Departure from Quito.--Itulcachi.--A Night in a
Bread-tray.--Crossing the
Cordillera.--Guamani.--Papallacta.--Domiciled at the
Governor's.--An Indian Aristides.--Our Peon Train.--In the
Wilderness.
Forty miles east-southeast of Quito, on the eastern slope of the Eastern
Cordillera, and on the western edge of the great forest, is the Indian
village of Papallacta. From the capital to this point there is a path
just passable for horses; but thence to the Napo travelers must take to
their feet. Through the intervention of the curate of Papallacta, who
has great influence over his wild people, but who has wit enough to
reside in Quito instead of his parish, we engaged the Indian governor to
send over thirteen beasts and three peons to carry our party and baggage
to Papallacta. Wednesday morning the quadrupeds were at the door of our
hotel, five of them _bestias de silla_. These horses, judging by size,
color, shape, and bony prominences, were of five different species. The
saddles, likewise, differed from one another, and from any thing we had
ever seen or desired to see. One of them was so narrow and deep none of
us could get into it; so, filling up the cavity with blankets, we took
turns in riding on the summit. By noon, October 30th, we had seen our
Andean collections in the hands of arrieros bound for Guayaquil, whence
they were to be shipped by way of Panama to Washington, and our baggage
train for Napo headed toward the rising sun. So, mounting our jades, we
defiled across the Grand Plaza and through the street of St. Augustine,
and down the Carniceria to the Alameda, amid the _vivas_ and _adeos_ of
our Quitonian friends, who turned out to see the largest expedition
that ever left the city for the wild Napo country since the days of
Pizarro. Few there were who expected to hear of our safe arrival on the
shores of the Atlantic.
Crossing the magnificent plain of Iñaquito, we reached in an hour the
romantic village of Guápulo. Here is an elegant stone church dedicated
to the Virgin of Guadaloupe, to which the faithful make an annual
pilgrimage. Thence the road led us through the valley of the
Guaillabamba (a tributary to the Esmeraldas), here and there blessed
with signs of intelligent life--a mud hut, and little green fields of
cane and alfalfa, and dotted with trees of wild cherry and myrtle, but
having that air of sadness and death-like repose so inseparable from a
Quitonian landscape. The greater part of this day's ride was over a
rolling country so barren and dreary it was almost repulsive. What a
pity the sun shines on so much useless territory!
Just before sunset we arrived at Itulcachi, a great cattle estate at the
foot of the eastern chain of mountains. The hacienda had seen better
days, and was poorly fitted to entertain man or beast. The major-domo,
however, managed to make some small potato soup, and find us shelter for
the night. In the room allotted us there were three immense
kneading-troughs and two bread-boards to match, for a grist-mill and
bakery were connected with the establishment. In default of beds, we
made use of this furniture. Five wiser men have slept in better berths,
but few have slept more soundly than we did in the bread-trays of
Itulcachi.
The following day we advanced five miles to Tablon, an Indian hamlet on
the mountain side. Here we waited over night for our cargo train, which
had loitered on the road. This was the only spot in South America where
we found milk to our stomachs' content; Itulcachi, with its herds of
cattle, did not yield a drop. Our dormitory was a mud hovel, without an
aperture for light or ventilation, and in this dark hole we all slept on
a heap of barley. Splendid was the view westward from Tablon. Below us
were the beautiful valleys of Chillo and Puembo, separated by the
isolated mountain of Ilaló; around them, in an imposing semicircle,
stood Cayambi, Imbabura, Pichincha, Corazon, Iliniza, Rumiñagui,
Cotopaxi, Sincholagua, and Antisana. As the sun went down in his glory
behind the western range, the rocky head of Pichincha stood out in bold
relief, and cast a long shadow over the plain. At this halting-place we
made the mortifying discovery that the bare-legged Indian who had
trotted by our side as a guide and body-servant, and whom we had ordered
about with all the indifference of a surly slaveholder, was none other
than his Excellency Eugenio Mancheno, governor of Papallacta! After this
we were more respectful.
The next morning, our baggage having come up, we pushed up the mountain
through a grand ravine, and over metamorphic rocks standing on their
edges with a wavy strike, till we reached a polylepis grove, 12,000 feet
above the sea. We lunched under the wide-spreading branches of these
gnarled and twisted trees, which reminded us of the patriarchal olives
in the Garden of Gethsemane, and then, ascending over the monotonous
paramo, we stood at the elevation of 15,000 feet on the narrow summit of
the Guamani ridge. Some priest had been before us and planted a cross by
the roadside, to guide and bless the traveler on his way.
Of the magnificent prospect eastward, over the beginning of the
Amazonian Valley, which this lofty point commands, we have already
spoken. There was a wild grandeur in the scene--mountain behind
mountain, with deep intervening valleys, all covered with one thick,
unbroken mass of foliage. A tiny brook, the child of everlasting snows
still higher up, murmured at our feet, as if to tell us that we were on
the Atlantic slope, and then dashed into the great forest, to lose
itself in the mighty Amazon, and be buried with it in the same ocean
grave. The trade-wind, too, came rushing by us fresh from that sea of
commerce which laves the shores of two worlds. Guamani gave us also our
finest view of Antisana, its snow-white dome rising out of a wilderness
of mountains, and presenting on the north side a profile of the human
face divine.
And now we rapidly descended by a steep, narrow path, and over paramo
and bog, to a little tambo, where we had the luxury of sleeping on a bed
of straw. Here we made the acquaintance of two Indians from the Napo,
who were on the way to Quito with the mail--probably half a dozen
letters. A strip of cloth around the loins, and a short cape just
covering the shoulders, were all their habiliments. We noticed that they
never sat down, though a bench was close by them; they would squat for
an hour at a time. The day following we took our last horseback ride in
South America. It was short, but horrible. Through quagmire and swamp,
and down a flight of rocky stairs, in striking imitation of General
Putnam's famous ride--over rocks, too, made wondrously slippery by a
pitiless rain, but which our unshod Indian horses descended with great
dexterity, only one beast and his rider taking a somerset--thus we
traveled two hours, reaching Papallacta at 11 A.M.
We put up at the governor's. This edifice, the best in town, had sides
of upright poles stuccoed with mud, a thatched roof, and ground floor,
on which, between three stones, a fire was built for cookery and
comfort. Three or four earthen kettles, and as many calabashes and
wooden spoons, were the sum total of kitchen utensils. A large flat
stone, with another smaller one to rub over it, was the mill for
grinding corn; and we were astonished to see how quickly our hostess
reduced the grains to an impalpable meal. The only thing that looked
like a bed was a stiff rawhide thrown over a series of round poles
running lengthwise. This primitive couch, and likewise the whole house,
the obsequious governor gave up to us, insisting upon sleeping with his
wife and little ones outside, though the nights were cold and
uncomfortable. Parents and children were of the earth, earthy--unwashed,
uncombed, and disgustingly filthy. We found the governor one day taking
lice for his lunch. Sitting behind his little boy, he picked out the
little parasites with his nails, and crushed them between his teeth with
a look of satisfaction. Eating lice is an old Indian custom, and
universal in the Andes. In Inca times it was considered an infallible
remedy against sore eyes. We have seen half a dozen women sitting on the
ground in a row, picking out vermin from each other's heads. We thought
the arrangement was a little unfair, for the first in the series had no
lice to eat, and the animals were left to roam undisturbed in the
capillary forest of the last.
Papallacta is a village of thirty dwellings, situated in a deep valley
on the north slope of Antisana, nearly surrounded by an amphitheatre of
sandstone and basaltic precipices. Here, too, is the terminus of the
fourth great lava stream from the volcano; it is not mentioned by
Humboldt. Papallacta is a thousand feet higher than Quito, yet
vegetation is more tropical. Its name signifies "the potato country,"
but not a potato could we find here. Though Mancheno was governor, he
was not really the greatest man in Papallacta. This was Carlos
Caguatijo; he was the ruling man, for he could read, write, and speak
Spanish, while the governor knew nothing but Quichua. Carlos, moreover,
was a good man; he had an honest, Quaker-like air about him, and his
face reminded us of George Washington's. In all his transactions we
noticed no attempt to prevaricate or deceive; what he promised he
performed to the letter. It was refreshing to meet one such upright soul
in Ecuador, though we found him not of Caucasian blood, nor dwelling
under the tiled roofs of the proud capital. The old man was the
spiritual father of Papallacta, and, in the absence of the curate,
officiated in the little church. With him, therefore, and not with our
host the governor, we negotiated for peons to take us through the
wilderness.
The journey from Papallacta to the Napo occupied us thirteen days,
including four days of rest. It was performed on foot, for the "road" is
a trail. But the untraveled reader can have little idea of a trail in a
tropical forest: fording bridgeless rivers, wading through interminable
bogs, fens, marshes, quagmires, and swamps, and cutting one's way
through dense vegetation, must be done to be understood. Half the year
there is no intercourse between Quito and its Oriental province, for the
incessant heavy rains of summer swell every rivulet into a furious
torrent, and the path is overgrown and rendered impassable even by an
Indian. The only time for travel is between November and April, for
then, though it rains nearly every day, the clouds drop down in showers,
not floods. But even then the traveler must sometimes wait two or three
weeks beside a swollen river in imminent danger of starving, and
throughout the journey entertain the comforting prospect that his
Indians may eat up his provisions to lighten their load, or suddenly
desert him as they did Dr. Jameson. There are other routes across South
America much more feasible than the one we chose; these will be
described in Chapter XXIII. But they all yield in interest to this
passage along the equatorial line, and especially in the line of
history. Who has not heard of Gonzalo Pizarro and his fatal yet famous
expedition into "the land of cinnamon?" How he was led farther and
farther into the wilderness by the glittering illusions of an El
Dorado,[111] till the faithless Orellana, deserting him, floated down
the Napo and made the magnificent discovery of the mighty Amazon.
Gonzalo, "who was held to be the best lancer that ever went to these
countries--and all confess that he never showed his back to the
enemy"--returned to Quito with a few survivors to tell a tale of almost
unparalleled suffering. A century elapsed (1530-1637) before any one
ascended from Pará to Quito by way of the Rio Napo; this was
accomplished by Pedro Teixeira.
[Illustration: Napo Peon.]
[Footnote 111: The king of this fabulous land was said to wear a
magnificent attire fragrant with a costly gum, and sprinkled with gold
dust. His palace was of porphyry and alabaster, and his throne of
ivory.]
An Indian will carry three arrobas (seventy-five pounds) besides his own
provisions, his provisions for the journey consisting of about
twenty-five pounds of roasted corn and barley-meal. The trunk or bundle
is bound to his back by withes, which pass across the forehead and
chest; a poncho or a handful of leaves protects the bare back from
chafing. All our luggage (amounting to nearly fifteen hundred pounds)
was divided and packed to suit this method of transportation, so that we
required twenty Indians. So many, however, of the right kind--for they
must be athletic young men to endure the fatigues of such a
journey--could not be furnished by the little village of Papallacta, so
we were obliged to wait a few days till more Indians could be summoned
from a neighboring town. When these arrived, the little world of
Papallacta, men, women, and children, assembled in front of the
governor's house, while Don Carlos sat by our side on a raised seat by
the doorway. A long parley ensued, resulting in this: that we should pay
one hundred Ecuadorian dollars for the transfer of our baggage to
Archidona; while Carlos solemnly promised for the young men that they
should start the next morning, that they should arrive at Archidona
within a stipulated time, and that they should not depend upon us for an
ounce of food. The powerful influence of the curate, which we had
secured, and the proclamation from the president, which Carlos read
aloud in the ears of all the people, together with the authoritative
charge of Carlos himself, had the desired effect; not a transportation
company in the United States ever kept its engagement more faithfully
than did these twenty peons--and this, too, though we paid them in
advance, according to the custom of the country. Upon a blanket spread
at our feet the money was counted out, and Carlos slowly distributed it
with a grave and reverend air, to every Indian five dollars.[112]
[Footnote 112: We give below the autograph of this wisest man in all the
Oriente: "Recibio del Señor James Orton la suma de centos (100) pesos
por vente (20) peones hasta Archidona.
[Illustration: reproduction of a signature is here]
"Papallacta, 4 Nov., 1867."]
Tuesday morning, November 5th, the peons promptly shouldered their
burdens, and we, shod with _alpargates_, and with Alpine staff in hand
(more needed here than in Switzerland), followed after, leaving the
governor to sleep inside his mansion, and to eat his lice unmolested. On
a little grassy knoll just outside the town our train halted for a
moment--the Indians to take their fill of chicha, and bid their friends
good-by, and we to call the roll and take an inventory. Our leader was
Isiro, a bright, intelligent, finely-featured, stalwart Indian. He could
speak Spanish, and his comrades acknowledged his superiority with marked
deference. Ten women and children followed us for two days, to relieve
the men of their burdens. Their assistance was not needed in the latter
part of the journey, for our keen appetites rapidly lightened the
provision cans. Starting again, we plunged at once into the forest,
taking a northeasterly course along the left bank of a tributary to the
Coca. The ups and downs of this day's travel of twelve miles were
foreshadowings of what might come in our "views afoot" in South America.
We encamped at a spot the Indians called Maspa. Herndon says: "The
(Peruvian) Indians take no account of time or distance; they stop when
they get tired, and arrive when God pleases."[113] But our Napo
companions measured distance by hours quite accurately, and they always
traveled as far as we were willing to follow. In ten minutes they built
us a booth for the night; driving two crotchets into the ground, they
joined them with a ridge-pole, against which they inclined a number of
sticks for rafters. These they covered with palm-leaves, so adroitly put
together that our roof was generally rain-proof. After ablution and an
entire change of garments, we built a fire, using for fuel a green tree
called _sindicaspi_ (meaning the wood that burns), a special provision
in these damp forests where every thing is dripping with moisture. The
fall of a full-grown tree under the strokes of a Yankee axe was a marvel
in the eyes of our Indians. Our second day's journey was far more
difficult than the first, the path winding up steep mountains and down
into grand ravines, for we were crossing the outlying spurs of the
Eastern Cordillera. Every where the track was slippery with mud, and
often we sank two feet into the mire. How devoutly we did wish that the
Ecuadorian Congress was compelled to travel this horrid road once a
year! At 10 o'clock we reached a lone habitation called Guila, where
wooden bowls are made for the Quito market. Here we procured a fresh
Indian to take the place of one of our peons who had given out under his
burden. We advanced this day sixteen miles in ten hours, sleeping under
an old bamboo hut beside a babbling brook bearing the euphonious name of
Pachamama.
[Footnote 113: "Distance is frequently estimated by the time that a man
will occupy in taking a chew of coca," or 37-1/2 minutes.--_Herndon_.]