THE CACTUS FORESTS OF CENTRAL BOLIVIA--COCHABAMBA TO SAMAIPATA
The journey from Cochabamba to Sucre presents difficulties, no matter
which of the two available routes is selected. It is possible to take
a pack-train to the beginning of the railroad at Cala Cala and proceed
by train to Potosi, thence by cart or pack-train (or by motor-car in
the dry season) to Sucre; but we preferred to go the whole way by
pack-train, following the roundabout Santa Cruz trail, as this would
enable us to see the country and also to stop at any time we chose to
investigate the fauna of a promising region.
It is an easy matter to rent mules and _arrieros_ in Cochabamba, either
by the trip or month, and the latter way is the more satisfactory
if one does not expect to spend too much time en route. We had been
told, however, that it was better to secure the animals at Tarata, a
small town southeast of Cochabamba, so we decided to make that the
expedition’s starting-point.
A narrow-gauge railroad connects Cochabamba with Arani, almost due
east; Tarata is about half-way between the two. We took the train and
sent our own mules overland, in charge of one of the men. It required
but two hours to make the trip. The entire region is naturally of a
barren, desolate nature; nevertheless it is densely populated with
Quechua Indians. The low, earthen huts cover the desert-like plain and
are so like it in color that it is at first impossible to distinguish
them. During the short rainy season crops of wheat and other grain are
sown, and their growth is later promoted by means of irrigation. They
also cultivate grape-vines, and their small clumps of peach and apricot
trees were in full bloom.
The train stopped at numerous little stations, and at each of them
gayly dressed Quechua squaws sold fried eggs, boiled corn, and bread.
Occasionally they also had stew or meat pies, but these were always to
be regarded with suspicion. Our boy told us that cavies are ordinarily
used in preparing the meat foods; but a woman tried substituting toads
on one occasion, with the result that those who partook of the delicacy
became violently ill.
Crowds of Indians boarded and left the train at each station. The
accommodations at their disposal resemble cattle-cars from the outside,
but have two long benches running through the centre. The fare is
very low, and the Indians are fond of travelling, so the cars were
invariably crowded to suffocation. In addition to the mass of humanity
each person carried a huge parcel, pail, or basket, that filled the
few interstices. The Quechuas and Cholos are a good-natured lot among
themselves, and do not in the least mind being placed in such close
proximity with one another.
We reached Tarata in two hours. It is a town of considerable size;
the elevation is nine thousand eight hundred feet, and it is desolate
beyond description. The inhabitants are largely Indians of an
independent temperament, though living in abject poverty. We found
it almost impossible to secure lodging, or to find help to carry our
luggage up from the station, so appealed to the chief of police, who
rounded up a number of men and placed them at our disposal. Perhaps our
difficulty was due partly to the fact that the Indians were celebrating
a religious holiday. They had taken an image of a saint from the church
and were carrying it back and forth through the streets. A group of
them preceded the procession and set off pinwheels and cannon crackers,
while those following also employed explosives of various kinds with
which to add to the din. The people are so fond of this sort of pastime
that it is difficult to persuade them to desist long enough to perform
any service, no matter how slight; and the guise of religious fervor
gives them license to indulge in acts that would not be tolerated at
other times.
Padre Fulgencio, with whom we had become acquainted at the mission on
the Chimoré, had told me a great deal about the monastery of San José,
located at Tarata, and had given us a letter of introduction to the
abbot. We therefore called upon that personage at the first available
moment.
The huge building stands on an eminence overlooking the town and
surrounding country, and is said to be the largest of its kind in
Bolivia. We were ushered through long, gloomy corridors, past rows of
small, cell-like rooms, and finally into the quarters of the abbot.
This good man received us in his cell, and cordially offered to assist
us in any way possible. He also invited us to make the monastery our
home during our stay in Tarata. A group of monks added their invitation
to their superior’s, but the edifice, with walls eight or ten feet
thick, small, narrow windows, bare, gloomy rooms, and the chill damp
as of a dungeon was not very inviting, and we preferred to return to
the Quechua hut that seemed to belong more to the every-day world. One
of the priests, however, secured an _arriero_ and mules to take us the
first stage of the journey.
Our man arrived about noon on Sunday, September 18. Much to our
surprise we saw that he had but one arm, but this did not prevent him
from being one of the best mule-men we ever employed. He had evolved
a clever system of loading the packs that was admirably suited to his
needs. Instead of the long ropes or thongs ordinarily used to tie on
the cargoes he had strong nets that fitted over the packs, with loops
that could be hooked over pegs in the pack-saddle. He lifted the
trunks, each weighing one hundred and twenty-five pounds with his one
arm, slipped them into place, and then tied them securely to prevent
them from bouncing up and down as the animals trotted along.
The first afternoon’s ride was short and ended at the _arriero’s_
house in a village called Uaiculi. There, as at Tarata, scores of
yellow finches lived about the houses; they were fully as plentiful as
English sparrows are in the United States, and acted not unlike them.
The soil in this entire region is so arid and rocky that even cacti
grow in limited numbers only. There are no streams, so water of a poor
quality is obtained from deep wells. Nevertheless the whole country
is thickly settled. The Indians are adepts at conserving the scanty
water-supply, and at irrigating. They grow fruit and also cultivate
small, isolated fields of grain, but the greater part of their
subsistence is derived from the flocks of sheep and goats that seem to
thrive in the desert-like country.
The climate is very cold and during the winter months there is a high
wind. We could see funnel-shaped masses of dust moving across the plain
all day long; occasionally a dozen or more, resembling small cyclones,
were visible at the same time.
After leaving Uaiculi the way lay along the edge of the barren plain
for some miles. A ridge of high peaks, some of them covered with snow,
rises on each side. Then the trail ascended the slope to the east,
rising gradually in a series of terraces, four to six hundred feet
high. Sometimes low hills flanked the trail, and often we passed along
the top of flat plateaus.
The slopes of the highest peaks were littered with fields of broken
sandstone that resembled a quarry-dump for shattered rocks of large
size; groves of gnarled trees, not over twenty-five feet high, grew in
these rock-strewn areas, and we found them nowhere else. Where there
were no rocks thick clumps of tall grass stood. When we reached the
elevation of thirteen thousand four hundred and fifty feet we found a
very peculiar plant belonging to the bromelias (_Puya_); the smooth,
trunk-like stem was about eighteen inches through; this served as a
pedestal for the dense clump of slender, bayonet-like leaves; a tall
spike of small yellow flowers rose from the centre of the plant.
Numbers of giant humming-birds (_Patagona gigas_) came to sip nectar
from these flowers.
[Illustration: The great _Puya_, a species of pine growing in the
Bolivian Andes at an elevation of 13,000 feet.]
The mountains seem formed of solid sandstone. Here and there a ledge,
worn and rounded by the elements, projects conspicuously and resembles
an impregnable fort or castle of majestic though fantastic design.
We reached a lone Indian hut late at night, and, while the _arriero_
was loath to halt, the mules were too tired to go much farther. The
neighborhood was in bad repute on account of a number of robberies and
murders that had recently taken place there, and not long after our
arrival we saw mysterious signal-fires spring up on the surrounding
slopes. We therefore camped in a corral, the enclosing stone walls
serving as a barricade, and alternately did sentry duty throughout the
night. I believe one of the reasons for our being left severely alone
was that each member of the expedition was advised to display casually
his pistol to the inhabitants of the hut, and to acquaint them with
its possibilities. This same ruse has prevented serious trouble in a
number of instances. I have found that by far in the greater part of
South America there is not the slightest necessity of carrying a weapon
of any kind; but there are isolated regions where the moral effect
on the natives produced by wearing a revolver of generous size in a
conspicuous place is so great that one may tread with impunity what
would otherwise be dangerous ground.
The next night was spent on the banks of a narrow creek called
Usiamayo, the elevation being only seven thousand nine hundred feet.
Many Indians live on both sides of the stream. They own numerous flocks
of sheep and goats and cultivate extensive areas of maize and wheat.
Their huts are low, primitive affairs, and of such small size that they
resemble overcrowded rabbit-hutches. Freshly cut grain was piled in
neat heaps that were surrounded by fences of thorny brush to keep the
sheep and cattle away. Corn fodder was stored in the tops of low trees.
From a distance these aerial storage-places looked as if they might
be the nests of some giant bird. Invariably a little shelter or wigwam
stood in the centre of each field, or in several instances it had
been built in the branches of a stunted tree. These are the Quechuas’
guard-houses; they are occupied by a watchman day and night so long as
crops are in the field, and thieves have but slight chance, indeed, of
escaping his vigilant eyes.
It was less than half a day’s ride from the Usiamayo to Mizque, a town
of small size, the capital of the Province of Mizque. The cactus-forest
belt of central Bolivia has its beginning in this region, although it
does not reach its maximum development until some distance farther
south. A part of the surrounding country, however, is fertile and
provides pasturage for horses and cattle, and areas of some extent are
also cultivated; this is particularly true of the land near the small
stream bearing the same name as the town and province. A great deal of
the acreage is planted in peppers, for which there is a good demand
throughout the country, and which fetch a high price. The seeds are
sown in small, sunken squares or “pans,” where the plants remain until
several inches high. They are then transplanted to the fields. I saw
numbers of Indians weeding in the plantations, and when they neglected
their work or accidentally pulled up a few of the precious plants
together with the grass, their employers did not hesitate to cuff or
kick them. When the peppers are ripe they are dried and done up into
bales of about fifty pounds each; the natives are very fond of them and
eat quantities just as we eat an apple or other fruit.
The fauna of the Mizque region is typical of the arid highlands; but
many species of birds belonging to a different zone were met with
for the first time in Bolivia. I immediately recognized the white
anis (_guiras_) that were so common near Asuncion, and there was also
a species of puff-bird, or bucco, and a little finch of a deep-red
color (_Coryphospingus_). The number of doves in the open fields was
astonishing; they fed on weed-seeds, and when disturbed flew to the
nearest bush or low tree which they covered much in the same manner
that passenger pigeons are said to have done in this country not so
many years ago. One could easily have secured thirty or forty with a
single charge of number ten shot.
[Illustration: The plaza at Mizque.]
Near Mizque lies a narrow valley enclosed on both sides by ridges of
low mountains. We repaired to this space and camped in a decaying
structure that formerly served as a sawmill; for, strange to relate,
this little valley was originally wooded. Most of the trees had been
cut down and converted into lumber, and while a large part of the land
was under cultivation, there were also extensive patches of brush and
second growth. Tujma, as the place is called, deserved more time than
we could give it. In addition to the birds found at Mizque were many
species unknown to us; among them a blue-fronted and a red-fronted
parrakeet, and a gorgeous Amazon parrot. There was also a kind of macaw
(_Ara_) that we saw in that region only, and even there it was rare;
the forehead and shoulders are of a blazing crimson, and the underparts
of a pale-yellow color, the rest of the bird being green. Most members
of the parrot family were feeding on cactus fruits that were ripening
in great abundance.
A hummer of rather modest attire, being of a grayish color, but larger
than our own ruby-throat, had a dainty little nest, containing two
white, bean-like eggs, suspended from the ceiling of our hut. At first
the bird was greatly distressed at our appearance and darted out each
time we came in; but finally it became more confident and returned,
frequently hovering overhead to inspect us several minutes at a time,
and then slipping quietly into the nest where it sat unconcernedly, its
long tongue playing in and out of the bill, like a snake’s.
Our next station was the large Indian town of Totora. We covered the
entire distance of more than thirty miles in a day. The country is
rough and the trail runs up and down over numerous mountain-tops,
varying between seven thousand one hundred and ten thousand feet in
height. There are a number of deep ravines filled with low, dry woods;
they form the connecting-links with the lowland forest, and it is up
these avenues that the new fauna we were constantly observing finds an
easy means of invading the uplands. Before reaching Totora we had seen
guans, and jays of a dark-blue color.
There were many Indians on the trail; most of them were driving burros
laden with fire-wood, peppers, or sundry articles. When the tired
animals stopped for a moment’s breathing-spell, their owners beat
them unmercifully with stones and clubs so that some of them dropped
senseless in their tracks. The drivers also used sticks with sections
of cactus stuck on the end as prods to urge on the worn-out creatures.
Totora is to me the most desolate and unattractive place in all
Bolivia, and the inhabitants are quite in keeping with their town. It
is frequently spoken of as the miniature La Paz because, like that
city, it is built in a crevice in the mountains, and one does not see
it until on the very brink of the precipice above. The inhabitants are
practically all Quechuas, or Cholos of a low type who spend most of
their time drinking, swearing, and fighting; then they unburden their
souls of guilt by celebrating a religious fiesta. We witnessed one such
performance the day after our arrival. Indians and Cholos formed the
inevitable procession, headed by members of the clergy; they halted at
each corner and sang a hymn to the tune of a few blaring brass horns.
The _gente decente_ stood on the upper balconies of their mud huts and
showered home-made confetti and firecrackers on the heads of the sacred
statue and the marchers.
The Indians of Totora make some of the loveliest blankets found in all
Bolivia and--since the introduction of cheap German dyes--some of the
most atrocious. They are woven of coarse yarn, are thick and heavy and
of large size, being about seven or eight feet square. Usually there
are wide stripes of two colors merging gradually into one another,
and when some harmonious combination is used, such as dark green and
yellow, the effect is very pleasing. The price of a blanket, requiring
months to make and containing six or eight pounds of wool, was about
three dollars.
Continuing our journey by way of Duraznillos and Lajma, we reached
Chilón at the end of three days. A more tiresome trip is hard to
imagine; the country is so uneven that one is constantly going either
up hill or down, and the altitude varies from that of Totora, nine
thousand eight hundred feet to ten thousand five hundred feet. The
broken, arid landscape becomes monotonous, and the climate is trying
owing to the heat at midday and the freezing temperature at night. The
Indians scattered along the way are not of a particularly friendly
nature, and are only indifferent at best.
At Chilón we entered the heart of the giant-cactus forest--and it can
be properly known by no other name. The country, far as the eye can
see, is covered with the thorny plants; some of the giant club-cacti
rear their fluted columns to a height of sixty to seventy-five feet,
and are of majestic appearance. There are also immense clumps of
prickly-pear and several other varieties, while low, trailing kinds hug
the rocky earth; the latter are rather unpleasant as one frequently
strikes against them in walking, and the sharp spines penetrate
shoe-leather and are extracted from the foot with difficulty; mules
frequently get them into their noses while nibbling on leaves or the
few blades of coarse grass, and are driven almost frantic with the
pain. Many of the club-cactus plants bore an abundance of round fruit
about two inches in diameter and covered with long, velvety down; when
the outer covering was brushed off a smooth, red berry was revealed; it
is very sweet and the flavor reminds one of strawberries.
Chilón is a settlement of twenty-five or thirty huts; its elevation
above sea-level is five thousand six hundred feet, but the climate is
very hot. We put up in one of the hovels where there was also a corral
for the mules, and proceeded to work along the banks of the Rio Chilón,
which is a small tributary of the Rio Mizque. The stream is rapid and
shallow, and flows over a rock-strewn bed. Numbers of fish, including
rays, were plainly visible through the clear water. The majority of
the birds inhabiting the thorny jungle that grows on both sides of
the watercourse, were still of the arid upland type; but there was
a further encroachment of a foreign fauna, and the brown-shouldered
orioles, coral-billed tinamou, and red-tailed parrakeets left no doubts
in our minds of the origin of their distribution. They were the advance
ranks of a stream of bird-life flowing up the valley of the Rio Grande
and its tributaries, where conditions are at least somewhat similar to
those obtaining in the chaco country to the east, which is their normal
habitat.
Apparently the red-tailed parrakeets were mating. Large groups sat on
the branches of some stunted tree, preening one another’s plumage, and
emitting queer ani-like wails. If one observed closely, however, it
could be seen that the flocks were always broken up into pairs that
were snuggled up as closely together as possible.
Comarapa, the next station, is very similar to Chilón, but somewhat
larger. The town is built near the base of a high range that towers
to the east. A stream of small size flows past the settlement; it is
known as the Rio Comarapa, and is thought to be the headwater of the
Ichilo and Mamoré. The Indians said that the river flows through a deep
cleft in the mountains, impossible to follow or navigate; also that an
exploration-party of Germans once crossed the range with the object
of locating the Ichilo on the other side, but after spending several
months in the wilderness they returned without having found the river.
There was at one time a well-known trail across the mountains, over
which war-parties of Yuracaré Indians crossed to attack the settlers,
and later they came to work in the pepper-fields; but the location
of this passageway doubtless leading to the Ichilo or some other
navigable stream, has been forgotten.
A few of the older families of Comarapa possess wonderful collections
of ancient silverware made by the Spaniards centuries ago. One finds it
difficult to refrain from openly admiring the massive ladles, bowls,
plates, and cups that are unostentatiously placed on the table before
the guest, but such a procedure would be considered unpardonable, as
any comment on such possessions is looked upon with suspicion. To
attempt to purchase an article of this kind is regarded as a very grave
breach of etiquette; but not infrequently the owners of these treasures
experience the need of ready money and will offer them for a fraction
of their value.
The elevation of Comarapa is six thousand six hundred feet. But a
short distance away rises the first outlier of the Andean Range, eight
thousand three hundred feet high; from its summit we could see two
other ridges, both of greater height, that must be crossed before
reaching the forested slopes on the eastern side; and there may be
more. We descended one thousand seven hundred feet into a small valley
called California, settled by a few Quechua families. These people were
squalid beyond description. Their dilapidated huts swarmed with fleas,
and vermin of many kinds was so numerous that during the three days and
nights we spent in the valley, no member of the party found it possible
to get an hour’s sleep altogether. We left sooner than we had expected,
as the insect plague drove us to the verge of exhaustion. Practically
all the Indians we saw were suffering from consumption. Many of them
had lost the sight of one eye, and I was told that in fighting among
themselves they invariably try to gouge out one another’s eyes with
their thumbs.
From a short distance the valley and the slopes above California appear
to be heavily forested, but a close inspection showed that there was
but a dense growth of low, dry woods, the trees not exceeding forty
feet in height; the interlocking branches were draped with long
streamers of grayish moss. The ground was perfectly clean and one could
see a long distance ahead in the greenish-gray light. The surroundings
were almost weird; subconsciously one expected to find strange
sacrificial altars, and bearded Druids officiating at some gruesome
rite of a mythical religion. Beautiful little deer walked timidly among
the column-like trunks of the garlanded sanctuary, sniffing the air,
and nibbling daintily at a leaf or twig, and made the hunter feel like
an intruder in a consecrated place.
Upon our return to Comarapa we met a gentleman representing a
mercantile establishment in Cochabamba. He was making his semiannual
tour of the region, taking orders for merchandise, and collecting for
goods sold on the previous trip. Most of his customers paid with silver
and nickel coins, so that he had several mule-loads of money in his
possession. One night our Indian boy came to us in a state of great
excitement. He had been drinking _chicha_ in an Indian liquor-store
together with the _peons_ belonging to the merchant, and one of them,
while under the influence of drink, boasted that he expected to murder
and rob his _patrón_. A plan had been carefully formed to suddenly
attack the man from behind, while riding along a lonely and precipitous
part of the trail. The body was then to be thrown over the precipice
into the river below, where no one would ever discover it, and the
money taken by the highwayman and his accomplice. Naturally, we lost
no time in imparting this information to the traveller, and he at once
interviewed the would-be assassin. He first of all questioned the man
carefully, and when he had succeeded in obtaining a partial confession,
he mauled him back and forth across the room until he was tired out.
Thereafter we all travelled together, and the plotter, as further
punishment, was deprived of his horse and compelled to walk in advance
of the party day after day. He had been in the merchant’s employ six
years, and the latter did not care to turn him over to the police, but
was certain that the punishment inflicted was sufficient to inspire
proper respect in the future.
A brisk canter of eighteen miles took us from Comarapa to Pulcina, also
known as San Isidro. A tame condor was standing dolefully in the centre
of the open square about which the houses were built; it was a friendly
bird and liked to be petted and to romp, but was pretty rough at times,
and picked off pieces of skin during the course of its rather too
affectionate caresses.
As we unloaded the mules the bells in the tiny box-like church began
to tinkle, and all the people rushed out of their houses, bearing
lighted candles in their hands. They hurried to one of the huts where
a youth lay dying, and crowded into the one dingy room, filling it
to overflowing, and raising their voices in wails and lamentations;
this continued for half an hour. No priest or physician was present;
only the noisy mob of half-wild people, to whom death comes as a
divertisement from the daily humdrum of half-lived lives, to speed the
parting soul to the great beyond.
Pulcina was swarming with dogs. It seemed as if each family owned at
least half a dozen. They were a hungry mongrel lot, that roamed at
large, snarling at passers-by and rending the night with howls and
fighting. It was impossible to keep them out of the houses, and no
matter how often they were driven away they always returned to rummage
among the luggage and attempt to tear open the provision-sacks. Toward
morning, when the dogs had departed, pigs came to take their place.
Each of them wore a long, forked stick over the neck, like an inverted
Y; another stick was lashed across the bottom so that the pig’s neck
was enclosed in a complete wooden triangle. This arrangement would have
kept the pigs from crawling through fences, had there been any. Some
of the contrivances were so large that they had apparently been made
in the hope that the animals would eventually grow to fit them; but as
it was, they touched the ground and made the wearers think they were
constantly about to step over something, so they walked along raising
their front feet like well-trained circus horses.
A ride of thirty miles next day brought us to Pampa Grande. The town
was anything but what the name led us to expect. Instead of a vast,
grass-covered pampa, there was but a semiarid plain; near by extended
the wide, rocky bed of a river that contained not a drop of water.
The inhabitants had dug deep down into the gravel and scooped up the
small quantity of thin mud that had collected; it is a place about
the size of Mizque but wretched-looking and forsaken. Formerly it had
a population of sixty thousand and was noted for the brilliancy and
gayety of its annual fairs, that drew crowds even from the Argentine.
Epidemics of fever, it is said, killed off many of the people, and
others fled from the threatening shadow of the pestilence, until to-day
the once thriving city has all but ceased to exist.
At Pampa Grande we had a very good illustration of two extreme types of
Bolivian character. When we entered the town, our travelling companion
met an acquaintance who owned practically the only house of any size.
The Bolivian greeted him in the friendliest and most polite manner
possible, and insisted that all of us spend the night at his home; he
directed us to the house and then excused himself, saying that he would
return presently. We found the place without difficulty, but the wife
refused to admit us and told us we might wait--in the street--until
the return of her husband. The school-teacher, seeing our predicament,
ventured to offer us the use of the classroom; he apologized because
it was so small and the roof leaked; and the next day he refused to
accept a single _centavo_ for the accommodation. The first man had
not returned home when we were leaving the following morning; from
my experience with the same type of person, I am certain that had he
returned and admitted us to his home, he would have made an exorbitant
charge that courtesy demanded our paying.
There now remained but one day’s ride to Samaipata, where the trail
divides--one branch leading toward Sucre, and the other to Santa Cruz
de la Sierra. The farther eastward one goes the greener the country
becomes. Between the five-thousand-foot elevation of Pampa Grande and
Samaipata, which is six thousand feet above sea-level, there are two
peaks to be crossed, one seven thousand three hundred and twenty-five
feet, and the other six thousand seven hundred feet high. The top of
the former is known as the Alto de Mairana; it is a cold, dreary little
plateau where half a dozen wretched Indians live. The town of Mairana
is on the lower plain between the two peaks. Patches of low brush
replace the cacti and thorny, arid-region type of vegetation; there is
a sufficient water-supply; and the whole country seems to present a
transition zone of reviving life between the alternately hot and frigid
upland deserts and the green slopes stretching toward Santa Cruz.