ESCARA TO LAJA TAMBO
We got up early enough the next morning to witness a phase of Bolivian
life which we had heard of but had not as yet seen. An officer and two
soldiers of the Bolivian army, travelling southward, had spent the night
at Escara and desired to proceed promptly. The _postes_ are subsidized
by the Government on the understanding that all travelling government
officials shall be furnished with mules and a man. Each _poste_ has
three or four guides called _postillons_, connected with it. This
morning things did not move fast enough to suit the officer. The mules
were not ready when he wanted to start and the meek Quichua _postillon_
was offering an explanation. In the midst of it, the officer lost his
temper, and taking his strong riding-whip, commenced to lash the poor
half-clad Indian across the face and shoulders. The latter stood it for
a few minutes stolidly and then commenced to back off, followed by the
officer who continued to lay on the blows as fast as possible. At length
the _postillon_ turned to run and the officer pursued him, beating him
and cursing him until out of breath. It was a sickening sight, but the
strangest part of all was the absolute meekness with which the Indian
took his beating. There was not the slightest sign of resentment or
even annoyance. The strokes of the whip made the blood start and trickle
down his face and sides, but he gave no evidence of feeling it.
Later in the day at Quirve, another _poste_, we witnessed a similar
exhibition, only in this case the Indian did not even run away. The son
of the proprietor, a great hulking brute, six feet tall and powerfully
built, found fault with one of the _postillons_ for some trifling
mistake and beat him across the face and chest with a rawhide thong
until the blood flowed freely. Like the other Indian, his face remained
perfectly stolid, and he showed no signs of anger or irritation.
We had been furious with the officer in the morning and this exhibition
was even more trying. Yet the Bolivianos thought nothing of it. As Mr.
Bryce has so ably put it: “One must have lived among a weaker race in
order to realize the kind of irritation which its defects produce in
those who deal with it, and how temper and self-control are strained in
resisting temptations to harsh or arbitrary action. It needs something
more than the virtue of a philosopher--it needs the tenderness of a
saint to preserve the same courtesy and respect towards the members of a
backward race as are naturally extended to equals.” There is no doubt
about the Quichuas being a backward race.
From the earliest historical times these poor Indians have virtually
been slaves. Bred up to look upon subjection as their natural lot, they
bear it as the dispensation of Providence. The Incas treated them well,
so far as we can judge, and took pains to see that the irrigation
works, the foot-paths over the mountains, the suspension bridges over
the raging torrents and _tambos_ for the convenience of travellers,
should all be kept in good condition. The gold-hunting Spanish
_conquistadores_, on the other hand, had no interest in the servile
Quichuas further than to secure their services as forced laborers in the
mines. The modern Bolivianos have done little to improve their
condition.
After seeing these two Indians meekly take such severe beatings, I found
it easier to understand why Pizarro had been able to conquer the Empire
of Peru with a handful of determined Spanish soldiers, and why the
unfortunate Tupac Amaru could make so little headway in 1781 when he
attempted to rouse the Indians to revolt against Spanish tyranny.
Although he had sixty thousand men under him, the Spanish general easily
defeated him with barely twenty thousand, of whom only a few hundred
were Spaniards, the majority being friendly Indians.
How much the extremely severe conditions of life that prevail on this
arid plateau have had to do in breaking the spirit of the race is a
question. It is a generally accepted fact that a race who are dependent
for their living on irrigating ditches, can easily be conquered. All
that the invading army has to do is to destroy the dams, ruin the crops,
and force the inhabitants to face starvation.
The Quichua shows few of the traits which we ordinarily connect with
mountaineers. His country is too forlorn to give him an easy living or
much time for thought. He is half starved nearly all the time. His only
comfort comes from chewing coca leaves. Coca is the plant from which we
extract cocaine. It is said that the Quichua can go for days without
food, provided he has a good supply of coca. It would be extremely
interesting to determine the effect on his intelligence of this cocaine
habit, which seems to be centuries old. If a man can stand up and take
severe punishment for trivial offences without getting angry, showing
vexation, or apparently without bearing any grudge against his
oppressor, there must be something constitutionally wrong with him. I
believe that the coca habit is answerable for a large part of this very
unsatisfactory state of affairs. Coca has deadened his sensibilities to
a degree that passes comprehension. It has made him stupid, willing to
submit to almost any injury, lacking in all ambition, caring for almost
none of the things which we consider the natural desires of the human
heart.
In travelling through Bolivia and Peru, I found it repeatedly to be the
case that the Quichua does not care to sell for money either food or
lodging. Presents of coca leaves and tobacco are acceptable. A liberal
offer of money rarely moves him, although it would be possible for him
to purchase with it many articles of necessity or comfort in near-by
towns. As a rule he prefers neither to rent his animal, nor sell you
cheese or eggs, or anything else. The first Quichua words one learns,
and the answer which one most commonly receives to all questions as to
the existence of the necessaries of life, is “_mana canca_,” “there is
none.”
This condition of affairs is not new. When Temple travelled through
Bolivia in 1825, he was struck by the prevailing “_no hay nada_” (there
is nothing at all). Poverty, want, misery, and negligence are the story
that is told by the melancholy phrase. The truth is, the Quichua not
only has no ambition, he has long ago ceased to care whether you or he
or anybody else has more than just barely enough to keep body and soul
together.
Needless to say, the Quichuas have no concern with the politics of
Bolivia, although they constitute a large majority of the inhabitants.
From Escara our road continued to follow a semi-arid valley. We passed a
caravan of mule-carts bound for Potosí and Sucre. In one of the carts
was an upright piano; in another, pieces of mining machinery, while
still others contained large cast-iron pipes destined for Sucre’s new
waterworks. Nearly all of the carts carried bales of Argentine hay as
this region is so arid that it is extremely difficult to secure any
fodder for the animals, and the barley or alfalfa, when procurable, is
often too expensive.
The weather continued to be fine. After a hot, dusty ride of twenty
miles, we stopped at the _poste_ of Quirve.
Just before reaching Quirve, we crossed the Tumusla River, the site of
the last battle of the Bolivian wars of independence. After Sucre’s
great victory at Ayacucho, in 1824, the only Spanish troops which
remained unconquered in all South America were the garrison of Callao
and a small band under General Ollaneta in southern Bolivia. His men
were badly disaffected by the news of the battle of Ayacucho, and an
officer who commanded a small garrison at this strategic point, came out
openly for the patriotic cause. Ollaneta tried in vain to suppress the
revolt. The result was a battle here on the first of April, 1825, in
which the Spanish general was defeated and slain. The garrison of Callao
held out for a few months longer, but this was the end of active
warfare.
We found the _tambo_ of Quirve to be of the most primitive sort, not
even affording shelter for man or beast. The weekly Potosí stage-coach
came in from the north about six o’clock carrying one passenger. He soon
spread his bed under the wagon and made himself comfortable for the
night. The luggage from Potosí was shipped on pack-animals and was in
charge of an Argentine Gaucho named Fermin Chaile. This man we took in
exchange for Mac, whom we were glad enough to get rid of. Fermin, the
Gaucho, tall and gaunt, round-shouldered and bow-legged, his dark
Mongolian-like features crowned by a mop of coarse, black hair, proved
to be a god-send. His loose-fitting suit of brown corduroys, far better
raiment than most _arrieros_ can afford, bore witness to the fact that
he was sober, industrious, and trustworthy. No one ever had a better
muleteer. Like Rafael Rivas, the faithful Venezuelan peon who had guided
my cart across the Llanos in 1907, he took excellent care of the mules,
yet drove them almost to the limit of their endurance, was devoted to
us, and proved to be reliable and attentive. He was a plainsman, as
different in spirit and achievement from the wretched mountaineers
through whose country we were passing, as though he had belonged to a
different continent.
As we continued northward from Quirve, the valley grew narrower and our
road continued to be in the dry river course. All the water that was
visible was collected in little ditches and conducted along the
hillsides fifteen or twenty feet above the bed of the stream. On some of
the hillsides of this valley are terraces or _andines_ where maize,
quinoa, potatoes, and even grapes are made to grow, with much
painstaking labor. These terraces, common enough farther north, were the
first we had seen. The staple food of the Indians is _chuno_, a small
potato that has been put through a freezing process until its natural
flavor is completely lost. One of the principal dishes at this time of
the year is the fruit of the cactus. Everybody seems to be very fond of
the broad-leaved edible species, a thornless variety of which we are
developing in Arizona and New Mexico.
Farther up the valley I was struck by the ingenuity which had been
exercised in carrying the irrigation ditches along the side of
precipitous cliffs. Numerous little tunnels, connected by small
viaducts, enabled a tiny stream of water to travel three or four miles
until it reached a level space sufficiently above highwater mark to
warrant the planting of a small field. The only animals to be seen
beside mules and horses, goats, pigs, dogs, and a very few birds, were
the little wild guinea-pigs of a color closely resembling the
everlasting brown hills. I was surprised not to see any llamas.
Soon after leaving Quirve, we came to the little village of Toropalca,
in every way as brown and dusty as the guinea-pigs. In fact, it melted
into the landscape as perfectly as they did.
About noon we reached another hillside village, Saropalca, its houses
placed so closely one above another on the steep slope as to give the
appearance of a giant stairway. We climbed up through the irregular
lanes of the little village, until we found a wretched little _tambo_
where we bought a few bundles of alfalfa and a bowl of soup.
Whenever we could secure sufficient alfalfa for the mules and a bowl of
hot _chupe_ for ourselves in addition to the customary pot of hot water
for our tea, we considered ourselves most fortunate and were willing to
admit that the _poste_ was well provided with “all the necessaries of
life.” _Chupe_ is a kind of stew or thick soup consisting of frozen
potatoes and tough mutton or llama meat. In its natural state, its taste
is disagreeable enough, but when it is served to the liking of the
natives it is seasoned so highly with red pepper as to be far too fiery
for foreign palates.
In the course of the afternoon, the valley narrowed to a gorge in which
we passed more heavily-laden mule-carts making their way along with the
utmost difficulty. Beyond the gorge we found sulphur springs and some
banks of sulphur. One of the hot springs gushed up close by the
roadside. “El Lazarillo,” the eighteenth century Baedeker, says there
was once a “modest thermal establishment” here, intended to attract
bathers from Potosí.
At the end of the day we reached Caisa, after having made nearly forty
miles since morning. Caisa is an old Spanish town and looks like all the
rest. One-story houses, narrow streets, badly paved, a city block left
open for a plaza, on one side of it a church and the house of the
priest, on the other three sides, a few shops where we bought
newly-baked hot bread, beer, cheese, and candles. The _tambo_ was called
“La Libertad” and bore the legend “_Muy barato_” (very cheap). We
surmised this meant that the proprietor would charge all the traffic
would bear; and such proved to be the case. In fact, we had a very
disagreeable dispute with the landlady the next morning. Fermin
indignantly declared she had tripled the usual prices.
At Caisa the road from Argentina to Sucre branches off to the right,
going due north to Puna and thence to Yotala, where it joins the road
from Potosí to Sucre.
Leaving Caisa on November 22, we went north-west and soon had our first
glimpse of a snow-clad Bolivian mountain. The snow was not very deep,
however, as it had fallen during the night, and before noon it was all
gone. Our road crossed several ridges and then descended into a partly
cultivated valley near an old silver mine and a smelter called Cuchu
Ingenio. The road here was unusually good. Even in 1773 “The Blind Man’s
Guide” says it was a “camino de Trote, y Galope.”
As we ascended a gorge, I was attracted by a little waterfall of crystal
clearness that came tumbling down from the heights above, and was
tempted to
[Illustration: OUR FIRST GLIMPSE OF A SNOW-CLAD BOLIVIAN MOUNTAIN]
take a hearty drink of the delicious cool liquid. A Boliviano from
Tupiza, who was travelling with us for company, warned me against such a
rash act as drinking cold water at this altitude. I had noticed that no
one in this region ever touches cold water, and I thought the universal
prejudice against it was founded on a natural preference for alcohol. So
I laughingly enjoyed my cup of cold water and assured him that there
could be no harm in it. An hour later we reached Laja Tambo, a wretched
little _poste_, standing alone on the edge of a tableland twenty miles
from Potosí. The altitude was about thirteen thousand feet. The sun had
been very warm, and soon after alighting on the rough stone pavement of
the inn yard, I arranged the thermometers so as to test the difference
in temperature between sun and shade. The temperature in the sun at noon
was 85° F. In the shade it was 48° F. Scarcely had I taken the readings
when I began to feel chilly. Hot tea followed by hot soup and still
hotter brandy and water failed to warm me, notwithstanding the fact that
I had unpacked my bag and put on two heavy sweaters. A wretched sense of
dizziness and of longing to get warm made me lie down on the warm stones
of the courtyard. I grew rapidly worse, and was soon experiencing the
common symptoms of _soroche_, _puna_, or mountain sickness. The
combination of vomiting, diarrhœa, and chills was bad enough, but the
prospect of being ill in this desolate _poste_, twenty miles from the
nearest doctor, with nothing better than the usual accessories of a
Bolivian _tambo_, was infinitely worse. Somehow or other, I managed to
persuade Fermin to saddle and load the animals and put me on my mule,
where I was determined to stay until we should reach Potosí.
The last thing to do before leaving the _tambo_ was to pay the bill, and
this I proceeded to do in the Bolivian paper currency which I had
purchased in Tupiza. Alas, one of the bills was on a bank situated two
hundred and fifty miles away in La Paz, a bank, in fact, in which the
_postillon_ did not have much confidence. The idea of having a servile
Quichua _postillon_ decline to receive good money was extremely
irritating, and I tried my best, notwithstanding my _soroche_, to force
him to take it. He persisted and I was obliged to find another bill in
my wallet. I suppose my hand trembled a little with chill or excitement
and in taking out the bill I partly tore it.
This would not have mattered had the tear been in the middle, but it was
nearer one end than the other and the Indian refused to accept it. I had
no other small bills and was at a loss to know what to do. In the
meantime, Fermin and the pack-mules had left the inclosure of the
_tambo_ and started for Potosí while Mr. Smith was just outside of the
gate waiting for me. So I rolled up the sound bill which the Indian had
declined to receive, gave it to him, and while he was investigating it,
made a dash for the road. He was too quick for me, however, and gripped
my bridle. Exasperated beyond measure, I rode him against the wall of
the _tambo_ and made him let go long enough to allow me to escape. It
seemed on the whole a lawless performance, although the bank-note was
perfectly good. I fully expected that he would follow us with stones or
something worse, but as he was only a Quichua he accepted the inevitable
and we saw no more of him.
In the face of a bitterly cold wind we crossed the twenty-mile plateau
that lies between Laja Tambo and the famous city of Potosí. On the plain
were herds of llamas feeding, but these did not interest us as much as
the conical hill ahead. It was the Cerro of Potosí, the hill that for
two hundred and fifty years, was the marvel of the world. No tale of the
Arabian Nights, no dream of Midas, ever equalled the riches that flowed
from this romantic cone. Two billion ounces of silver is the record of
its output and the tale is not yet told.
Rounding the eastern shoulder of the mountain, we passed several large
smelters, some of them abandoned. Near by are the ruins of an edifice
said to have been built by the Spaniards to confine the poor Indians
whom they brought here by the thousands to work in the mines. The road
descends a little valley and runs for a mile, past the ruins of hundreds
of buildings. In the eighteenth century, Potosí boasted a population of
over one hundred and fifty thousand. Now there are scarcely fifteen
thousand. The part of the city that is still standing is near the
ancient plaza, the mint, and the market-place.
Our caravan clattered noisily down the steep, stony streets until we
reached the doors of the Hotel Colon where an attentive Austrian
landlord made us welcome, notwithstanding the fact that one of the party
was evidently quite ill. I could not help wondering whether an American
hotel-keeper would have been so willing to receive a sick man as this
benighted citizen of Potosí. The paved courtyard was small, but the
rooms on the second floor were commodious and so much better than the
unspeakably forlorn adobe walls of Laja Tambo, that I felt quite willing
to retire from active exploration for a day or two. Fortunately, I fell
into the hands of a well-trained Bolivian physician, who knew exactly
what to do, and with his aid, and the kind nursing of Fermin and Mr.
Smith, I was soon on my feet again.