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Discovering Diverse Content Through
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and wood, but most were made of mud. As it was the dry season, the cots
were usually out of doors.
The evidences of prosperity at Ruis de los Llanos consisted of new
stucco buildings of attractive construction with arcades in front and
courtyards in the interior, a modern application of old Spanish architectural
ideas. Other buildings were nearing completion, to accommodate the bakers
and grocers who supply the quebracho cutters. There are great forests of
quebracho on the plains of the Gran Chaco to the east and northeast. The
wood is extremely hard and very serviceable for railway-ties. Owing to the
difficulty that is experienced in cutting it, it has earned for itself the
sobriquet of “axe-breaker.” It is the chief article of export from this region.
The bark is shipped to tanneries as far away as California.
At Matan, another important station, there was a new hotel, the
“Cosmopolita,” a clean-looking Spanish inn, near the railway station. Near
by lay huge logs of quebracho awaiting shipment. The hills were well
wooded, and we saw a number of agave plants and mimosa trees. Firewood
is shipped from here to the treeless Pampas. Here we noticed, for the first
time, riding-boots of a curious fashion, so very corrugated that we dubbed
them “concertinas.” They are much in vogue also in southern Bolivia.
At Rio Piedras, where a dozen of our third-class passengers alighted
with many baskets and bundles, we heard the familiar hum of a sawmill.
Near the track were more quebracho logs. A burly passenger who had
joined us at Tucuman, ready dressed and prepared for a long horseback ride,
left us here. With a large broad-brimmed hat, loose white jumper, large
baggy white cotton trousers, and “concertinas,” he came very near being
picturesque. Throwing over his shoulder a pair of cotton saddle-bags well
stocked with interesting little bundles, he walked slowly away from the
train with that curious shuffling gait common to those who spend most of
their lives in the saddle.
Not far away we saw some newly arrived American farm machinery, a
part of the largest item of Argentine imports from the United States.
During the course of the afternoon, we wound out of the hills far enough
to be able to see far over the plains to the east. Here there was more
vegetation and some corn growing. On the left were jagged hills and
mountains. The temperature in the car about four o’clock was eighty-five
degrees. Our altitude was about twenty-five hundred feet.
 As we went north through hot, dusty valleys, climbing up into the foot-
hills of the Andes, the faces of the loiterers at the stations lost the
cosmopolitan aspect that they have in and about Buenos Aires. We saw
more of the typical Gaucho who is descended from the aboriginal Indians of
the Pampas and bold Spanish cattle-drivers. Tall in stature, with a robust
frame and a swarthy complexion, he possesses great powers of endurance
and is a difficult person to handle. His tendencies are much like those of the
fast disappearing American “cow puncher,” but he has the disadvantage of
having inherited a contempt for manual labor and an excessive vanity which
finds expression in silver spurs and brilliantly colored ponchos. His territory
is rapidly being invaded by hard-working Italians, more desirable because
more dependable.
Near Juramento the country grows more arid and desolate. A few
scrubby mimosa trees, sheltering the white tents of railway engineers,
offered but little welcome to intending settlers.
Just at dark we reached Guemes, where we were obliged to change cars.
The through train from Tucuman goes west to Salta, the most important city
of the vicinity. We arrived at Jujuy shortly after nine o’clock. A score of
ancient vehicles were waiting to take us a mile up into the town to one of
the three hotels. We went to the Bristol and found it quite comfortable
according to Spanish-American ideas. That means that the toilet facilities
were absent, that the room had a tile floor, and that there were beds and
chairs.
In the morning we got up early enough to look at the town for a few
minutes before leaving on the semi-weekly train for La Quiaca.
Jujuy was built by Spanish settlers a generation before the Pilgrims
landed at Plymouth, and still preserves the white-walled, red-tiled-roof
aspect of the old Spanish-American towns. Lying in a pleasant, well-
watered plain, a trifle over four thousand feet above the sea, it is attractively
surrounded by high hills. Beyond them, we caught glimpses of lofty barren
mountains, the summits of the Andes. The near-by valleys were green, and
there is some rainfall even in the dry time of the year. Although Jujuy
produces a large amount of sub-tropical fruit, it really owes its importance
to its strategical position on the old trade route to Bolivia. It is the last
important town on the road because it is the last place that enjoys a
salubrious situation. For centuries it has been the natural resting-place for
overland travellers.
In fact, these northwestern highlands of Argentina, Jujuy, and Tucuman,
were first settled by emigrants from the mountains of Upper Peru now
called Bolivia, of which they form the southern extension. Their political
and commercial relations were with Potosí and Lima rather than Buenos
Aires. The great prosperity of the mining regions of the lofty plateau
created a demand for provisions that could not be met by the possibilities of
agriculture in the semi-arid irrigated valleys of southern Bolivia. Beef and
other provisions could most easily be brought from the fertile valleys near
Tucuman and Jujuy. The necessity for some better animal than the llama, to
carry not only freight but also passengers, caused a demand for the horses
and mules which, raised on the Argentine Pampas, were brought here to be
put into shape for mountain travel, and were an important item in the early
fairs.
When the railroad came, Jujuy was for many years the northern
terminus. This only added to the importance of the town, and increased the
reputation of its annual fair. But with the building of the continuation to La
Quiaca, its importance is bound to decrease. However, it will always be a
favorite resort for Bolivians seeking a refuge from the rigors of their
Thibetan climate. We met many families in southern Bolivia who had at one
time or another passed the winter season here.
Before leaving the Bristol we succeeded in getting eggs and coffee only
with considerable difficulty as the train was due to leave at seven o’clock,
and the average Spanish-American traveller is quite willing to start off on a
long day’s journey without even a cup of coffee if he can be sure of
something substantial about ten or eleven o’clock.
When we arrived at the station, we found a scene of great confusion. The
line had been running only a few months, and many of the intending
passengers were not accustomed to the ways of railroads. An official, and
his family of three, had spread himself over one half of the car, with bags,
bird-cages, bundles, rolls, and potted plants. He filled so many seats with
his impedimenta that several of the passengers had to stand up, although
that did not worry him in the least. Had we known how much luggage
belonged to him, we should have dumped it on the floor and had a more
comfortable ride, but unfortunately we did not discover how greatly he had
imposed on everybody until the end of the day.
From Jujuy the train climbs slowly through a valley toward a wonderful
vista of great mountains. At 6000 feet the verdure disappeared, the grass
became brown, and on the barren mountains a few sheep and goats were
trying to pick up a living.
The railway had a hard time overcoming the difficulties of the first part
of the way. The grade is so steep that for some distance a cog road was
found to be necessary. In the first one hundred and fourteen miles, the line
climbs up 8000 feet to an altitude of over 12,000 feet above sea-level.
Notwithstanding the newness of the road and the steepness of the grade,
we carried with us an excellent little restaurant car that gave us two very
good meals before we reached La Quiaca.
The cog railway begins at Leon at an altitude of 5300 feet and continues
to Volcan, rising 1500 feet in a distance of eight miles. At Volcan there is
supposed to be a mud volcano, but, as was pointed out some years ago by
Mr. O’Driscoll in the “Geographical Journal,” there is no volcano at all. It is
simply a mud avalanche, that comes down after unusually heavy rains from
the rapidly disintegrating hillside. Although not a volcano, it is nevertheless
a difficult problem for the engineers. It has already completely submerged a
mile or two of track more than once.
This is on the line of the proposed Pan-American railway from New
York to Buenos Aires. With a sufficiently vivid imagination, one can picture
a New Yorker of the year 1950 being detained here by a mud-slide which
will have put the tracks over which he proposes to travel two or three feet
under ground. It is to be hoped that he will not be obliged to stay at the
local inn where Edmund Temple stopped on his journey from Buenos Aires
to Potosí. Temple was aroused in the middle of the night by a noise under
his bed as if of a struggle between two animals. To his astonishment (and to
that of the reader of his charming volumes) he “discovered, by the light of
the moon, a cat eating the head of a viper which she had just subdued: a
common occurrence I was informed, and without any ill consequences to
the cat, however venomous the snake!”
Some effort had been made to plant a few trees in the sandy, rocky soil
around the station of Volcan, which is not far from the mud-slide. They
seemed, however, to be having a hard time of it, although, at a ranch near
by, quite a grove of eucalyptus trees had been successfully raised by means
of irrigation. The mountains round about are very barren and gave evidence
of being rapidly wasted away by erosion, their summits assuming many
fantastic forms.
Twenty miles beyond Volcan is Maimará, where there was further
evidence of irrigation in the valley, the trees and green fruits being in
marked contrast to the barren hillsides.
As the road ascends, the country becomes more and more arid. Cactus is
common. Sometimes it is used as a hedge; at other times, by being planted
on the top of a mud-fence, it answers the same purpose as a barbed wire.
Great barren mountains on each side continue for mile after mile,
making the scenery unspeakably dreary. Judging by the northward
inclination of the cactus and the trees, the prevailing wind is from the south.
Some of the valley is irrigated, but there is little sign of life anywhere.
Nothing grows without irrigation. In the days before the railway it was
absolutely necessary to have alfalfa and other animal fodder grown near the
post-houses that supplied travellers and freight-carriers with shelter at night.
This business has, of course, fallen off very much in the past few months,
yet just before reaching Humahuaca we stopped at Uquia, where enough
hay is still raised to make it worth while to bale it and ship it north to the
barren plateau beyond.
Late in the afternoon, we saw a group of llamas, but they are not at all
common in this region.
At Tres Cruces, 1052 miles from Buenos Aires, we reached our highest
elevation, something over 12,000 feet. It was a dreary spot with scarcely
anything in sight except barren mountains, the two wire fences that
everlastingly line the railroad tracks, and the mud-walled railroad station.
The little “hotel” looked like an abandoned adobe dwelling in Arizona, and
the region bore a striking resemblance to the unirrigated part of our new
southwest. Erosion has cut the hillsides into interesting sections of shallow
gulches and semi-cylindrical slopes. The only green things to be seen are
occasional clumps of bushes like sage-brush.
From here to La Quiaca, sixty miles, we maintained about the same
altitude, although La Quiaca itself is 500 feet lower than Tres Cruces. We
had, in fact, surmounted the great plateau of the Andes. South of us lay the
desert of Atacama; to the north the arid valleys of southern Bolivia and the
Bolivian tableland. East of us, beyond many intervening ranges and the
steep slopes of the eastern Andes, lay the Gran Chaco of Bolivia and the
valley of the lower Pilcomayo with its wild Indian tribes and its tropical
forests. To the west lay the still higher Andes of the great Cordillera, some
of whose peaks rise at this point to an altitude of twenty thousand feet.
Notwithstanding these interesting surroundings, the extreme bareness of
this desolate region reacts on one’s enthusiasm.
We reached La Quiaca just before nine o’clock. The railroad offices were
still incomplete, as the line had only been opened to traffic for a month or
two. The old town of La Quiaca, a small mud-walled affair two miles away
from the railroad station, is destined soon to be deserted for the thriving
young settlement that is springing up near the terminus of the railway.
There are two “hotels.” Ours, the 25 de Mayo, had only just been opened.
In fact, its exterior walls had not yet received their proper coat of
whitewash and stucco.
All day long we had been travelling through an extremely sparsely
populated region, so dry, high, and inhospitable as to dispel any idea that
this railroad can rely upon it for much traffic. In fact, the line was built by
the Argentine Government, not so much to open up this part of the Republic
as to tap the mining region of southern Bolivia, with the idea of developing
Argentina’s foreign commerce by securing in Bolivia a good market for her
food-stuffs and bringing back in return ore to be shipped to Europe from the
ports of the Paraná.
An agreement was entered into between Argentina and Bolivia whereby
Bolivia was to extend her system of national railways southeast from Oruro
to Potosí and thence due south to Tupiza, fifty miles north of the Argentine
boundary. The Argentinos on their part agreed to continue their railway
north from Jujuy to Tupiza. By the time they reached La Quiaca, however,
the English Company that owns the rich Oruro-Antofagasta line became
alarmed lest such an arrangement as was proposed would interfere with
their profits. By some means or other, the Bolivian government was
persuaded to change its plans and decide to build the national railways so as
to connect with the Antofagasta line rather than with the Argentine lines.
This breach of faith on the part of the Bolivianos was naturally resented not
only in Argentina but also by the southern Bolivianos themselves who
would be much more benefited by having good connections with Buenos
Aires than with the Chilean seaboard.
 As a result of this difficulty, the Argentinos, at the time of my visit, had
not carried their railway beyond the frontier. This makes La Quiaca the
outfitting point for mule-trains that now start here with merchandise
destined for the cities of southern Bolivia.
A stage-line has been opened, running once a week to Tupiza, where it
connects with stages for Uyuni on the Antofagasta line and Potosí. This
stage-line was owned and operated by that same energetic Scotchman, Don
Santiago Hutcheon, who used to run stages between La Paz and Oruro
before the completion of the Bolivia Railway. By great good fortune, we
found him in La Quiaca where he had arrived that day on one of his own
stages.
[Larger version] [Largest version]
 CHAPTER VII

ACROSS THE BOLIVIAN FRONTIER

S oon after our arrival at La Quiaca, at 9 P.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 mines to 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

OUR 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 the
sixty 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 stopped here 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 the wars 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,

THE “ANGOSTA DE TUPIZA”

and one of its tributaries. In the valley were several farms or fincas as 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 or peso is worth about forty
cents in our money.
The common currency consists of banknotes ranging from one to twenty
pesos in 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 any other 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 of German 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, the arrieros, 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

FANTASTIC 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!”
 CHAPTER VIII

TUPIZA TO COTAGAITA

W e found 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 the door 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-recommended arriero. A careless arriero will 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 trusted arrieros at 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 as
arriero, 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,
 A 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 do his 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 dozen arrieros who 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 a beautiful 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.
 THE 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 Bolivian poste or
tambo. 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 the poste and 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.
These postes, 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 your arriero (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 little streams 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 the tambo at Escara before
dark, but we were destined to disappointment. Mac, our Scotch arriero, 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, the mule
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 our deus ex machina, helped us out of our difficulty, and promised
to join us the next morning with a new arriero. By hard riding we arrived at
the little tambo of 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.
 CHAPTER IX

ESCARA TO LAJA TAMBO

W e got 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. The postes are subsidized
by the Government on the understanding that all travelling government
officials shall be furnished with mules and a man. Each poste has three or
four guides called postillons, 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 Quichua postillon was 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 the postillon turned 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 or even 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, another poste, 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 the postillons for 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 to see that the irrigation works, the foot-paths
over the mountains, the suspension bridges over the raging torrents and
tambos for the convenience of travellers, should all be kept in good
condition. The gold-hunting Spanish conquistadores, 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 the poste of 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 were badly
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 the tambo of 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 most arrieros can
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 or andines where 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 is chuno, 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 little tambo where 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
hot chupe for ourselves in addition to the customary pot of hot water for our
tea, we considered ourselves most fortunate and were willing to admit that
the poste was well provided with “all the necessaries of life.” Chupe is 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. The tambo was 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
 OUR FIRST GLIMPSE OF A SNOW-CLAD BOLIVIAN MOUNTAIN

take a hearty drink of the delicious cool liquid. A Boliviano from Tupiza,
who was travelling with us for company, warned me against such a rash act
as drinking cold water at this altitude. I had noticed that no one in this
region ever touches cold water, and I thought the universal prejudice against
it was founded on a natural preference for alcohol. So I laughingly enjoyed
my cup of cold water and assured him that there could be no harm in it. An
hour later we reached Laja Tambo, a wretched little poste, standing alone on
the edge of a tableland twenty miles from Potosí. The altitude was about
thirteen thousand feet. The sun had been very warm, and soon after
alighting on the rough stone pavement of the inn yard, I arranged the
thermometers so as to test the difference in temperature between sun and
shade. The temperature in the sun at noon was 85° F. In the shade it was 48°
F. Scarcely had I taken the readings when I began to feel chilly. Hot tea
followed by hot soup and still hotter brandy and water failed to warm me,
notwithstanding the fact that I had unpacked my bag and put on two heavy
sweaters. A wretched sense of dizziness and of longing to get warm made
me lie down on the warm stones of the courtyard. I grew rapidly worse, and
was soon experiencing the common symptoms of soroche, puna, or
mountain sickness. The combination of vomiting, diarrhœa, and chills was
bad enough, but the prospect of being ill in this desolate poste, twenty miles
from the nearest doctor, with nothing better than the usual accessories of a
Bolivian tambo, was infinitely worse. Somehow or other, I managed to
persuade Fermin to saddle and load the animals and put me on my mule,
where I was determined to stay until we should reach Potosí.
The last thing to do before leaving the tambo was to pay the bill, and this
I proceeded to do in the Bolivian paper currency which I had purchased in
Tupiza. Alas, one of the bills was on a bank situated two hundred and fifty
miles away in La Paz, a bank, in fact, in which the postillon did not have
much confidence. The idea of having a servile Quichua postillon decline to
receive good money was extremely irritating, and I tried my best,
notwithstanding my soroche, to force him to take it. He persisted and I was
obliged to find another bill in my wallet. I suppose my hand trembled a
little with chill or excitement and in taking out the bill I partly tore it.
This would not have mattered had the tear been in the middle, but it was
nearer one end than the other and the Indian refused to accept it. I had no
other small bills and was at a loss to know what to do. In the meantime,
Fermin and the pack-mules had left the inclosure of the tambo and started
for Potosí while Mr. Smith was just outside of the gate waiting for me. So I
rolled up the sound bill which the Indian had declined to receive, gave it to
him, and while he was investigating it, made a dash for the road. He was
too quick for me, however, and gripped my bridle. Exasperated beyond
measure, I rode him against the wall of the tambo and made him let go long
enough to allow me to escape. It seemed on the whole a lawless
performance, although the bank-note was perfectly good. I fully expected
that he would follow us with stones or something worse, but as he was only
a Quichua he accepted the inevitable and we saw no more of him.
In the face of a bitterly cold wind we crossed the twenty-mile plateau
that lies between Laja Tambo and the famous city of Potosí. On the plain
were herds of llamas feeding, but these did not interest us as much as the
conical hill ahead. It was the Cerro of Potosí, the hill that for two hundred
and fifty years, was the marvel of the world. No tale of the Arabian Nights,
no dream of Midas, ever equalled the riches that flowed from this romantic
cone. Two billion ounces of silver is the record of its output and the tale is
not yet told.
Rounding the eastern shoulder of the mountain, we passed several large
smelters, some of them abandoned. Near by are the ruins of an edifice said
to have been built by the Spaniards to confine the poor Indians whom they
brought here by the thousands to work in the mines. The road descends a
little valley and runs for a mile, past the ruins of hundreds of buildings. In
the eighteenth century, Potosí boasted a population of over one hundred and
fifty thousand. Now there are scarcely fifteen thousand. The part of the city
that is still standing is near the ancient plaza, the mint, and the market-
place.
Our caravan clattered noisily down the steep, stony streets until we
reached the doors of the Hotel Colon where an attentive Austrian landlord
made us welcome, notwithstanding the fact that one of the party was
evidently quite ill. I could not help wondering whether an American hotel-
keeper would have been so willing to receive a sick man as this benighted
citizen of Potosí. The paved courtyard was small, but the rooms on the
second floor were commodious and so much better than the unspeakably
forlorn adobe walls of Laja Tambo, that I felt quite willing to retire from
active exploration for a day or two. Fortunately, I fell into the hands of a
well-trained Bolivian physician, who knew exactly what to do, and with his
aid, and the kind nursing of Fermin and Mr. Smith, I was soon on my feet
again.
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