A TRIP INTO THE ANDES
It was intended to be a jolly party. We were going to Puerta del Inca
and to make a picnic of it. There was the Englishman, born in Australia,
trained in the United States and now an engineering expert in Argentina.
He was the biggest man I met in the Republic, and his friends called him
"Chico," which means the little one. There was the Scot, grizzled and
cautious, who disappeared for months and was away exploring the unknown
mountains up in the snows, carrying his camp with him, never seeing
anybody with whom he could converse, coming back with maps of possible
new routes over the frozen shoulders of the Andes, and who loved long
hours in the English Club in Mendoza, expressing Carlylean views about
the world, quoting poetry and enjoying long games at cards. There was
the man who came out here from England many years ago to help in the
building of the Transandine railway, married a Spanish wife, has taken
to vine growing, and knows he now speaks his native tongue with a
foreign accent. There were others, men who had knocked about the world
and had done things; men with none of the light talk of stay-at-home
Englishmen, but showing strong character kneaded by rough
circumstances.
[Illustration: "CHICO" IN CHARGE.]
[Illustration: A CORNER OF THE ENGLISH CLUB AT MENDOZA.]
The trip was arranged amongst the orange trees which grow in the little
courtyard of the English Club. It was when the night was warm and we
stretched in easy chairs, puffing smoke rings at the moon. "Chico" was
master of ceremonies. What he arranged was to be right. And we were to
be ready early the next morning, for a special coach was to be fastened
to the express coming through from Buenos Aires on its way to
Valparaiso.
The early morning air was crisp and invigorating. The transcontinental
train had just come in, and whilst the early birds were out on the
platform, half-drawn blinds revealed the drowsy countenances of other
travellers who had no disposition for a peep at Mendoza, or who had seen
it before and lacked ambition to see it again. There was the usual
jostling on the platform of folk who had just arrived and those who were
taking their departure, joyous greetings, and sad farewells. The
stranger had to stand on one side and smile at the way Argentine men
held one another by one arm half round the neck, and with the other hand
gave continuous slaps in the small of the back. Yesterday morning's
papers from Buenos Aires had arrived, and there was a scramble round the
bookstall whilst the slow-moving newsboy undid the strings and we could
buy our newspapers, and were able to read what the Prime Minister of
England had been saying the day before yesterday.
"Chico," with hat stuck on the back of his head, hastened up to our
group with the intimation that we had better get on board if it was not
our intention to be left behind. "Have you got plenty of food," was the
inquiry, "for we are as hungry as hunters?" "Yes, plenty," was the
answer. "And drink?" "And the drink." "You have not forgotten the
cigars?" "No, the cigars are all right."
Our car was attached to the express. It was a long, narrow car, with a
table down the centre. We were met with the refreshing odour of ham and
eggs being prepared in the adjoining kitchen.
The long train panted toward the hills, leaving leafy Mendoza behind and
winding away through aisles of great grey boulders by the side of the
muddy Mendoza River. There was a dreary forlornness about the country as
the train, with the river as its guide, seemed to be making for a huge
black cutting in the mountains. We did not mind, for the Spanish cook
and his assistant were busy serving us with ham and eggs, and coffee,
and freshly baked rolls.
Maybe it was the breakfast, or the exhilarating air of the hills, or the
genial company, or the pleasure of the post-breakfast cigar; but we were
the merriest party imaginable. The engineer who had turned vine grower
became reminiscent of the days when he helped to build this line, and of
how, when work was over in the evening, he frequently mounted his horse,
rode twenty miles to attend a Spanish dance, mounted his horse again at
four in the morning, and was back at work in the hills by sunrise. Of
course, he was quite sure that those were romantic and adventurous days
compared with the present.
We were not travelling fast. The line was gradually rising, and the
engine was giving off sounds as though it were suffering from asthma. We
got into country--wild, moorlike, and broken with many streams--which
reminded some of us of parts of Scotland. We struck into what had looked
like a black defile, through which the river came racing, and on either
side of us rose gaunt rocks, black and brown, which suggested that a
terrific fire had once raged.
No snow was in sight--nothing but fierce, repellent crags. Suddenly we
came upon an upland valley with a wide stretch of grass, a straggling
village, and a big hotel--just the sort of hotel you are constantly
bumping into in the Swiss mountains. The passing of the train for Chili
is probably the one excitement. The Italian folk gathered about the
little station and gazed with curious eyes at the passengers.
Years ago I went down Kicking Horse Pass, in the Canadian Rockies, with
a seat on the "cow-catcher." It was now my good fortune to ride on the
"cow-catcher" of this train bound for Valparaiso. As luck would have it,
I met an American and his wife whose acquaintance I had made on the
Atlantic, and to whom I had bidden "good-bye" at Rio de Janeiro. They
were now returning to the United States by way of Chili, and, being of
an adventurous turn of mind, they, too, were eager to enjoy a ride on
the front of the engine. Over the "cow-catcher" a seat was fixed, with a
brass rail in front so that there was little danger of falling off. We
knew how cold it would be later, and so we put on our heaviest coats
and wrapped ourselves in our thickest rugs. We were "in the front row"
to obtain a view.
The way was now increasingly steep. It was necessary to have two
engines, one in front to pull and one behind to push. Slowly we grunted
on our way. There was a chill ping in the air which made our cheeks
smart. We kept close to the river, as though it were a guide that we did
not intend to allow to forsake us. Sometimes we ran not far above the
level of the scouring waters. At other times we seemed to be running
along a high-perched ledge on the rock side, so that when the engine
gave a sudden swerve round the elbow of a hill there was one traveller
who shut his eyes when he thought what might happen if the engine had
suddenly taken it into its head to make a leap into the abyss.
The hills closed in. They towered above us so that there was the sense
of going through a long gully. At every turn the engine shrieked, and
the echoes reverberated amongst the mountains. Now and then we came upon
gangmen engaged in the repair of the line. They jumped aside whilst the
train trundled by.
Then came a dip, with a great open, verdurous cañon in front of us. The
steam of the engine was shut off, and the train seemed to free-wheel
into the valley. We jumped and rocked and curved in the most exciting
way. There was no protecting fence. We gave a start when, swinging round
the bend, we came across a couple of scampering horses. We held our
breath, for it seemed certain we should crush into them. One animal gave
a violent jump amongst the adjoining boulders, and then, when we were
within a dozen yards of the other horse, it swerved, and we just missed
hitting it.
Again we started climbing. We ran past tiny stations, and on the
hillsides, where there was vegetation, we could see little chalets and
horses and cattle about. Once we had to cross a bridge very slowly, for
it was under extensive repair. The chief engineer was a young
Englishman, and he ran up and exchanged a few words with friends. We
went through long black tunnels, and the experience was eerie, for the
engine shrieked like a maniac that was being chased.
Still we kept fairly close to the Mendoza River. At one spot the hills
widened out where a tributary, the Rio Blanco, ran into the main stream.
At the joining place there was a chasm which it would have required an
enormous bridge to span. We avoided that difficulty by the line running
a little distance on one side by the Rio Blanco to where the valley
narrowed so we could cross by a small bridge; and then the train started
going the other way on the other side of the fall, and proceeded with
the Mendoza River on the right, having dodged the chasm by a sort of
V-shaped loop.
By the side of the chasm was a melancholy little cemetery. There was no
grass, or trees, or flowers; just a group of uneven headstones telling
of the last resting-place of the men who had died years before whilst
engaged in constructing the line.
We now seemed to be running along a scooped-out way over a great height
of shingle. We knew it was here that some of the hardest work was done
in building the line. For after the melting of the snows and the
torrential rains, great masses of shingle rolled, breaking the line, and
on one occasion throwing a whole train and the engine right into the
bottom of the river. One felt that the engine itself was trembling with
fear as it made a path across this dread hillside. It was bitterly cold.
The wind cut with icy blast upon us from the precipices. Higher still we
climbed to where there was no vegetation, nothing but scarped rocks and
strange shaped and strangely coloured mounds, reminding us of the
volcanic origin of the Andes.
Reaching another flat level we ran into the mountain station of Zanjou
Amarillo. Here were engine sheds, for it is necessary to change the
engine at this place. We dismounted from the "cow-catcher," and,
shivering with the cold, watched a heavy black engine attached. From
this point until the other side of the Andes is reached part of the way
is covered by the use of a rack rail. The railway is too steep for an
ordinary engine to climb. Accordingly, in the centre is a third line
with cogs. The engine has an extra wheel with cogs, so that it does not
run but grips its way to further heights.
[Illustration: THE HOTEL AT INCA.]
The day was bright. Through clefts in our shut-in way we could see snow
on the mountains. We travelled up a valley of desolation. We knew that
in the old days this was the main road from Chili into Argentina, and in
places we saw tumbled-down shelter houses, now deserted, but of use in
former times when travellers crossed the mountains by mule, for always
they were provided with food and fuel. There was something wonderfully
fascinating, crawling as it were to the roof of the world. It was easy
to understand how superstitious Indians believed that evil spirits had
their homes in the inaccessible fastnesses. There was no living thing to
be seen anywhere except a couple of eagles.
Gradually the panorama opened. We got a glimpse of the snow-covered
heights in front of us. Then the brightness of the day disappeared; the
sun was shrouded; there was a weird wail in the wind. A snowstorm came
upon us. Still the engine, with something almost human in its
determination, gripped the cogs and pulled us higher and higher yet. It
was so cold we closed all windows and put on our coats, and called for
the attendant to bring us beverages which we expected would produce
warmth.
Midday arrived before we reached Puerta del Inca, which was as far as we
intended going. We had our car detached, and waved our hands to those on
the express train, which soon disappeared amid the rushing snow.
You may take it that the Incas never came to this part of the world.
That they did is a piece of imagination. The so-called "Bridge of the
Incas" is a natural formation. A little river has eaten its way through
the hillside, and the tear and drip of water during untold centuries has
formed a great natural arch. The water is volcanic and steamy, and has
mineral qualities which stain the rocks with strange colourings.
Of course, the benefits of the waters for rheumatism, and a score of
other ailments, have been exploited. Galleries have been built under the
arch, bath chambers cut above the rock, and water taken in pipes into
each, so that visitors may have a "cure." In the summer time there are
many visitors to Puerta del Inca to gain benefit not only from the
waters, but from the mountain air, and to have a pleasant time by
excursions into the hills. There is a commodious hotel.
In the winter time, when the snows are heavy, two trains a week are run
over to Chile. Sometimes the snowfall is so severe that the traffic is
completely blocked, though with the construction of snow-sheds, and
fences to resist the drifting snow, there is less danger than formerly.
However, there have been times when trains have been held up, and
passengers have had to stay for a week at Inca. First-class passengers
fend for themselves at the big hotel; but down near the railway station
there is a great caravanserai of a place where poorer passengers are
provided with rough accommodation, and where they can obtain food at
cheap prices.
[Illustration: THE INCA BRIDGE IN THE ANDES.]
The snow had ceased, but there was a knife-like wind whilst we battled
up the hillside, making for the hotel standing gaunt and solitary
amongst the barren mountains. We did not object to the little
discomfort. It was delightful to get into the warm rooms, to sit down
and have a meal, to smoke, to chat, to play billiards, and some of us to
have a doze. Then, in the grey of the afternoon, with occasional gleams
of sunlight through the heavy clouds which swathed the mountain tops, we
sauntered about this straggling, high perched village.
There was no passenger train to Mendoza that day. But we had arranged
for an engine to take charge of our car and run us back in the dark. So
at nightfall we climbed once more into the coach. The stove was ablaze
because the air was increasingly cold. Trains only run along this
mountain route in the daylight, and so perhaps there was a little
nervousness in making the journey down through the valleys in the
blackness. In the front of the engine was a great searchlight. So we
went groaning and rocking, with the whistle of the engine shrieking in
the cañons, on our way back to Mendoza. Once there was a violent jerk
when the engine was brought almost to a standstill, for some cattle had
strayed upon the line and it was with difficulty they were frightened
off the track.
We were snug enough in our well-lit coach, where before and after dinner
the hours were wiled away with games of cards. Occasionally we halted at
the tiny hamlets, and the residents ran out to have a look at the
unusual sight of an engine, with a huge gleaming eye in front, picking
its way, as it were, through the ravines, whilst behind was an
illuminated car with a party of merry Britishers.
Once I went on the little platform at the rear of the coach. The whole
world was wrapped in blackness. After a time I got used to it. It was
possible to discern the ragged silhouettes of the hilltops, and to peer
into the cimmerian gloom of the valley where the Mendoza River was
hastening noisily toward the plain. No wonder the natives had a horror
of these hills.
There was a kind of crunching clatter as the engine ran over the stretch
of the line with the cogged third rail. When we reached less precipitous
ground the worst danger had passed, and the engine rattled and bounced
on her way. Down and down we sank till at last, with a long-drawn scream
from the engine, we passed through the gates of the hills. We piled more
coal on the stove, and sat round smoking and telling yarns, and wondered
when we should all have a similar trip again. It was one o'clock in the
morning when we got back to Mendoza.