SUCRE THE _DE JURE_ CAPITAL OF BOLIVIA
Potosí was an irresistible attraction to thousands, but the dreadful
climate, the high altitude, the cold winds, and the chilling rains drove
away those who could afford it to the more hospitable valleys a few
days’ journey eastward where, with an abundant water-supply at an
elevation of eight thousand feet, charming villas sprang up surrounded
by attractive plantations, the present suburbs of Sucre.
A fairly good coach road has recently been completed, and a weekly stage
carries mail and passengers between the two cities. We preferred,
however, to continue on our saddle mules and followed the older route.
The new road is a hundred miles long. The old trail is only
seventy-five. With good animals it need take but two days. We were in no
hurry, however, and decided to do it in three.
The valleys through which our road descended, at first arid and
desolate, gradually became greener and more populous. The views were
often very fine and extensive and we saw a few snow-covered mountains.
In the middle of winter, that is June and July, the snow frequently
covers everything. Now, on the 29th of November, the prevailing color
was a tawny brown.
On the road we met long strings of llamas, donkeys, and mules laden
with every conceivable shape of basket, bag, and bundle bringing from
the fertile valleys to the eastward, potatoes, maize, wine, green
vegetables and fruits, the produce that feeds Potosí.
Further evidence of the extent of this traffic and the number of
_arrieros_ that continually pass over this road is the frequency of
little _chicherias_, wretched little huts built of stone and mud, baked
in the sun, and thatched with grass or bushes, where “_chicha_” can be
bought for a penny a gourd.
On the bare ground in front of one of them a woman had pegged down the
framework of a hand loom and was beginning to weave a poncho. Near her
the family dinner of _chupe_ was simmering away in a huge earthen-ware
pot, supported on three stones, over a tiny fire of thorns and llama
dung. Other picturesque jars filled with _chicha_ awaited her customers.
We lunched at what Baedeker would call “a primitive thermal
establishment,” a favorite weekend resort for German clerks in the
importing houses of Potosí. A swimming-pool that affords opportunity to
luxuriate in the warm sulphur water attracts many visitors, as it is
practically the only place in southern Bolivia where one can get a hot
tub bath.
The proprietor of the Baths, a type of Englishman that in the Pacific
Ocean is called a “beach comber,” was an amusing old vagabond who made a
great fuss ordering his half-starved Indians to prepare us a suitable
meal. Our expectations were aroused to a high pitch by his enthusiasm,
but the quality of the food was not any better than that of
[Illustration: THE PICTURESQUE OLD CHURCH OF BARTOLO]
the ordinary native inn. There was one very marked difference, however.
We were not met by any declaration of “_no hay nada_.”
Our second stopping-place was Bartolo, a small town of a thousand
inhabitants, chiefly Quichua Indians, and a picturesque old church
surrounded by a wall made of stone arches. We arrived on a Sunday
evening and found the _tambo_ already so full of travellers that there
was no room for us or our beasts. The Prefect of Potosí had given us a
circular letter requesting the masters of all the post-houses on our
route to accord us “every facility for our journey.” We soon found the
letter to be of little avail, for when there was any difficulty such as
lack of accommodation or of fodder we were invariably informed that the
master of the _poste_ was away attending to some business in another
village. As our letter, however, included also the governors of towns,
we now asked to be directed to the house of the Gobernador of Bartolo
and found that worthy gentleman bidding good-bye to some Sunday visitors
with whom he had been partaking freely of brandy and _chicha_. He was at
first inclined to be insolent, and although he had a comparatively large
house, declared that he had no room for us and that we must return to
the inn. As the situation approached that point where it was becoming
necessary to use force in order to secure shelter for the night, an
obliging guest, who had possession of the largest room in the inn,
learning from Fermin, the Gaucho, that we were _delegados_, offered us
the use of his quarters while he sought accommodation among his
acquaintances in the town.
In the meantime, the family of the tipsy governor had sobered him up
enough to make him realize that he had shown discourtesy to the bearer
of a government passport and he came to the inn with profuse offers of
entertainment which we unfortunately could not accept.
We left Bartolo early the next morning. The dust had been laid by
thunder-showers in the night and the crisp mountain air was most
refreshing. Occasionally we passed the ruins of a rude stone cairn
erected in colonial days to measure the leagues between Sucre and
Potosí. Fermin had never been beyond Potosí, so we were obliged to fall
back upon the service of guides or _postillons_ from here on. They
cannot be taken farther than from one _poste_ to another, generally six
leagues or twenty miles. They receive a regular tariff of four cents per
league, and a small gratuity besides.
For this munificent sum of a little over a cent a mile, they are
supposed to assist in catching and saddling the animals, to hold the
packs while they are being loaded, and then to run beside the trotting
pack-animals, ready to help if the loads become loosened, constantly at
hand, a willing slave to the _arriero_ and a guide to the traveller.
Generally lightly clad with the regulation Quichua small clothes, that
look as though made of meal-sacks, they march or lope along cheerily,
now and then blowing lustily on an ox-horn, which they carry slung over
the shoulder as a badge of their position.
The _postillons_ will not budge unless their tariff is paid in advance,
for they have learned through centuries of experience that while the
traveller with a stout whip, mounted on a good animal, with the
authority of the government at his back, can force them to go the
required distance after the fee has been paid, they have no means
whatever of forcing him to pay after he has arrived at his destination
and has no further need of their services. The first _postilion_ we had,
recognizing the fact that our _arriero_ was a stranger in this part of
the country and that we were foreigners, ran far ahead of the little
caravan, and would have disappeared among the thorny shrubs of the arid
hillside had we not galloped after him and threateningly ordered him to
return to his post at the heels of the mules. The next one proved to be
a good fellow and did his work well, notwithstanding the dust which was
his portion during most of the day.
This morning we passed a field in which alpacas that looked like
overgrown woolly dogs were feeding. As the sparse foliage increased, we
met numerous flocks of sheep watched over by diminutive children in
shawls and ponchos who ran away and hid behind rocks when they saw us
coming.
About the middle of the morning we came to the edge of a plateau and
enjoyed a wonderful view of fertile valleys, whose waters flow rapidly
down to the Pilcomayo. It seemed difficult to realize that a Bolivian
landscape could have any other color than brown. Our descent was now
rapid, and the temperature grew warmer except when we encountered a
small hail-storm.
After passing the scene of a battle in the unsuccessful revolution of
General Camacho, a militant politician with whom Bolivia had
considerable difficulty in the ’90’s, we stopped for lunch at a
tumbled-down hostelry called Quebrada Honda, in honor of a deep little
valley whose steep sides rise abruptly from a roaring mountain torrent.
Squatting on the ground in front of the tambo was a Quichua woman
weaving a bright-colored poncho.
In the afternoon we passed some primitive dwellings which consisted of
huge flat boulders under which excavations had been made leaving them
partially supported by piles of stones at the corners. The method did
not seem to have proved successful, for in most cases, the roof, too
heavy for the supports, was lying on the ground.
About five o’clock we arrived at the _poste_ of Pampa Tambo. We found a
_postilion_ in charge; the “master of the _poste_ was absent” as usual.
The _postilion_ decided to charge us three times the regular rate for
forage and Fermin protested vigorously, but in vain. Although it was a
matter of only a dollar or so, I decided to see whether my letter from
the Prefect of Potosí would make any difference with his attitude toward
us. The sight of the official seal, and an emphatic threat that he would
get himself into trouble if he persisted in his outrageous demands,
gradually brought him to lower the price until it came within two or
three cents of the regular tariff.
Hardly had we settled the dispute when a violent thunder-storm came up.
This was the last day of November and the rainy season was beginning.
From now on we had showers nearly every afternoon.
[Illustration: A PASTURE FOR SHEEP AND ALPACAS]
[Illustration: A QUICHUA WOMAN WEAVING AT QUEBRADA HONDA]
In the evening a party of foreigners arrived, consisting of a wealthy
Franco-Boliviano and his two sons who were on their way home from Paris.
They amused us by their elaborate preparations to supply themselves with
drinks and edibles. Little alcohol stoves were kept busy making hot
toddy, and drinks without number soon produced a very drowsy party.
We got an early start the next morning and, in an hour after leaving
Pampa Tambo, came in sight of the great river Pilcomayo which is
associated with the tragic death of the French explorer, Creveaux. The
Pilcomayo rises west of Potosí, receives the turbid waters that have
passed through Potosí’s smelters, flows east and then southeast towards
Paraguay, finally joining the Paraguay River just above Asuncion. Were
it not for the gigantic morass, the Estero Patino, which interrupts its
course for about fifty miles, it would serve as a convenient means of
communication between the mining region of Bolivia and the Rio de la
Plata. Most of its course is through the Gran Chaco, a debateable land
that has been only partly explored.
East of the Andes, where the affluents of the Pilcomayo are almost
interlaced with those of the Mamoré, in the watershed between the basins
of the Amazon and the Paraná, lies a region of rich tropical forests
with possibilities of development that appeal very strongly to
far-sighted Bolivianos. The conditions are tropical, the soil is
fertile, and there is an abundance of rain. There are, however, in this
region, many tribes of wild Indians of whom little is known and who have
shown no desire to encourage the advent of strangers. Transportation is
exceedingly difficult.
We found that a suspension bridge had been built across the Pilcomayo at
its narrowest and deepest point, but owing to the tardiness of the wet
season, we were able to ford the stream lower down and save a détour of
several miles. After crossing the river we rode up a dry gulch in which
an attempt at cultivation by means of irrigating ditches was producing
both pomegranates and peaches.
An hour’s ride beyond the river brought us to Calera, a little hamlet of
Indian huts with a very primitive _tambo_. We had counted on resting
here during the middle of the day, but there was absolutely nothing to
be had either for man or beast. We could have unloaded and unpacked our
own supplies, but there is no point in eating when your mules cannot
eat, and so we pushed on, twelve miles further, to the town of Yotala.
Our path crossed a low range of barren hills and then descended a
thousand feet or more by a steep, winding path to the river Cachimayo
which we forded without difficulty. In this little valley we found many
attractive plantations, the _fincas_ or country houses of the wealthy
residents of Sucre. Extensive irrigation has transformed the bed of the
valley into what seems like a veritable paradise, so great is its
contrast with the barren region around about.
Yotala is an old Spanish town, much more dead than alive. There was an
inn, misnamed a “restaurant,” where there was nothing to be had in the
way of food for any of us. Fermin finally succeeded in finding a poor
widow who had a little fodder for sale and was willing to let the mules
eat it in her back yard. As for ourselves, we had to fall back as usual
on canned goods, just as though this were an isolated _poste_, twenty
miles from anywhere, instead of being a town of several thousand
inhabitants. We spread out our little lunch on the stones of the plaza
under two trees.
As it was noon, and the sky cloudless, the sun shone with considerable
ferocity. Presently a slovenly official with an expression on his face
that said plainly he was not quite sure whether we were distinguished
travellers who ought to be looked after or only vagabonds who should be
driven off, came and inquired if we were French merchants. On receiving
a negative reply he seemed rather relieved and withdrew to the shade of
his own house. Of course if we had whispered the magic words “_delegados
de los Estados Unidos_,” all would have been different.
After the mules had had a rest we covered the remaining six miles to
Sucre, passing on the way a number of large _fincas_. One of them seemed
to bear a distant resemblance to a pleasure park. Statues of men and
animals, summer houses, pagodas, and a small intramural railway whose
imitation locomotive was a small automobile in disguise, lent the place
a festive air which was increased by one or two minarets and other
fantastic towers. We learned afterwards that this was La Glorieta, the
seat of the Prince and Princess of Glorieta. The story, as told us by a
pleasant old lady in Sucre, is as follows:--
It seems that the head of the richest family in Bolivia, who is also the
leading banker of Sucre, wearying of republican simplicity, decided to
make a large donation to the Pope. Soon afterwards his great generosity
was rewarded with the title of “Prince of Glorieta.” Unfortunately, our
presence in this part of the world was not properly made known to this
Bolivian royal house and I am unable to give an adequate description of
the beauties of Glorieta. They have, however, been published by the
owners in a pamphlet, and from all that I could hear, Glorieta has a
distant resemblance to Coney Island.
After passing Glorieta, we crossed a small cañon, climbed the sides of a
deep gorge, and suddenly found ourselves at the city gates.
Sucre has a population of twenty thousand souls, including fifty
negroes, and two or three hundred foreigners, a large number of whom are
Spaniards engaged in mercantile business. There are two or three hotels
here, and we were in some doubt as to which might offer the best
welcome. After a vain effort to locate the Prefect and get his advice,
we decided to go to the Hotel Colon where we found large comfortable
rooms on the second floor, facing the plaza. The proprietor was most
polite and attentive. The only fault that we had to find with him was
his continual spitting. The fact that there were no cuspidors and that
he was ruining his own carpet did not deter him in the least. Perhaps he
had rented the furnishings.
It is superfluous to speak of the filth of the kitchen
[Illustration: THE GREAT RIVER PILCOMAYO]
[Illustration: OUR HOTEL IN SUCRE]
through which we had to pass to reach the back yard. It differed from
others only in the large number of guinea-pigs that swarmed everywhere.
They helped to make the bill-of-fare more interesting.
Sucre owes its importance to its comparatively pleasant climate. The
average temperature is 56° F. Bolivianos, accustomed as they are to one
of the worst climates in the world, say that Sucre has “the finest
climate in existence,” which means, being translated, that it is fairly
tolerable. Nevertheless, we found it very agreeable to be down at this
lower elevation, and we could scarcely sympathize with Castelnau, who,
coming up from the eastern plains in 1845, thought Sucre very
“_triste_.” He and his associates had been for many months in the warm
regions of Brazil and found it difficult “to resist the cold and the
effects of the altitude.” Most of them suffered severely from _soroche_
although few people now-a-days think of being troubled at an altitude of
anything less than twelve thousand feet and Sucre is only a little over
nine thousand.
If the miners had felt as Castelnau did, the old Indian city of
Chuquisaca would never have become the social and literary capital of
upper Peru. Its name was changed to La Plata in recognition of the
stream of silver that flowed to it from Potosí. Here resided an
important bishop who looked after the souls of countless thousands of
Indians scattered up and down the Bolivian plateau and in the tangled
jungles east of the Andes. The citizens of Chuquisaca, or La Plata,
acquired before long a reputation for wealth and intelligence which
spread far and wide. They called their city the “Athens of Peru” and
they established here a university where students still come to study
law and medicine.
After the great battle of Ayacucho in December, 1824, when General Sucre
won the memorable victory that defeated the last Spanish army in South
America, Upper Peru was erected into an independent Republic, taking its
name from the great General Bolivar and giving to its capital city the
name of its first president.
President Sucre was living at the capital when Edmond Temple came here
in 1826. That entertaining writer describes him as tall and thin with
mild, prepossessing manners and diffident address. Temple had lived in
Bolivia for nearly a year and was moved to say that General Sucre was
the best choice that could have been made to fill “the arduous,
troublesome, and thankless office of Supreme Chief of the new republic
of Bolivia.” Temple attended a session of Congress where he was
unfavorably impressed by the custom of remaining seated during the whole
debate and by the constant practice of spitting, “which is a breach of
decorum which no Englishman can patiently witness!” The innkeeper must
have been a descendant of a Congressman.
As long as Congress sat here the representatives came mostly from this
region and were naturally influenced by the aristocratic society of the
capital. The wealthy politicians of Sucre succeeded in diverting a large
part of the national revenues to beautifying their city, building
extravagant public works, and neglecting the just claims of La Paz. La
Paz, far more populous, and enjoying a much more important situation
commercially, was overlooked. Little of the public revenue found its way
thither. The result was a revolution in which La Paz emphatically
proclaimed its desire to share in the distribution of the public moneys
and public offices. The then President gathered the Government forces
together in Sucre and proceeded to march on the rebellious metropolis.
He was defeated not far from La Paz with great losses, and the war-like
Aymarás of La Paz followed up the victory with orgies of a disgusting
and barbaric if not cannibalistic character. The result was that while
Sucre retained the Supreme Court and the title of Capital, La Paz became
the actual seat of government, and few foreign diplomats have ever
undertaken the five days of hard travel which separates Sucre from
Challapata, the nearest railway station.
Nevertheless the wealthiest people in Bolivia live in Sucre. They are
very aristocratic and extremely exclusive, and they feel very superior
to the citizens of La Paz although that place is really much more
important than Sucre. The great land-owners have established here the
headquarters of the most important banks in the country.
At the largest of all, the Banco Nacional de Bolivia, I drew some money
on my letter of credit. Among the coins which I trustfully accepted were
seven or eight that proved to be bad. The Indians always ring a coin
before accepting it. The result was I found myself the victim of a
clever bank cashier. The coins were probably not counterfeit. The
Bolivian government has not been above issuing “silver” coins,
particularly “half _pesos_,” that contain so much “alloy” as to be
valueless.
These debased half dollars have long been a subject of annoyance not
only to travellers but to the neighboring Peruvians. Sir Clements
Markham says that at the time of his visit to Peru in 1859, when he was
on that famous mission that secured Chincona plants from eastern Peru
for transportation to India, war was imminent between Peru and Bolivia
and one _casus belli_ was that the Bolivian government persisted in
coining and deluging Peru with debased half dollars. These ill-omened
chickens have certainly come back to roost, for one never sees them now
in Peru and they are all too frequent here. Perhaps that is one reason
why the local banks are so unusually well built.
There is also a pretentious “legislative palace,” and at the time of my
visit a large theatre was in the course of construction. It was hoped to
have this completed in time for the celebration of the one hundredth
anniversary of the beginning of the War of Independence.
The market-place is neither so interesting nor so picturesque as that of
Potosí. A few of the men wore curious helmet-like hats with small visors
turned up in front and back. It would be interesting to know whether
this were the original hat of the vicinity or whether it had been copied
from the head-gear of the armored Spaniard _conquistadores_ of the
sixteenth century. The corresponding women’s hats were twice as large
as the men’s but the brim was turned up in the front and back in the
same fashion.
Most of the women wore felt hats of native manufacture, picturesque
coats of white cotton decorated with many little pieces of colored
calico, and as many heavy woollen petticoats as they could afford. The
majority wore rough rawhide sandals without socks but a few had
elaborately patterned knitted stockings.
A considerable quantity of chocolate is manufactured here and, as in the
mountains of Colombia, no meal is considered complete without it. They
appreciate better than we do the advantage of having the drink as light
and airy as possible, and consequently never serve any without beating
it to a light froth by means of a wooden spindle that is inserted in the
pot and rapidly revolved between the palms of the hands.
There are several Indian silversmiths here, as well as in Potosí, where
filigree-work, spoons, and simple silver dishes are hammered out. The
director of the mint in Potosí told me he was frequently offered pure
silver family heirlooms that have come down from the extravagant days of
the seventeenth century when in a well-to-do house every imaginable
utensil was made of silver.
Another specialty of Sucre is the manufacture of tiny dolls out of
pieces of fine wire, lace, and tinsel. They range in size from four
inches down to half an inch. Sometimes an effort is made to copy a
native costume, but more generally the dressing is entirely fantastic or
suited only to high carnival. Similar dolls are made in south central
Mexico.