulties, for the leading mules would invariably stop to walk as soon as they entered the water, while the others trotted briskly in and tangled up the whole team. Perhaps the fault was mine, for I was having my first experience in driving an eight-in-hand, and the hard-mouthed mules took particular delight in giving me a bad time. Notwithstanding our difficulties, we reached Suipacha on time, and stopped to change mules.
This valley was the scene of one of the earliest victories of the patriots in 1810 at the beginning of thewars of independence. It will be remembered that after the glorious 25th of May, recently celebrated in Buenos Aires, the Argentinos attempted to free the province of Upper Peru from Spanish control. The result of the victory of Suipacha was to cause the Bolivians to rise and join the Argentinos against their oppressors. The patriot army marched joyously northward across the plateau, although the Argentinos suffered greatly from the cold and the high altitude. When they reached the southern end of Lake Titicaca, the Spanish army, augmented by hundreds of obedient Quichuas, attacked the patriots and practically annihilated them.
Suipacha itself, situated on a slight elevation above the banks of the river, looks like all the other small villages of this arid region. Plenty of sand and stones, a few mud-walled hovels, some thorny scrub, here and there an irrigation ditch and a green field, and on every side barren mountains. A favorite form of fence here is a wall of adobe blocks, adorned with cactus or thorny mimosa branches.
Suipacha is said to have six hundred inhabitants but it did not seem to be any larger than Mojo. From here a road goes east to the important city of Tarija, a pleasant, fertile town in southeastern Bolivia that enjoys a charming climate, and has often served as a city of refuge for defeated Argentine politicians who are glad enough to escape to such a land of corn and wine after unsuccessful revolutions on the dreary pampas.
The road to Tupiza took us northwest, and continued to follow the bed of the Suipacha or Estarca,
Image unavailable: THE “ANGOSTA DE TUPIZA”THE “ANGOSTA DE TUPIZA”
and one of its tributaries. In the valley were several farms orfincasas they are called here, where small crops are raised by irrigation. Half-way from Suipacha to Tupiza we passed through a magnificent rocky gateway called the Angosta de Tupiza. Cliffs five hundred feet high rise abruptly on each side of the river, leaving barely room enough for the road even in dry weather. For a distance of seventy feet, the width is less than thirty feet. Beyond the gate the mountains form a spacious amphitheatre. During the rainy season, from November to March, it is frequently impossible to pass through this gorge, even on good saddle-mules. Fortunately for us, the rains had not yet begun, and we had no difficulty.
We reached Tupiza, a town of about two thousand inhabitants, just at six o’clock. It is only ten thousand feet above sea-level, nearly two thousand feet lower than La Quiaca, and is prettily situated in a plain less than a mile in width, that in this region may fairly be called fertile, so great is the contrast with the surrounding desert. Good use has been made of the water in the little stream, and there are many cultivated fields and trees in the vicinity.
The plaza is quite an oasis in the wilderness. It is carefully cultivated and the shrubbery and willow trees make it a delightful spot. Around the plaza are a few kerosene oil street-lamps on top of wooden poles set in stone foundations. The white tower of a new church rises above the trees and makes a good landmark. Near by is the large two-story warehouse belonging to the Bolivian government and used as a post-office and custom house.
In the early ’80’s, before the construction of the Antofagasta railway, most of the commerce of Southern Bolivia passed through Tupiza and the custom house had more importance than it has now. To-day it has less than a tenth of its former business. With the completion of the railway to La Quiaca and its contemplated projection to Tupiza, however, the local revenue business is bound to increase.
Even at the time of my visit (November, 1908), the street in front of the custom house was blocked by scores of bales and boxes recently arrived from La Quiaca and awaiting examination prior to being shipped north to Potosí on the backs of mules.
On the opposite side of the plaza was a branch of the National Bank of Bolivia. Here we found that the Bolivian dollar orpesois worth about forty cents in our money.
The common currency consists of banknotes ranging from one to twentypesosin value. These depend entirely for their value upon the solvency of the bank of issue. Several banks have failed, and the Indians are very particular what bills they accept. They dislike the bills of banks that have no agencies in the vicinity and prefer the bills of the National Bank of Francisco Argondaño.
The nickel subsidiary coinage is usually genuine and is in great demand, but the smaller silver coins are frequently either counterfeit or so badly made that they do not ring true and are not accepted by the Indians with whom one has most to do on the road. Consequently it is the common practice to tear bills in two when change cannot be made in anyother way. The result is that perfect bills are growing scarce and the expense of issuing new ones is being felt by the banks. Several times when cashing checks at branches of these banks, I was paid entirely in half bills. They are accepted in almost all parts of Bolivia but are at a discount in La Paz and are not received at all in some localities.
We are told that the scarcity of subsidiary coinage, and the relative frequency of counterfeit money, is due to the native habit of burying all coins of real value lest they fall into the hands of unscrupulous officials and rapacious soldiers. Since time immemorial, enormous quantities of articles made of the precious metals have been buried by the Indians.
Tupiza was the scene in 1819 of one of those ineffectual skirmishes in which the unaided Bolivian patriots endeavored to secure their independence. In fact, this old trade-route from the Pampas to Potosí was the scene of numerous engagements during the Wars of Independence.
There are two hotels in Tupiza, one of them being the headquarters of that section of the Bolivian army which is stationed here to guard the frontier. The other is more commonly resorted to by travellers. Our inn, the Grand Hotel Terminus, a long, low building once white-washed, with a courtyard paved with cobblestones and a few bedrooms opening into the court, was run by an amiable rascal who I believe claimed to be an Austrian. However that may be, he belonged to the type that believes in charging foreigners double the regular tariff. “For one roast fowl, $2.00, a bottle of vichy, $1.25, one bottle ofGerman beer, $1.00, half pint of Appolinaris, $.40.” We were not able to get any discount. Instead of fighting our own battles we foolishly referred the matter to Don Santiago who lives at the hotel, has his office here, and depends upon the hotel proprietor for a number of favors. Our request naturally put him in an embarrassing situation, and all he could say was that the charges seemed to him to be regular. The proprietor appeared to be drunk most of the time, but he was not too drunk to charge up all drinks to his American guests.
There is a club here which was not in a very prosperous condition at the time of my visit. This may have been due to a patriotic celebration that had taken place a fortnight before. At that time a little poetical drama, reminiscent of the first conflict for independence in 1810, was played in the club-rooms. The drama, written by a local poet, was dedicated to Señor Aramayo, the Mæcenas of Tupiza, a member of the wealthiest family of southern Bolivia, and the owner of several rich silver mines and a large importing warehouse.
The shops of Tupiza were not brilliantly lighted although they contained quite an assortment of articles of European origin. The trade which they appeal to is that of the mule-drivers, thearrieros, who congregate here while their cargoes are being inspected by the revenue officers. The Indians of the vicinity, whose money comes chiefly from the product of their irrigation ditches, have little to spend.
Tupiza boasts two newspapers; one of them a biweekly, now in its third year, and the other a literary
Image unavailable: FANTASTIC PINNACLES IN THE VALLEYS NORTH OF TUPIZAFANTASTIC PINNACLES IN THE VALLEYS NORTH OF TUPIZA
weekly that had recently been started by the author of the poetical drama just alluded to. The weekly refers to the celebration in most flattering terms. “Undoubtedly social life in Tupiza had increased so far that it is high time to commence to notice its faults and deficiencies. These could easily be removed with proper enthusiasm and good will. Tupiza is a centre of social culture, but unfortunately it is not yet able to appreciate such worthy theatrical spectacles as have recently taken place!”
Wefound that the Bolivian government had recently subsidized a weekly stage line from Tupiza to Uyuni on the Antofagasta railway and another from Tupiza to Potosí, our next objective point. The fare to Potosí is twenty-two dollars, and the journey takes only four days. But we had enough of being shaken to pieces in a stage-coach, and decided we could see the country better and be more independent if we used saddle mules.
Two weeks before our arrival a couple of bandits, one of whom had been hunted out of Arizona by Pinkerton detectives, had held up a cart containing twenty thousand dollars, on its way to pay off the laborers in a large mine. The owners, wealthy Bolivians, immediately offered a large reward for the capture of the bandits, dead or alive, notwithstanding that the robbers and their friends, of whom there seemed to be a score or more, let it be carefully understood that they would take a definite revenge for any lives that might be lost in pursuit of the highwaymen. This did not deter the mine owners, however, and a party of fifty Bolivian soldiers went on the trail of the robbers, who were found lunching in an Indian hut. They had carelessly left their mules and rifles several yards away from thedoor of the hut and were unable to escape. After a fight, in which three or four of the soldiers were killed and as many more wounded, the thatch roof of the hut was set on fire and the bandits forced out into the open where they finally fell, each with half a dozen bullets in his body. Their mules were captured and sold to Don Santiago who let me have one of them for my journey. He turned out to be a wonderfully fine saddle mule. When his former owner had had the benefit of his fleet legs and his splendid lungs, there was no question of his being caught by the Bolivian soldiery.
In that part of the Andes where one is following the usual trade-routes, there are four modes of travelling. One may purchase one’s own animals, employ servants to attend to them, and sell them for a song at the end of the journey. This is the most expensive, the most satisfactory, and the surest method of travel, provided always that one succeeds in getting a reliable, well-recommendedarriero. A carelessarrierowill soon drive you to despair and allow your mules to get into a state of semi-starvation and sore back that will speedily destroy their usefulness. The second method is to hire a professional carrier who, for a stipulated sum of money, will provide you with animals, go along with them, feed and care for them, and get you to your destination as speedily as possible. If your sole object is speed, this method is even surer than the first, for owing to the high price of fodder in the post-houses, the contractor may be relied upon to push the caravan forward as speedily as possible. The third method is by far the least expensive,the most troublesome, and the least certain. This is to depend on the mules that are supposed to be in readiness for travellers at the post-houses. We frequently amused ourselves on our journey by imagining what we could possibly have done had we attempted to rely on this last method. Repeatedly we reached post-houses where there was not a mule to be seen, or where the two or three that were there, were drearily hanging their melancholy heads in the corral, so worn out and broken down as to convince us of their inability to carry even an ordinary load at anything faster than a slow walk. The traveller who trusts to post-house mules rarely remembers much of the scenery or the nature of the country. His chief impression is that of unfortunate mules continually being beaten in order to reach the next post before dark. The fourth method, and the one we decided to adopt, is to hire from a reputable contractor a number of his best mules and one of his most trustedarrierosat so much per day. In this way, you are not hurried faster than you want to go, the mules are sure to be well cared for, and the discomforts of mountain travel are reduced to a minimum. Except on a long journey, it is not as expensive as buying one’s own animals and is less risky.
Thanks to the energy of Don Santiago, the necessary mules and provisions were ready in two days. On his suggestion, we took with us asarriero, one Mac, a wandering Scotchman who had seen service in the Boer War, had drifted thence to Argentina, and was now trying his luck in southern Bolivia. He seemed just the sort of person to make a good orderly,
Image unavailable: A QUICHUA FAMILY GOING TO PLOWA QUICHUA FAMILY GOING TO PLOW
and we thought we were quite fortunate in securing his services. Relying on his past experience, we told him to purchase such provisions as were necessary for the next five days. He proceeded to purchase four dozen hard-boiled eggs and three roast fowls. These he packed carelessly in my leather saddle-bags, together with a bottle of Eno’s fruit salts of which he was very fond. The expected happened. The eggs were reduced to an unrecognizable mass, the bottle of fruit salts was broken and the contents well rubbed into the chicken, so that our fare for the next two or three days was not much above the ordinary.
We left Tupiza on a bright, clear morning and rode northward through a semi-arid region where we were continually reminded of Utah and southern Colorado. For two leagues we saw no house and met no one. The floor of the valley was broad and flat, covered with sand and pebbles, and occasionally intersected by small irrigating ditches. Almost the only green things were cactus and mimosa trees. Barren hills that appear to be crumbling rapidly away rose abruptly on each side. In some places, the eroded hillside took the form of chimneys, ruined factories, or even forts. In others erosion had produced fantastic pinnacles, and often the buttressed hills looked very much like cathedrals.
About nine o’clock we met a Quichua family, the wife carrying the baby and spinning, the man carrying his wooden plough on his shoulder and driving his oxen to an irrigated field where he proposed to dohis spring ploughing. His wife had on as many gaudy-colored petticoats as she could afford. Such is the fashion of the country.
Near one of the irrigating ditches under the shadow of the buttressed walls of the cañon, we came upon a hundred mules. Some of them were carrying huge packing-cases, large enough to hold the entire body of the patient mule, provided of course that it were properly cut up and the extremities shortened. In general the pack-mules were fine, large animals, well able to carry their three-hundred-pound loads. With such a caravan as this go a dozenarrieroswho rise each day three hours before dawn and commence the everlasting task of saddling and loading. When this is done, the men eat a hearty breakfast, prepared in the meantime by one of their number, and then start out for an eight-hour march. About five o’clock in the afternoon, or earlier, if they have by that time reached a suitable camping-place, the caravan stops and unloading begins, which is finished barely in time to give the men a few hours of slumber before the whole process has to be repeated.
Fortunately, most of these cases of merchandise were packed in Germany where they know how to meet the exigencies of South American mountain travel, and although the great wooden boxes were banged against projecting rocks by the roadside and often allowed to fall with a crash when the saddle-ropes were untied at the end of the day, the contents were practically sure to reach their destination in good condition.
At noon we came to a group of freshly white-washed adobe farm buildings, the property of an absentee landlord. Here we were able to purchase green fodder for the mules, and luncheon, in the shape of very hot soup and tea, for ourselves. In one of the buildings was a district school with six or eight pupils, the scholars evincing their studiousness by learning their lessons out loud. The resultant noise would considerably jar on the ear of a highly strung New England “schoolmarm,” but the good-natured Bolivian teacher did not know that he had any nerves, and only wanted to be sure that all his pupils were busy.
After lunch our road continued up the same arid valley past flocks of goats that strove to get a living from the low-hanging branches of the mimosa trees. Some of the more adventurous had even gone up into the trees to secure a meal.
In the middle of the afternoon, we climbed out of one valley and looked down into another. From the pass we had a fine view of the valley through which we had come. The prevailing color was brown with here and there a touch of dusty green. All around there was a confusion of barren hills and arid mountains without a single evidence of human habitation. The only sign of life was the long line of the mule caravan which we had passed earlier in the day. The country is so unfitted for the habitation of man that the general effect of this and of most of the scenery in southern Bolivia is oppressive and dispiriting.
Shortly before sunset, however, we came to abeautiful spring called the “Eye of the Water,” which bubbled up by the roadside and flowed off into carefully guarded irrigating ditches. As was to be expected, there was a small Indian village in the vicinity. The villagers were Quichuas, wearing small felt hats, scanty shirts, and short loose pantaloons made of what seemed to be homespun cloth. It was rather attractive in appearance, and as it had the romantic flavor of being made here by the Indians, we were inclined to purchase some until we discovered that it was only “imitation” and was made in great quantities in Manchester, England. These Quichuas are a humble folk, excessively polite to each other, doffing their hats whenever they meet. Both men and women wore their hair in long braids down their backs.
The little village sprawled up the side of the cañon just out of reach of the floods which occasionally pour through this valley in the rainy season. In one of the huts a kind of spring carnival was being celebrated with a reasonable amount of drinking. Solemn singing and a monotonous tom-tomming of a primitive drum were the only signs of gaiety except a few bright flowers which they had gathered somewhere and put in their hair. As no rain was to be expected and the village had the usual component of filth and insects, we set up our folding cots in the dry bed of the stream. The elevation was about ten thousand feet. The stars were very brilliant. The night was cool, the minimum temperature being 47°F., a drop of forty degrees from the afternoon’s maximum.
Image unavailable: THE VALLEY THROUGH WHICH WE HAD COMETHE VALLEY THROUGH WHICH WE HAD COME
The next morning, after a breakfast of cold chicken and Eno’s fruit salts, all that our Boer War veteran could provide for our comfort, we pushed up the valley, and before long reached Totora, a typical Bolivianposteortambo. It consisted of a small inclosure surrounded by half a dozen low mud-huts without windows. In one of these was kept alfalfa fodder to be sold to passing travellers. In another lived the keeper of theposteand his family. Here also was a fire from which one had the right to demand hot water, the only thing furnished for the comfort of humans. In another, two or three well-baked mounds of earth, flattened on top, were intended for beds. A roof, an earth floor, and a wooden door were the only other conveniences at the disposition of travellers.
Thesepostes, more or less dirty and uncomfortable, may usually be found on the well-travelled roads in southern Bolivia at a distance varying from fifteen to twenty-five miles from each other. They are not picturesque, but after some little experience in travelling in that desolate region, one learns to welcome the little collection of mud-huts, with possibly a green spot or two of alfalfa, as a perfect haven of rest. To be sure, the only thing to eat is the food you bring with you, but you may be always certain of having hot water, and yourarriero(unless he happens to be a veteran of the Boer War) will bring you a cup of excellent tea within twenty minutes after your arrival.
The road from Totora continued to be the rocky floor of a valley in which from time to time littlestreams of water or irrigation ditches appeared, only to lose themselves in fields of alfalfa or quinoa. During the dry season carts attempt to use this road, and we overtook a dozen of them on their way north. Each cart was drawn by six mules driven three abreast by a driver who rode postillion on the nigh mule nearest the cart. Before noon we climbed out of this valley and descended into a rocky, sandy plain through which flowed the river Cotagaita on its way eastward to join the great Pilcomayo. At this time of the year, the latter part of November, the river is a broad, shallow stream, easily fordable. On sandy bars left dry by the receding waters were camped caravans of pack-mules and carts. Beyond them lay the little town of Cotagaita, where the Argentine patriots were badly defeated in 1816. This place is, in a sense, the crossroads of southern Bolivia and is one of the main stations of Don Santiago’s stage-lines. Uyuni, on the Antofagasta railway, is one hundred and fifteen miles west of here, three or four days by stage. The mines of Potosí are nearly the same distance north. Camargo, the capital of the province of Cinti, is a few days due east, while Tupiza is fifty-four miles due south. There are several routes from Tupiza to Uyuni but the most important and the only one practicable for coaches is by way of Cotagaita. The road is new and said to be very uncomfortable. There is not much to interest the traveller, except a few mines. Not far away is Chorolque, a famous silver mine, at an altitude of over seventeen thousand feet.
The town of Cotagaita is an old Spanish settlement with the customary plaza, a few trees, a fountain in the centre and a church on one side; one story white-washed houses built of baked mud, the usual narrow streets crossing each other at right angles, their stone paving sloping toward the centre where a ditch does duty as a sewer; a few Indians and a few shops to minister to their wants. There are said to be twelve hundred inhabitants but I doubt it. The elevation is slightly lower than Tupiza.
We left Cotagaita after lunch, hoping to make thetamboat Escara before dark, but we were destined to disappointment. Mac, our Scotcharriero, had decided that the pack-mules, which Don Santiago selected for us at Tupiza, were not good enough to stand the march to Potosí, so he requested the coach agent here to give us two better animals. The latter allowed our veteran to go into the corral and take any mules he pleased. Rich in knowledge of the Boer War, but poor in experience with Bolivian mules, he picked out two strong-looking beasts that had been driven in the stage-coach but had never carried a pack in their lives. After being blindfolded they were saddled, with some difficulty, and we were about to start when it was discovered that one of them lacked a shoe on its nigh hind-foot. The blacksmith, a half-drunk, strongly built Indian, was summoned. He brought a new shoe, a few nails, and a hammer out into the street. The blindfolded mule was held by Mac while an Indian tied the foot that was to be shod securely to the mule’s tail. Then the blacksmith went to work. No attempt was made to fit the shoe, and when the second nail was driven, themule kicked and struggled so violently as to throw itself and all three men in a heap in the middle of the road. Finally, after much tribulation, the shoe was securely fastened, and amid the cheers of the populace, we started briskly off for Potosí.
The new pack-mules, lacking all road sense and missing the bridle, promptly ran away. One of them was secured without much difficulty, but the other one went up the hillside through a grove of young mimosa trees which attempted to detain the load with their thorny branches. They only succeeded in partly dislodging it, however, and the mule continued his headlong career until his load turned completely under him, tripped him up, and ended by rolling him down-hill. Fortunately the dunnage bags were new and no great harm was done. Mac insisted that he could drive this mule as well as any other—which may have been true—so the poor coach-mule was reloaded. Then four of us tried for over an hour to make the two wretched animals carry their packs properly and stick to the road as pack-animals should. But they declined to enter our service, and we were obliged to send them back to Cotagaita, minus their loads. Meanwhile the two mules which Mac had so thoughtfully discarded at lunch time were reengaged. The exhibition was useful, for it showed us that Mac knew even less about saddling pack-animals than we did and was perfectly useless in an emergency. Fortunately, an excellent fellow, a brother of Don Santiago, became ourdeus ex machina, helped us out of our difficulty, and promised to join us the next morning with a newarriero. By hard riding we arrived at the littletamboof Escara an hour after dark and had some difficulty in securing admittance. No one has any business to travel at night in this country, unless bent on mischief.
Wegot up early enough the next morning to witness a phase of Bolivian life which we had heard of but had not as yet seen. An officer and two soldiers of the Bolivian army, travelling southward, had spent the night at Escara and desired to proceed promptly. Thepostesare subsidized by the Government on the understanding that all travelling government officials shall be furnished with mules and a man. Eachpostehas three or four guides calledpostillons, connected with it. This morning things did not move fast enough to suit the officer. The mules were not ready when he wanted to start and the meek Quichuapostillonwas offering an explanation. In the midst of it, the officer lost his temper, and taking his strong riding-whip, commenced to lash the poor half-clad Indian across the face and shoulders. The latter stood it for a few minutes stolidly and then commenced to back off, followed by the officer who continued to lay on the blows as fast as possible. At length thepostillonturned to run and the officer pursued him, beating him and cursing him until out of breath. It was a sickening sight, but the strangest part of all was the absolute meekness with which the Indian took his beating. There was not the slightest sign of resentment oreven annoyance. The strokes of the whip made the blood start and trickle down his face and sides, but he gave no evidence of feeling it.
Later in the day at Quirve, anotherposte, we witnessed a similar exhibition, only in this case the Indian did not even run away. The son of the proprietor, a great hulking brute, six feet tall and powerfully built, found fault with one of thepostillonsfor some trifling mistake and beat him across the face and chest with a rawhide thong until the blood flowed freely. Like the other Indian, his face remained perfectly stolid, and he showed no signs of anger or irritation.
We had been furious with the officer in the morning and this exhibition was even more trying. Yet the Bolivianos thought nothing of it. As Mr. Bryce has so ably put it: “One must have lived among a weaker race in order to realize the kind of irritation which its defects produce in those who deal with it, and how temper and self-control are strained in resisting temptations to harsh or arbitrary action. It needs something more than the virtue of a philosopher—it needs the tenderness of a saint to preserve the same courtesy and respect towards the members of a backward race as are naturally extended to equals.” There is no doubt about the Quichuas being a backward race.
From the earliest historical times these poor Indians have virtually been slaves. Bred up to look upon subjection as their natural lot, they bear it as the dispensation of Providence. The Incas treated them well, so far as we can judge, and took pains tosee that the irrigation works, the foot-paths over the mountains, the suspension bridges over the raging torrents andtambosfor the convenience of travellers, should all be kept in good condition. The gold-hunting Spanishconquistadores, on the other hand, had no interest in the servile Quichuas further than to secure their services as forced laborers in the mines. The modern Bolivianos have done little to improve their condition.
After seeing these two Indians meekly take such severe beatings, I found it easier to understand why Pizarro had been able to conquer the Empire of Peru with a handful of determined Spanish soldiers, and why the unfortunate Tupac Amaru could make so little headway in 1781 when he attempted to rouse the Indians to revolt against Spanish tyranny. Although he had sixty thousand men under him, the Spanish general easily defeated him with barely twenty thousand, of whom only a few hundred were Spaniards, the majority being friendly Indians.
How much the extremely severe conditions of life that prevail on this arid plateau have had to do in breaking the spirit of the race is a question. It is a generally accepted fact that a race who are dependent for their living on irrigating ditches, can easily be conquered. All that the invading army has to do is to destroy the dams, ruin the crops, and force the inhabitants to face starvation.
The Quichua shows few of the traits which we ordinarily connect with mountaineers. His country is too forlorn to give him an easy living or much time for thought. He is half starved nearly all the time.His only comfort comes from chewing coca leaves. Coca is the plant from which we extract cocaine. It is said that the Quichua can go for days without food, provided he has a good supply of coca. It would be extremely interesting to determine the effect on his intelligence of this cocaine habit, which seems to be centuries old. If a man can stand up and take severe punishment for trivial offences without getting angry, showing vexation, or apparently without bearing any grudge against his oppressor, there must be something constitutionally wrong with him. I believe that the coca habit is answerable for a large part of this very unsatisfactory state of affairs. Coca has deadened his sensibilities to a degree that passes comprehension. It has made him stupid, willing to submit to almost any injury, lacking in all ambition, caring for almost none of the things which we consider the natural desires of the human heart.
In travelling through Bolivia and Peru, I found it repeatedly to be the case that the Quichua does not care to sell for money either food or lodging. Presents of coca leaves and tobacco are acceptable. A liberal offer of money rarely moves him, although it would be possible for him to purchase with it many articles of necessity or comfort in near-by towns. As a rule he prefers neither to rent his animal, nor sell you cheese or eggs, or anything else. The first Quichua words one learns, and the answer which one most commonly receives to all questions as to the existence of the necessaries of life, is “mana canca,” “there is none.”
This condition of affairs is not new. When Temple travelled through Bolivia in 1825, he was struck by the prevailing “no hay nada” (there is nothing at all). Poverty, want, misery, and negligence are the story that is told by the melancholy phrase. The truth is, the Quichua not only has no ambition, he has long ago ceased to care whether you or he or anybody else has more than just barely enough to keep body and soul together.
Needless to say, the Quichuas have no concern with the politics of Bolivia, although they constitute a large majority of the inhabitants.
From Escara our road continued to follow a semi-arid valley. We passed a caravan of mule-carts bound for Potosí and Sucre. In one of the carts was an upright piano; in another, pieces of mining machinery, while still others contained large cast-iron pipes destined for Sucre’s new waterworks. Nearly all of the carts carried bales of Argentine hay as this region is so arid that it is extremely difficult to secure any fodder for the animals, and the barley or alfalfa, when procurable, is often too expensive.
The weather continued to be fine. After a hot, dusty ride of twenty miles, we stopped at theposteof Quirve.
Just before reaching Quirve, we crossed the Tumusla River, the site of the last battle of the Bolivian wars of independence. After Sucre’s great victory at Ayacucho, in 1824, the only Spanish troops which remained unconquered in all South America were the garrison of Callao and a small band under General Ollaneta in southern Bolivia. His men werebadly disaffected by the news of the battle of Ayacucho, and an officer who commanded a small garrison at this strategic point, came out openly for the patriotic cause. Ollaneta tried in vain to suppress the revolt. The result was a battle here on the first of April, 1825, in which the Spanish general was defeated and slain. The garrison of Callao held out for a few months longer, but this was the end of active warfare.
We found thetamboof Quirve to be of the most primitive sort, not even affording shelter for man or beast. The weekly Potosí stage-coach came in from the north about six o’clock carrying one passenger. He soon spread his bed under the wagon and made himself comfortable for the night. The luggage from Potosí was shipped on pack-animals and was in charge of an Argentine Gaucho named Fermin Chaile. This man we took in exchange for Mac, whom we were glad enough to get rid of. Fermin, the Gaucho, tall and gaunt, round-shouldered and bow-legged, his dark Mongolian-like features crowned by a mop of coarse, black hair, proved to be a god-send. His loose-fitting suit of brown corduroys, far better raiment than mostarrieroscan afford, bore witness to the fact that he was sober, industrious, and trustworthy. No one ever had a better muleteer. Like Rafael Rivas, the faithful Venezuelan peon who had guided my cart across the Llanos in 1907, he took excellent care of the mules, yet drove them almost to the limit of their endurance, was devoted to us, and proved to be reliable and attentive. He was a plainsman, as different in spirit and achievement from the wretched mountaineers through whose country we were passing, as though he had belonged to a different continent.
As we continued northward from Quirve, the valley grew narrower and our road continued to be in the dry river course. All the water that was visible was collected in little ditches and conducted along the hillsides fifteen or twenty feet above the bed of the stream. On some of the hillsides of this valley are terraces orandineswhere maize, quinoa, potatoes, and even grapes are made to grow, with much painstaking labor. These terraces, common enough farther north, were the first we had seen. The staple food of the Indians ischuno, a small potato that has been put through a freezing process until its natural flavor is completely lost. One of the principal dishes at this time of the year is the fruit of the cactus. Everybody seems to be very fond of the broad-leaved edible species, a thornless variety of which we are developing in Arizona and New Mexico.
Farther up the valley I was struck by the ingenuity which had been exercised in carrying the irrigation ditches along the side of precipitous cliffs. Numerous little tunnels, connected by small viaducts, enabled a tiny stream of water to travel three or four miles until it reached a level space sufficiently above highwater mark to warrant the planting of a small field. The only animals to be seen beside mules and horses, goats, pigs, dogs, and a very few birds, were the little wild guinea-pigs of a color closely resembling the everlasting brown hills. I was surprised not to see any llamas.
Soon after leaving Quirve, we came to the little village of Toropalca, in every way as brown and dusty as the guinea-pigs. In fact, it melted into the landscape as perfectly as they did.
About noon we reached another hillside village, Saropalca, its houses placed so closely one above another on the steep slope as to give the appearance of a giant stairway. We climbed up through the irregular lanes of the little village, until we found a wretched littletambowhere we bought a few bundles of alfalfa and a bowl of soup.
Whenever we could secure sufficient alfalfa for the mules and a bowl of hotchupefor ourselves in addition to the customary pot of hot water for our tea, we considered ourselves most fortunate and were willing to admit that thepostewas well provided with “all the necessaries of life.”Chupeis a kind of stew or thick soup consisting of frozen potatoes and tough mutton or llama meat. In its natural state, its taste is disagreeable enough, but when it is served to the liking of the natives it is seasoned so highly with red pepper as to be far too fiery for foreign palates.
In the course of the afternoon, the valley narrowed to a gorge in which we passed more heavily-laden mule-carts making their way along with the utmost difficulty. Beyond the gorge we found sulphur springs and some banks of sulphur. One of the hot springs gushed up close by the roadside. “El Lazarillo,” the eighteenth century Baedeker, says there was once a “modest thermal establishment” here, intended to attract bathers from Potosí.
At the end of the day we reached Caisa, after having made nearly forty miles since morning. Caisa is an old Spanish town and looks like all the rest. One-story houses, narrow streets, badly paved, a city block left open for a plaza, on one side of it a church and the house of the priest, on the other three sides, a few shops where we bought newly-baked hot bread, beer, cheese, and candles. Thetambowas called “La Libertad” and bore the legend “Muy barato” (very cheap). We surmised this meant that the proprietor would charge all the traffic would bear; and such proved to be the case. In fact, we had a very disagreeable dispute with the landlady the next morning. Fermin indignantly declared she had tripled the usual prices.
At Caisa the road from Argentina to Sucre branches off to the right, going due north to Puna and thence to Yotala, where it joins the road from Potosí to Sucre.
Leaving Caisa on November 22, we went north-west and soon had our first glimpse of a snow-clad Bolivian mountain. The snow was not very deep, however, as it had fallen during the night, and before noon it was all gone. Our road crossed several ridges and then descended into a partly cultivated valley near an old silver mine and a smelter called Cuchu Ingenio. The road here was unusually good. Even in 1773 “The Blind Man’s Guide” says it was a “camino de Trote, y Galope.”
As we ascended a gorge, I was attracted by a little waterfall of crystal clearness that came tumbling down from the heights above, and was tempted to