A MULE-BACK JOURNEY ON THE SANTA CRUZ TRAIL TO SUCRE
Samaipata is in no particular different from the towns through which
we had passed during the previous two weeks. Perhaps provisions were
somewhat more abundant, and a small number of mules and sheep grazed
in the nearby pastures; but the general distress and dejection were
very much the same, and never failed to give one the impression that
the settlements were tottering on the brink of obliteration. Everywhere
we heard tales of woe about the prevalence of malarial fever during a
part of the year, and that this disease was the cause of the desolation
and extermination of the people; but as none of the places was lower
than five thousand feet above sea-level, and the country is of a
semiarid type, I am unable to understand how malaria could work such
havoc, and am inclined to attribute the dreadful inroads to some other
little-known underlying cause.
Since leaving Cochabamba we had made very good time; although there
had been several halts en route, the distance covered each day was
comparatively great, ranging sometimes up to forty miles, considering
that we always travelled with our pack-train. Such long rides were
made possible by the fact that all _arrieros_ were mounted; if they
travelled on foot, as in Colombia, the distance traversed each day
would be about half. Fast travelling, however, was hard on the mules.
When we reached Samaipata our animals were in poor condition, so we
left them in charge of an attendant and engaged a complete new outfit
for a short side-trip toward Santa Cruz.
One of our main objects in undertaking this entire long, arduous
journey was to attempt to determine the southern limit of the
subtropical forest zone. This type of forest grows on the eastern
slopes only of the Bolivian Andes; a section directly eastward would,
therefore, take us through this zone and possibly enable us to find the
solution to the problem. It was not intended to cover the entire one
hundred and ten miles from Samaipata to Santa Cruz, but only to go far
enough to secure the desired information.
The mountain range breaks down rapidly east of Samaipata, but the road
to Santa Cruz is, nevertheless, neither an easy nor a level one. There
are still four steep ridges to cross, called Cuevas, Negra, Herradura,
and Guitara; between them lie small, well-watered valleys, planted in
cane and fruits, and settled by Bolivians of Spanish extraction. There
are no more Quechuas, nor is their language spoken; after many months
we were once again in a Spanish-speaking world.
The trail, at least during the second day’s travel, lies near the
course of the Rio Piray, and the scenery flanking this watercourse
is among the most picturesque found in the Bolivian Andes. There is
a bewildering succession of dome-shaped peaks, unscalable cliffs and
overhanging precipices, all of red sandstone. Many of the formations
are spotlessly clean and smooth, as if scoured, or cut with a knife.
The river laves the base of the rugged chain, and dark caverns worn
into the frowning battlement open alluringly to tempt the adventurous
spirit to explore their unknown depths.
Vermejo is the name given to a fertile region that may be called
_yungas_, between the Negra and Herradura ridges. Several houses are
scattered along the trail; the inhabitants grow maize, potatoes, and
large quantities of cane that is used in making _chancaca_ (brown
sugar) and molasses. The people also make bread and a peculiar
“food-drink” called _somo_ to sell to passers-by. _Somo_ is made of
boiled maize that has been left standing until fermentation sets in,
and is taken with molasses. To us, the taste was very disagreeable,
but the natives were fond of it and purchased a bowlful at frequent
intervals. _Chicha_, made from peanuts, was also to be had at some of
the dwellings.
With the exception of the tracts cleared for cultivation, and the bare
sandstone summits, the country is covered with light forest. There is
practically no moss, but a dense undergrowth of climbing bamboo and
a few palms and ferns. As a whole, the vegetation does not greatly
resemble that of the true subtropic or cloud-forest zone, and as this
was its upper limit and three thousand and five hundred feet above
sea-level, it should have been of the subtropic type, if any exists
in the region. We may, therefore, safely conclude that this marks the
ending of the zone of cloud forest existing on the eastern slope of the
Andes during practically their entire course north of this point.
Birds were not very common, and of comparatively few species; but the
fauna is entirely different from that of the uplands. The brilliant
little tanagers (_Calliste_), so typical of the mountain forest, are
conspicuously absent. There were, however, several kinds of warblers,
and wrens, parrots, and other birds properly belonging to such a
region. A black-and-white guan (_Pipile_) was really plentiful, and
while the distribution of the species is very great, I had always
considered it a rare bird. It is about twenty-eight inches long, and
of a bronzy-black color. The top of the head and a large blotch on the
wings are white; the naked cheeks and a long throat-caruncle are of a
delicate shade of grayish blue. The bird’s rasping cry may be heard
morning and evening, as it takes wing and alternately soars and flaps
from one tree to another, or skims over the top of the forest. Adult
birds weigh up to four pounds and are killed for food on every possible
occasion, as the flesh is very good. The individuals I examined had
been feeding on green leaves swallowed whole.
Jays in flocks followed us about in the forest and kept up a constant
screaming and scolding. It was impossible to escape them without using
drastic measures. They were a great nuisance, as their cries frightened
other forms of wild life away; both the black-fronted blue and the
green-and-yellow species mingled in the same flocks.
[Illustration: Vermejo on the Santa Cruz trail.]
One day we rode to the top of the next ridge, the Herradura, which
is six thousand feet high. The trail winds up along the face of
the slope and is very poor in places; a row of wonderful crags and
cathedral-shaped mountains stands like the ruins of a city on the
opposite side of the ravine. On the face of one of the cliffs we
saw what seems to be a gigantic serpent carved in the red sandstone
directly above two massive stones that stand as if forming a gateway.
The people say this is the entrance to a secret hiding-place used by
the Indians many years ago; or perhaps it might have been a prehistoric
shrine. The outline of the supposed snake can be discerned with ease,
and the body is marked with transverse black bands. It seems that the
natives have never taken the trouble to visit the spot, owing to the
difficulty of crossing the wild gorge.
We continued to the crest of the ridge; from this point of vantage it
was possible to secure a good view of the country to the east, but as
it did not differ from that we had just left, there was no reason for
going farther.
The vicinity of Vermejo had been headquarters of a band of brigands
that preyed upon travellers and caravans going to and from Santa
Cruz. They had had their rendezvous in one of the numerous caves, and
for a long time conducted their nefarious occupation with impunity.
Eventually, however, their depredations became so bold and wide-spread,
that a body of soldiers was sent against them. The bandits, brought to
bay among the hills, found it impossible to withstand the onslaught
of their assailants, and surrendered. It was said that a great many
horses and other property were recovered, and of the men captured a
number were taken to Santa Cruz, and others to Cochabamba and executed.
After that, thieving stopped for a while, but a new band was beginning
operations at the time of our visit.
The amount of traffic along the trail was surprising. Most of the
caravans were from Cochabamba; they took merchandise to Santa Cruz and
brought back cigars and low-country products.
The language spoken by the _Cruzeños_ is very peculiar; the diminutive
_ito_ is changed to _ingo_, so instead of saying _pocito_, _horita_,
or _chiquito_, they say _pocingo_, _horinga_, and _chiquingo_, for
instance. There are also other changes that sound either confusing or
amusing at first. At any rate, they speak the language of the country,
and do not copy that of the Indians. I have frequently wondered how
any country, such as Paraguay or Bolivia, for example, could hope to
advance when its inhabitants adopt the language and customs of its
Indian population, instead of introducing their own mode of living and
institutions which should, at least, be on a higher plane. The former
procedure might be excusable to a limited degree in isolated cases
when, for instance, a missionary goes among savages who have no reason
for being interested in the white man, and who do not recognize his
authority unless he can propound his doctrine in a way they can readily
understand. It may be argued that a large proportion of the inhabitants
of Paraguay or Bolivia are half-breeds and therefore naturally adhere
to the ways of their Indian ancestry; but that only shows more
conclusively than ever the weak, moral fibre of the Spanish half, that
so readily succumbs to the Indian half. It is very safe to wager that
if such a country were completely isolated from the remainder of the
world for a few generations, savagery would again come into its own and
obliterate the traces of to-day’s civilization.
In the course of years of almost constant hunting one is compelled to
have some very peculiar and unusual experiences. One of these occurred
at Malena, Colombia, when the wounded macaw entered our room. Another
took place at and near Vermejo. The evening before starting back to
Samaipata, we noticed a flock of swifts soaring high above the hut.
Boyle and I grabbed our shotguns and each took a quick shot before
the birds disappeared; my companion scored a clean hit; apparently I
had missed; but the next morning we were astonished to find a dead
bird of the same species lying on a rock beside the trail, about two
miles distant, and more than one thousand feet above the place we had
left. I am convinced that it was the identical bird I had aimed at,
and that it had continued flying until it died and fell in the spot
where we chanced to find it. The natives do not shoot birds on the
wing, because ammunition is too costly to take any chances with; under
no circumstances would a charge be wasted on a small swift-winged
bird; and also, when I prepared the bird I found a number-ten shot in
its head, which is what we used; such small shot is not to be had by
natives, as none is used in the country. The coincidence of finding the
bird is one that is not likely ever to be repeated.
From Samaipata we turned southward toward Vallegrande. It required two
days’ travel to reach that town, over the same monotonous, broken,
barren country ranging in elevation from five thousand three hundred
feet to eight thousand two hundred and fifty feet. There are a few
trees near some of the small watercourses, but as a whole the country
is unproductive. At Vallegrande, however, the ground is not so sterile.
The town also is more attractive, and the more cheerful environment
is reflected in the dispositions of the people. I was particularly
glad to find that some of the inhabitants showed traits of character
unmistakably alien to the average Bolivian, and it did not require a
great effort to trace them directly to the wholesome influence exerted
by the American College at Cochabamba. It was forcibly demonstrated
that at least some of the students of the Cochabamba Institute
introduce into their houses and home towns the admirable precepts of
temperance, morality, and sincerity with which they have become imbued.
Travel in the highlands of Bolivia presents a succession of
difficulties, chief of which is the scarcity of mules and also the lack
of forage.
There is no natural pasturage, so the animals must subsist entirely
on oats grown by the Indians in irrigated areas. The cost of keeping
animals is prohibitive; instead of the one or two cents a day charged
in the settled parts of Colombia, one is compelled to pay fifty cents
or more. We should probably have been forced to remain in Vallegrande
a long time, had it not been for one Señor Villazón who provided the
pack-mules for the rest of the journey to Sucre.
The first day’s ride took us to the village of Pucará. A part of the
distance had been over a grass-covered plateau ten thousand feet high,
cut in places by deep ravines filled with light woods. The second day
we faced the unpleasant prospect of having to cross the Rio Grande.
The few natives we met said that the river was probably very high and
were inclined to be pessimistic concerning our ability to get across;
they also advised us to return to Aiquile, near Mizque, as the stream
is narrow and spanned by a bridge at that point; but as this meant
retracing our steps the greater part of the way, we could not consider
the suggestion.
One has the first view of the Rio Grande from the top of a rocky
mountain nine thousand five hundred feet high, of which we reached
the summit a few hours after leaving Pucará. Far below lay the dull,
brown ribbon of water, looking like a painted streak across a grayish
background. The descent to the watercourse is so abrupt that in many
instances the trail consisted of a succession of steps hewn into the
rock; toiling down the tortuous trail was life-sapping work for the
pack-animals; we relieved the riding animals by walking. Downward,
always downward, led the indistinct way, seemingly into a bottomless
abyss. The mountainside is dry and cheerless; no dainty flower or blade
of grass relieves the grim desolation of desert dust and shattered
rock, and even the few grayish, stunted cacti seem to shrivel and die
in the burning glare of a hostile sun. After hours that seemed more
like days we arrived at the dry bed of a narrow stream and followed
down its angular course. The aneroid showed that we were exactly one
mile lower than our starting-point, but still the river seemed like a
mirage, near, yet unattainable.
Although the declivity was now gentler, the lofty walls of gray
sandstone flanking the dismal canyon through which we rode shut off any
ventilating breeze that chanced to pass above, and made a stifling oven
of the narrow fissure. For two hours we travelled over the rock-strewn
stream-bed, and then suddenly entered a narrow belt of mimosas and
cacti; the Rio Grande flows through the centre of the green little
valley.
Although the river had appeared peaceful enough from the summit five
thousand seven hundred feet above, we found it to be a wide, brown
sheet of ruffled water racing over a boulder-encumbered bed. Our
mule-drivers were filled with alarm and dared not venture into the
treacherous flood. It was as we had feared; the spring rains had
begun in the mountains, and the surplus water was rapidly swelling
the lowland streams. While we were debating on the proper course to
pursue, an Indian youth chanced along and consented to guide us to a
ford about half a mile up-stream. Arrived at the spot, he stripped and
waded cautiously into the river, which here spread over a wide bar.
Fortunately the water was not over four feet deep; the youth returned
to the bank and led the mules across one by one. When the river is too
high to ford, the natives use tub-shaped boats made of ox-hide in which
to cross; there is no way of controlling the craft, so the current may
carry them a mile or so below the starting-point before it reaches the
other side.
The water of the river was unfit for drinking. It contains about thirty
per cent solid matter, although the reason for this was that it was
rising rapidly and bringing down a great quantity of sand from the
mountain.
Numbers of small ravines emerge from the barren slopes flanking the
Rio Grande, and streams of inconsiderable size pour their water into
the larger artery. All these openings are filled with brush and low
trees; we followed up one of them and, within a few hours, reached a
habitation called Bella Vista. The shambling structure stood on the
edge of a clearing planted in sugar-cane. Dense jungles of wild cane
and brush bounded the plantation. As I was already convinced that the
Rio Grande is the avenue up which the chaco bird-life was penetrating
into the higher regions, we determined to remain at Bella Vista
sufficiently long to substantiate my views; it required only one day
for this purpose. The species that had been found in limited numbers
farther up, and that seemed to belong to a strange fauna, exist in
abundance at Bella Vista; among them are brown-shouldered orioles,
white anis (_Guira_), fork-tailed goatsuckers, white-throated toucans
(_Ramphastos_) and many others.
Pigeons (_Leptoptila_) were so numerous that they suffered for lack of
food. I am unable to say whether there had been an abnormal increase
in the number of the species, or if the food-supply was unusually low;
but one thing is certain--they were in a very emaciated condition and
some of them had become so weakened that flight was impossible, and
they fell an easy prey to the natives or predatory animals. I also
noticed that all the pigeons were infested with parasites, but the
weaker individuals were covered with them, including many winged,
fly-like bird-ticks (_Hippoboscidæ_) that skipped among the feathers at
bewildering speed, and finally flew away with a loud buzz; sometimes
the repulsive insects settled on our hands or faces, when it was almost
impossible to displace them, owing to their agile movements and to
their clinging ability caused by the hooks on their feet.
This furnished a very good illustration of the survival of the fittest,
and one that I believe is typical of what happens in many instances.
Owing, perhaps, to unusual or long-continued favorable conditions,
the species had become exceedingly numerous. So long as there was no
shortage in the food-supply, the birds were able to hold their own
and keep increasing; but, as the season of famine approached, as I
believe it must occasionally do, though not necessarily at regular
intervals, the weaker individuals were the first to feel the pinch of a
reduced subsistence which automatically rendered them still less suited
to obtain a livelihood. Their rapidly failing vigor also prevented
them from coping with their natural enemies--whether parasitic or
predaceous, so that they were soon eliminated and only those that
entered the struggle in the strongest, healthiest condition stood a
reasonable show of surviving.
While tramping through the cane-thickets, we found the nest of a pair
of red-breasted thrushes. Both parent birds fluttered over our heads
and with loud, angry cries expressed their resentment and anxiety.
The nest was betrayed by the birds’ very actions. It was cunningly
concealed in a dense tangle of leaves and creepers, and was not unlike
that made by our own robin; but the three eggs were heavily spotted
with brown instead of being of a plain blue color.
When dusk overtook us on the first day out of Pescado, thirty-six
miles southeast of Bella Vista, we were riding over a grass-covered
plateau with a stream flowing along one side of it. It was therefore
unnecessary to seek an Indian dwelling for the purpose of securing
forage. We picketed the mules, and slept out in the open. The next
morning a Quechua woman with a fowl under her arm passed along the
trail; we asked her the price of the bird, as we suspected that she
was taking it to some village to sell. “Four bolivianos,” she replied
promptly. The mule-driver remarked, very emphatically, that the price
was exorbitant. “But,” she protested, “this is a game-cock. It is a
good fighter and can whip any rooster in the country.” The arriero then
informed her that we wanted the rooster to eat, and not to fight. “Oh,”
said the woman, “that is another matter; sixty _centavos_,” and the
sale was concluded without further argument.
Apparently the birds of the highlands were nesting. We saw numbers of
newly constructed nests in the cacti and small-leaved vegetation; they
belonged to mocking-birds, pigeons, and finches; but only a few of them
contained eggs. The Indians had filled many of the little domiciles
with stones before they were completed in an attempt to prevent an
increase in the numbers of birds. Large flocks of several species
gather in the grain-fields during the fall months and exact rather
a heavy tribute, and it is for this reason that the Indians try to
prevent their increase.
While riding along one morning we flushed a red-crested woodpecker
(_Chrysoptilus cristatus_) from a hole in a stub near the road. The
entrance to the cavity was about eight feet up, but the nest was
down low in the hollow trunk. An investigation brought to view four
pear-shaped, glossy, white eggs lying on a pad of chips.
This species is one of the commonest, and therefore one of the
best-known woodpeckers. We found it very abundant throughout the
uplands near, and south of Cochabamba, where there was a growth of
cacti and low trees. Invariably there were two birds together, and not
infrequently we saw flocks of four or five. It has a clear, powerful
note, and a swift, undulating flight. I have frequently seen it on the
ground in company with long-billed wood-hewers (_Drymornis_) and brown
cachalotes (_Homorus_) searching for insects and larvæ among the débris
always littering the ground beneath the giant club-cacti.
As we neared Sucre, a marked change was noticeable in the appearance of
the Indians. Instead of the unattractive lot that we had encountered
daily, they were a uniformly garbed, more primitive and more
picturesque people. The greatest change was evident at Pulqué, which we
reached a few weeks later.
[Illustration: Quechua habitation on the upland desert.]
Tarabuco is the name given to a town of large size, located on a
frigid _mesa_ over ten thousand feet up. When we arrived there snow
was falling and an icy wind blew at terrific velocity; but the natives
seemed not at all discomfited by the blizzard, and were conducting the
weekly market with the usual hilarity. Provisions of many kinds
were to be had in abundance; mutton, bread, peaches, and eggs were
particularly plentiful; but the lack of fruits and vegetables requiring
a warm climate and rich soil was very noticeable. One could purchase
all the necessaries of life in any of the numerous stores; most of them
were imported from the United States and Europe.
We spent the night before reaching Sucre in a cluster of Indian
dwellings called Cghilka. The pronunciation of the name is difficult to
a foreigner, because two of the three “cliks” employed in the Quechua
language are used in saying the word. Cghilka consisted of half a dozen
low hovels, built of irregular stones and roofed over with grass.
Flocks of sheep and a few burros nibbled the short grass, and goats
clambered along the face of precipices unscalable to human beings; some
of the latter also stood on the top of stone fences, or roofs, and
several times we saw individuals that had climbed into the branches of
a leaning mimosa and were unconcernedly browsing on the leaves.
The Indian women, it seemed to us, were everlastingly spinning in order
to keep up the necessary supply of clothing. Those at Cghilka were no
exceptions; but they also made unusually pretty blankets. In spite of
the fact that many colors, such as red, blue, green, yellow, and white
were used in the same blanket, the combination was so harmonious that
the result was most pleasing. As a whole, the work somewhat resembles
that of the Navajos, but the texture is not quite as fine. They also
work attractive geometric designs into the pattern that immediately
distinguishes the product of this region from that of any other. This
is, perhaps, a retention of an ancient custom, for, it seems as if in
olden times the inhabitants of each locality wore _ponchos_ or blankets
of a distinctive design; then, when the nation gathered in the holy
city of Cuzco to celebrate some religious festival, it was possible to
tell by these insignia from which part of the empire they came.
From Cghilka to Sucre is a distance of only eighteen miles, over a
practically level plain, the elevation of which is in the neighborhood
of ten thousand feet. There are few habitations until the immediate
vicinity of the city is reached.
The approach to Sucre is quite attractive. We could see the assemblage
of dazzling white edifices from a distance; and not long after we were
galloping over the cobblestones between rows of neat, clean buildings
on our way to the Hotel Español. In our journey from Cochabamba we had
travelled nearly a thousand miles, and counting the several delays, had
spent fifty-six days en route.