Our Tambo.--Ascending the Andes.--Camino Real.--Magnificent
Views.--Guaranda.--Cinchona.--The Summit.--Chimborazo.--Over the
Andes.--Chuquipoyo the Wretched.--Ambato.--A Stupid
City.--Cotopaxi.--The Vale of Machachi.--Arrival at Quito.
We reached Savaneta at 5 P.M. This little village of hardly twenty
houses becomes the Bodegas, or place of deposit for the mountains six
months in the year, for in the _invierno_ the roads are flooded, and
canoes take the place of mules from Savaneta to Babahoyo. Even in the
dry season the dampness of this wilderness is so great that the
traveler's sugar and chocolate are melted into one, and envelopes seal
themselves. We put up at a _tambo_, or wayside inn, a simple two-storied
bamboo hovel, thatched with plantain leaves without and plastered with
cobwebs within, yet a palace compared with what sheltered us afterward.
The only habitable part was the second story, which was reached by a
couple of notched bamboo sticks. A hammock, two earthen kettles, two
plates, and a few calabashes constituted the household furniture. The
dormitory was well ventilated, for two sides were open. Our lodging,
however, cost us nothing; travelers only pay for _yerba_ for their
beasts. Though this has been the royal road to Quito for three
centuries, there is but one _posada_ between Guayaquil and Ambato, a
distance of one hundred and fifty miles; travelers must carry their own
bedding and provisions.
[Illustration: Ascending the Andes.]
Leaving Savaneta at dawn, and breakfasting at a wayside hut owned by an
old negro, we struck about noon the Rio Charriguajaco, dashing down the
mountains in hot haste for the Guayas. It was refreshing to look upon
living waters for the first time since leaving the hills of our
native country. Fording this stream we know not how many times, and
winding through the dense forest in narrow paths often blockaded by
laden donkeys that doggedly disputed the passage, we soon found
ourselves slowly creeping up the Andes. We frequently met mountaineers
on their way to Bodegas with loads of potatoes, peas, barley, fowls,
eggs, etc. They are generally accompanied by their wives or daughters,
who ride like the men, but with the knees tucked up higher. On the
slippery tracks which traverse this western slope, bulls are often used
as beasts of burden, the cloven hoofs enabling them to descend with
great security. But mules are better than horses or asses. "That a
hybrid (muses Darwin) should possess more reason, memory, obstinacy,
social affection, powers of muscular endurance, and length of life than
either of its parents, seems to indicate that art has here outdone
nature."
Toward evening the ascent became rapid and the road horrible beyond
conception, growing narrower and rougher as we advanced. Indeed, our way
had long since ceased to be a road. In the dense forest, where sunshine
never comes, rocks, mud, and fallen trees in rapid alternation
macadamize the path, save where it turns up the bed of a babbling brook.
In the comparatively level tracts, the equable step of the beasts has
worn the soil into deep transverse ridges, called _camellones_, from
their resemblance to the humps on a camel's back. In the precipitous
parts the road is only a gully worn by the transit of men and beasts for
ages, aided by torrents of water in the rainy season. As we ascend, this
changes to a rocky staircase, so strait that one must throw up his legs
to save them from being crushed, and so steep that horse and rider run
the risk of turning a somersault. It is fearful to meet in a narrow
defile, or where the road winds around the edge of a precipice, a drove
of reckless donkeys and mules descending the mountain, urged on by the
cries and lashes of the muleteers behind. Yet this has been the highway
of Ecuadorian commerce for three hundred years. In vain we tried to
reach the little village of Camino Real on the crest of the ridge; but
the night was advancing rapidly, and crawling up such a road by
starlight was not a little dangerous. So we put up at a miserable tambo,
Pogyos by name. It was a mud hut of the rudest kind, windowless and
unfloored; very clean, if it had been left to nature, but man and beast
had rendered it intolerably filthy. Our hostess, a Quichua woman, with
tattered garments, and hair disheveled and standing up as if
electrified, set a kettle on three stones, and, making a fire under it,
prepared for us a calabash of chicken and _locro_. _Locro_, the national
dish in the mountains, is in plain English simply potato soup. Sitting
on the ground, we partook of this refreshment by the aid of fingers and
wooden spoons, enticing our appetites by the reflection that potato soup
would support life. The unkempt Indian by our side, grinning in
conscious pride over her successful cookery, did not aid us in this
matter. Fire is used in Ecuador solely for culinary purposes, not for
warmth. It is made at no particular spot on the mud floor, and there is
no particular orifice for the exit of the smoke save the chinks in the
wall. There is not a chimney in the whole republic. As the spare room in
the establishment belonged to the women, we gentlemen slept on the
ground outside, or on beds made of round poles. The night was piercingly
cold. The wished-for morning came at last, and long before the sun
looked over the mountains we were on our march. It was the same terrible
road, running zigzag, or "quingo" fashion, up to Camino Real, where it
was suddenly converted into a royal highway.
We were now fairly out of the swamps of the lowlands, and, though under
the equator, out of the tropics too. The fresh mountain breeze and the
chilly mists announced a change of climate.[12] Fevers and dysenteries,
snakes and musquitoes, the plantain and the palm, we had left behind.
Camino Real is a huddle of eight or ten dwellings perched on the summit
of a sierra a thousand feet higher than the top of Mount Washington. The
views from this stand-point compensate for all past troubles. The wild
chaos of mountains on every side, broken by profound ravines, the heaps
of ruins piled up during the lapse of geologic ages, the intense azure
of the sky, and the kingly condor majestically wheeling around the still
higher pinnacles, make up a picture rarely to be seen. Westward, the
mountains tumble down into hills and spread out into plains, which, in
the far distant horizon, dip into the great Pacific. The setting sun
turns the ocean into a sheet of liquid fire. Long columns of purple
light shoot up to the zenith, and as the last point of the sun sinks
beneath the horizon, the stars rush out in full splendor; for at the
equator day gives place to night with only an hour and twenty minutes of
twilight. The mountains are Alpine, yet grander than the Alps; not so
ragged as the granite peaks of Switzerland, but with rounder heads. The
prospect down this occidental slope is diversified by deep valleys,
lands-lides, and flowering trees. Magnificent are the views eastward,
"Where Andes, giant of the western star,
Looks from his throne of clouds o'er half the world."
[Footnote 12: The altitude of 7000 feet is the usual limit of the
rain-line on the west slope of the Andes. The condensation which
produces rain takes place at the equator two or three times higher than
in our latitude.]
The majestic dome of Chimborazo was entirely uncovered of clouds, and
presented a most splendid spectacle. There it stood, its snow-white
summit, unsullied by the foot of man, towering up twice as high as Etna.
For many years it received the homage of the world as the highest point
in America; but now the Aconcagua of Chile claims the palm. Still, what
a panorama from the top of Chimborazo, could one reach it, for the eye
would command ten thousand square miles!
Our road gently winds down the sierra, giving us at every turn sublime
ideas of what nature can do in tossing up the thin crust of our globe.
But sublimity is at a discount here--there is too much of it. Suddenly
we are looking down into the enchanting valley of Chimbo. This romantic
and secluded spot is one of those forgotten corners of the earth which,
barricaded against the march of civilization by almost impassable
mountains, and inhabited by a thriftless race, has been left far behind
in the progress of mankind. Distance lends enchantment to the view. We
are reminded of the pastoral vales of New England. Wheat takes the place
of the sugar-cane, barley of cacao, potatoes of plantains, and turnips
of oranges. Bamboo sheds have given way to neatly whitewashed villages,
and the fields are fenced with rows of aloe. But, drawing nearer, we
find the habitations are in reality miserable mud hovels, without
windows, and tenanted by vermin and ragged poverty. There are herds of
cattle and fields of grain; yet we shall not find a quart of milk or a
loaf of bread for sale. The descent into the valley is very precipitous,
and, after a rain, alarmingly slippery. Mules, drawing their legs
together, slide down with startling velocity, and follow the windings
with marvelous dexterity.
We arrived at Guaranda at 5 P.M. on the third day after leaving Bodegas.
This is a desolate town of two thousand souls, dwelling in low
dilapidated huts made of the most common building material in the
Andes--_adobe_, or sun-dried blocks of mud mingled with straw.[13]
[Footnote 13: From _adoub_, an Egyptian word still used by the Copts;
carried by the Moors to Spain, thence to America; and from America the
word has gone to the Sandwich Islands.]
The streets are rudely paved, and pitch to the centre, to form an
aqueduct, like the streets of old Sychar. The inhabitants are in happy
ignorance of the outside world. They pass the day without a thought of
work, standing on the Plaza, or in front of some public office, staring
vacantly into space, or gossiping. A cockfight will soonest rouse them
from their lethargy. They seem to have no purpose in life but to keep
warm under their ponchos and to eat when they are hungry. Guaranda is a
healthy locality, lying in a deep valley on the west bank of the Chimbo,
at an elevation, according to our barometer, of 8840 feet, and having a
mean temperature slightly less than that of Quito. It is a place of
importance, inasmuch as it is the resting-place before ascending or
after descending the still loftier ranges, and much more because it is
the capital of the region which yields the invaluable _cinchona_, or
Peruvian bark.[14] This tree is indigenous to the Andes, where it is
found on the western slope between the altitudes of two thousand and
nine thousand feet, the species richest in alkaloids occupying the
higher elevations, where the air is moist. Dr. Weddell enumerates
twenty-one species, seven of which are now found in Ecuador, but the
only one of value is the the _C. succirubra_ (the _calisaya_ has run
out), and this is now nearly extinct, as the trees have been destroyed
to obtain the bark. This species is a beautiful tree, having large,
broadly oval, deep green, shining leaves, white, fragrant flowers, and
red bark, and sometimes, though rarely, attains the height of sixty
feet. A tree five feet in circumference will yield fifteen hundred
pounds of green bark, or eight hundred of the dry. The roots contain the
most alkaloid, though the branches are usually barked for commerce. The
true cinchona barks, containing quinine, quinidine, and cinchonine, are
distinguished from the false by their splintery-fibrous texture, the
latter being pre-eminently corky. The cascarilleros begin to hunt for
bark in August. Dr. Taylor, of Riobamba, found one tree which gave $3600
worth of quinine. The general yield is from three to five pounds to a
quintal of bark. The tree has been successfully transplanted to the
United States, and particularly to India, where there are now over a
million of plants. It was introduced into India by Markham in 1861. The
bark is said to be stronger than that from Ecuador, yielding twice as
much alkaloid, or eleven per cent. The quinine of commerce will
doubtless come hereafter from the slopes of the Himalayas instead of the
Andes. In 1867 only five thousand pounds of bark were exported from
Guayaquil. The Indians use the bark of another tree, the _Maravilla_,
which is said to yield a much stronger alkaloid than cinchona. It grows
near Pallatanga.
[Footnote 14: This celebrated febrifuge was first taken to Europe about
the middle of the seventeenth century, and was named after the Countess
of Chinchon, who had been cured of intermittent fever at Lima.
Afterward, when Cardinal de Lugo spread the knowledge of the remedy
through France, and recommended it to Cardinal Mazarin, it received the
name of _Jesuits' Bark_. The French chemists, Pelletier and Caverton,
discovered quinine in 1820.]
We left Guaranda at 5 A.M. by the light of Venus and Orion, having
exchanged our horses for the sure-footed mule. It was a romantic ride.
From a neighboring stand-point Church took one of his celebrated views
of "The Heart of the Andes." But the road, as aforetime, was a mere
furrow, made and kept by the tread of beasts. For a long distance the
track runs over the projecting and jagged edges of steeply-inclined
strata of slate, which nobody has had the energy to smooth down. At many
places on the road side were human skulls, set in niches in the bank,
telling tales of suffering in their ghastly silence; while here and
there a narrow passage was blocked up by the skeleton or carcass of a
beast that had borne its last burden. At nine o'clock we came out on a
narrow, grassy ridge called the Ensillada, or Saddleback, where there
were three straw huts, with roofs resting on the ground, and there we
breakfasted on _locro_. During our stay the Indians killed a pig, and
before the creature was fairly dead dry grass was heaped upon it and set
on fire. This is the ordinary method of removing the bristles.
Still ascending, we lose sight of the valley of the Chimbo, and find
ourselves in a wilderness of crags and treeless mountains clothed with
the long, dreary-looking paramo grass called _paja_. But we are face to
face with "the monarch of the Andes," and we shall have its company the
rest of the day. The snowy dome is flooded with the golden light of
heaven; delicate clouds of softest hues float around its breast; while,
far below, its feet are wrapped in the baser mists of earth. We attained
the summit of the pass at 11 A.M. All travelers strive to reach it early
in the morning, for in the afternoon it is swept by violent winds which
render it uncomfortable, if not dangerous. This part of the road is
called the "Arenal," from the sand and gravel which cover it. It is
about a league in length, and crosses the side of Chimborazo at an
elevation of more than fourteen thousand feet. Chimborazo stands on the
left of the traveler. How tantalizing its summit! It appears so easy of
access; and yet many a valiant philosopher, from Humboldt down, has
panted for the glory and failed. The depth of the snow and numerous
precipices are the chief obstacles; but the excessively rarefied air is
another hinderance. Even in crossing the Arenal, a native of the
lowlands complains of violent headache, a propensity to vomit, and a
difficulty of breathing. The Arenal is often swept by snow-storms; and
history has it that some of the Spanish conquerors were here frozen to
death. The pale yellow gravel is considered by some geologists as the
moraine of a glacier. It is spread out like a broad gravel walk, so
that, without exaggeration, one of the best roads in Ecuador has been
made by Nature's hand on the crest of the Andes.
It was interesting to trace the different hypsometrical zones by the
change of vegetation from Bodegas to this lofty spot. The laws of the
decrease of heat are plainly written on the rapid slopes of the
Cordilleras. On the hot, steaming lowlands of the coast reign bananas
and palms. As these thin out, tree-ferns take their place. Losing these,
we found the cinchona bedewed by the cool clouds of Guaranda; and last
of all, among the trees, the polylepis. The twisted, gnarled trunk of
this tree, as well as its size and silvery foliage, reminded us of the
olive, but the bark resembles that of the birch. It reaches the greatest
elevation of any tree on the globe. Then followed shrubby fuchsia,
calceolaria, eupatoria, and red and purple gentians; around and on the
Arenal, a uniform mantle of monocotyledonous plants, with scattered
tufts of valeriana, viola, and geranium, all with rigid leaves in the
characteristic rosettes of super-alpine vegetation; and on the
porphyritic and trachytic sides of Chimborazo, lichens alone. Snow then
covers the last effort of vegetable life.[15] The change in the
architecture of the houses indicated, likewise, a change of altitude.
The open bamboo huts, shingled with banana leaves, were followed by
warmer _adobe_ houses, and these, in turn, by the straw hovels of the
mountain-top, made entirely of the long, wiry grass of the paramos.
[Footnote 15: According to Sir J. Hooker, among the flowers which adorn
the slopes of the Himalayas, rhododendrons occupy the most prominent
place, and primroses next. There are no orchids, neither red gentians,
but blue. Organic life ceases 3000 feet lower than on the Andes; yet it
is affirmed that flowering plants occur at the height of 18,460 feet,
which is equivalent to the summit of Chimborazo in point of temperature!
The polylepis (_P. racemosa_) is one of the _Sanguisorbaceæ_; in Quichua
it is _Sachaquinoa_.]
Leaving the Arenal, we rapidly descended by the usual style of
road--stone stairs. But down we went, as all the goods for Quito, "the
grand capital," have done since the Spanish Conquest. The old road from
Beirût to Damascus is royal in comparison. The general aspect of the
eastern slope is that of a gray, barren waste, overgrown with _paja_;
but now and then we crossed deep gulleys, whose sides were lined with
mosses and sprinkled with calceolarias, lupines, etc. In our descent we
had before us the magnificent Valley of Quito, and beyond it the eastern
Cordillera. Below us was Riobamba, and far away to the right the deep
gorge of the Pastassa. Nevertheless, this is one of the loneliest rides
earth can furnish. Not a tree nor human habitation is in sight. Icy
rivulets and mule-trains are the only moving objects on this melancholy
heath. Even "Drake's Plantation Bitters," painted on the volcanic cliffs
of Chimborazo, would be a relief.
At last we reached our rude accommodations for the night. It was a
solitary mud tambo, glorying in the euphonious name of Chuquipoyo. The
court-yard was a sea of mud and manure, for this is the halting-place
for all the caravans between Quito and the coast. Our room was a horrid
hole, dark, dirty, damp, and cold, without a window or a fire. There was
one old rickety bedstead, but as that belonged to the lady in our party,
the rest betook themselves to benches, table, and floor. We filled our
stomachs with an unpalatable potato soup containing cheese and eggs, and
laid down--to wait for the morning. Grass is the only fuel here; but
this is not the chief reason why it is so difficult to make good tea or
cook potatoes at this wretched tambo. Water boils at 190°, or before it
is fairly hot: it is well the potatoes are small. The muleteers slept
with their beasts outside, though the night was fearfully cold, for
Chuquipoyo lies on the frigid side of Chimborazo, at an elevation of
over twelve thousand feet above the sea. As Johnson said to Boswell,
"This is a dolorous place."
Gladly we left this cheerless tambo, though a cold, heavy mist was
falling as we rode northward, over the seemingly endless paramo of
Sanancajas. Here, as throughout the highlands of Ecuador, ditches are
used for fences; so that, should the traveler wander from the path, he
finds himself stopped by an impassable gulf. In two hours and a half we
reached Mocha, a lifeless pueblo under the shadow of Carguairazo. Slowly
descending from our high altitude, we gradually entered a more congenial
climate--the zone of wheat and barley, till, finally, signs of an
eternal spring were all around us--ripening corn on one side, and
blossoming peas on the other.
Late in the afternoon the road led us through a sandy, sterile tract,
till suddenly we came in sight of Ambato, beautifully situated in a deep
ravine, eight thousand five hundred and fifty feet above the Pacific.
The city ranks next to Quito in beauty. It is certainly an oasis, the
green foliage of its numerous shade-trees and orchards contrasting with
the barren hills around. It is two degrees warmer than Quito, and is
famous for its fruit and fine climate. It is the Lynn of Ecuador, the
chief articles of manufacture being boots and shoes--cheap, but of poor
quality. It was destroyed by an earthquake in 1698. The houses are built
of sun-dried brick, and whitewashed. The streets, with gutters in the
centre, are at right angles, and paved, and adorned with numerous
cypress-looking trees, called _sauce_, a species of willow. The Plaza,
which contains a useful if not ornamental fountain, presents a lively
scene on Sunday, the great market-day. The inn is a fair specimen of a
public house in Spanish America. Around the court-yard, where the beasts
are fed, are three or four rooms to let. They are ventilated only when
opened for travelers. The floor is of brick, but alive with fleas; the
walls are plastered, but veiled with cobwebs. The furniture, of
primitive make and covered with dust, consists of a chair or two, a
table, and a bed of boards covered with a thin straw mat. There is not a
hotel in Ecuador where sheets and towels are furnished. The landlords
are seldom seen; the entire management of the concern is left to a
slovenly Indian boy, who is both cook and hostler. No amount of bribery
will secure a meal in less than two hours. Ten years ago there was not a
posada in the country; now there is entertainment for man and beast at
Guayaquil, Guaranda, Mocha, Ambato, Tacunga, Machachi, and Quito.
Riobamba has a billiard saloon, but no inn.
Leaving Ambato, we breakfasted at Cunchebamba, an Indian village of half
a dozen straw huts. Thence the road for a long distance winds through
vast deposits of volcanic _débris_, the only sign of vegetation being
hedges of aloe and cactus. Arid hills and dreary plains, covered with
plutonic rocks and pumice dust, tell us we are approaching the most
terrible volcano on the earth. Crossing the sources of the Pastassa, we
entered Latacunga,[16] situated on a beautiful plain at the foot of
Cotopaxi, seven hundred feet higher than Ambato. Its average temperature
is 59°. The population, chiefly Indians, numbers about fifteen thousand.
It is the dullest city in Ecuador, without the show of enterprise or
business. Not even grass grows in the streets--the usual sign of life in
the Spanish towns. It is also one of the filthiest; and though it has
been many times thoroughly shaken by earthquakes, and buried under
showers of volcanic dust, it is still the paradise of fleas, which have
survived every revolution. Ida Pfeiffer says that, after a night's rest
in Latacunga, she awoke with her skin marked all over with red spots, as
if from an eruptive disease. We can certify that we have been tattoed
without the night's rest. The town has a most stupid and forlorn aspect.
Half of it is in ruins. It was four times destroyed between 1698 and
1797. In 1756 the Jesuit church was thrown down, though its walls were
five feet thick. The houses are of one story, and built of pumice,
widely different from the palaces and temples which are said to have
stood here in the palmy days of the Incas. Cotopaxi stands threateningly
near, and its rumbling thunder is the source of constant alarm.
[Footnote 16: This is shortened in parlance to Tacunga. The full name,
according to La Condamine, is _Llacta-cunga_, _llacta_ meaning country,
and _cunga_, neck.]
From Latacunga to Quito there is a very fine carriage road, the result
of one man's administration--Señor G. Garcia Moreno. For many miles it
passes over an uncultivated plateau, strewn with volcanic fragments. The
farms are confined to the slopes of the Cordilleras, and, as every where
else, the tumbling haciendas indicate the increasing poverty of the
owner. Superstition and indolence go hand in hand. On a great rock
rising out of the sandy plain they show a print of the foot of St.
Bartholomew, who alighted here on a visit--surely to the volcanoes, as
it was long before the red man had found this valley. Abreast of
Cotopaxi the road cuts through high hills of fine pumice
inter-stratified with black earth, and rapidly ascends till it reaches
Tiupullo, eleven thousand five hundred feet above the sea. This high
ridge,[17] stretching across the valley from Cotopaxi to Iliniza, is a
part of the great water-shed of the continent--the waters on the
southern slope flowing through the Pastassa and Amazon to the Atlantic,
those on the north finding their way to the Pacific by the Rio
Esmeraldas. At this bleak place we breakfasted on punch and guinea-pig.
[Footnote 17: Sometimes called _Chisinche_.]
As soon as we began to descend, the glittering cone of Cotopaxi, and the
gloomy plain it has so often devastated, passed out of view, and before
us was a green valley exceedingly rich and well cultivated, girt by a
wall of mountains, the towers of which were the peaks of Corazon and
Rumiñagui. Loathsome lepers by the wayside alone disturbed the pleasing
impression. Three hours more of travel brought us to the straggling
village of Machachi, standing in the centre of the beautiful plain, at
an altitude of nine thousand nine hundred feet. Nature designed this
spot for a home of plenty and comfort, but the habitations of the
wretched proprietors are windowless adobe hovels, thatched with dried
grass, and notorious for their filth.
We must needs make one more ascent, for the ridge of Tambillo hides the
goal of our journey. The moment we reached the summit, views
unparalleled in the Andes or any where else met our astonished vision
whithersoever we looked. Far away to the south stretched the two
Cordilleras, till they were lost in the mist which enshrouded Chimborazo
and Tunguragua. Turning to the north, we beheld the city of Quito at our
feet, and Pichincha and Antisana standing like gallant sentinels on
either side of the proud capital. Beautiful were the towering mountains,
and almost as delightful now are the memories of that hour. A broad,
well-traveled road, gentlemen on horseback clad in rich ponchos, droves
of Indians bowed under their heavy burdens, and long lines of laden
donkeys hurrying to and fro, indicate our approach to a great city.
Winding with the road through green pastures and fields of ripening
grain, and crossing the Machángara by an elegant bridge, we enter the
city of the Incas.