THE WEST COAST
Cruising along the west coast of South America is a delightful
experience. It is the perfection of ocean travel. One is always sure of
fine weather, for it neither rains nor blows, and the swell is seldom
strong enough to make even the susceptible person seasick. In defiance
of our idea of geography the sailors speak of going “up” the coast, when
bound towards the south. The boats along this coast are built for fair
weather and tropical seas. They have their cabins opening seaward, and
the decks reach down almost to the water’s edge. Some swing hammocks and
sleep on deck, and it is very comfortable. Such vessels would not be
adapted for the stormy Atlantic, and would not live long in a storm upon
the Caribbean Sea. Sailors say that the wind is never strong enough to
“ruffle the fur on a cat’s back,” and this immense stretch of sea might
be likened unto a great mill pond. It is this part of the ocean, between
the Isthmus and Peru, that suggested to the Spaniards the name of Pacific.
Near the equator the days and nights are equal. The sun ceases doing duty
promptly at six, and reappears at the same hour the following morning.
There is no twilight, little gloaming, and darkness succeeds daylight
almost as soon as the big red ball disappears in the western sea. At
night beautiful phosphorescence may be seen. The water is so impregnated
with phosphorus, that each tiny wave is tipped with a light and the
vessel leaves a trail of fire. From above the Southern Cross looks down
upon the scene in complaisance. And thus the days pass in succession one
after the other. The temperature is not uncomfortable, as the Antarctic
Current tempers the tropical sun, and there is generally a southerly
or southwesterly wind that aids. It is a pleasanter ride, and subject
to fewer inconveniences than the ride along the eastern coast of the
continent.
[Illustration: THE WEST COAST.]
When the Stars and Stripes have faded from view at Balboa, and the jagged
backbone of the continent has disappeared into the mists on either
horizon, towards Nicaragua and Colombia, one feels that a new world has
been reached. The real South America has been entered, and, when the
good ship crosses the Line, about the third day out, home and the rest
of the world seem very far away. It is a long journey to Valparaiso,
Chile, if one takes a steamer that stops at all the intermediate
ports, as it lasts more than three weeks. There are swifter vessels,
however, that avoid Ecuador and make the journey in twelve days. The
slower vessels follow the coast line, and the passenger is given many a
view of the Andes, whose peaks are crowned with eternal snows but are
frequently wrapped in fleecy clouds. At Guayaquil, the westernmost city
of South America, it is even possible on occasions in clear weather
to see Chimborazo, eighty miles from the sea. Nowhere in the world is
there a greater assembly of lofty peaks than will be seen as the vessel
proceeds along the coast. The Spaniards called these “sierras,” because
their uneven summits resembled the teeth of a saw. Some of the peaks are
regular in outline, but more often they are irregular and even grotesque,
so that the imaginative minds of the natives have fancied resemblances
to works of nature and have given them corresponding names. Nowhere in
the world are there stranger freaks in geological formations, or more
startling contrasts. Near the coast run the foothills, which gradually
become higher and bolder until they end in the loftiest peaks. Back, and
beyond all, an occasional volcanic peak may be seen lifting itself in
solitary grandeur.
At the mouth of the Guayas River, in Ecuador, there is a dense growth
of tropical vegetation. It seems to be a veritable hothouse of nature,
where plants and trees wage a desperate war for existence against the
vines, mosses and other parasites that attack them. This is the end of
such scenes, however, for days and days. It would be difficult to find a
more dreary aspect than the coast of South America from the boundary of
Ecuador almost to Valparaiso. From the water’s edge to the Andes chain
of mountains stretches a yellow and brown desert, unrelieved by a tinge
of green, except where irrigation has been employed. At midday all is
clear, but in the evening a purple haze covers the whole landscape. It
bears a close resemblance to parts of Arizona and New Mexico in general
characteristics. Cliffs three hundred to four hundred feet high, and
which are scooped out into fantastic shapes, often form the water’s
edge. The distant mountains look gloomy and forbidding. It very seldom
rains there, perhaps once in six or seven years is a fair average. In
other places a generation can almost grow up and pass away without an
experience with rain. When it does rain, however, the desertlike plains
and slopes immediately spring into life. Where for years there has been
nothing but drifting sands appear meadows of nutritious grasses, and
flowers and plants spring up in great confusion. Wherever the seeds
come from is a mystery, but every nook and corner is soon ablaze with
vegetation.
The boats stop at many ports from Ecuador to Chile. These little towns
will be found nestling in little hollows at the foot of the hills, or
tacked on the hillside. Each one is walled away from the other, and
each is a gateway to a fertile valley or rich mining section. Sometimes
a narrow gauge railway runs back into the interior, but there are no
connections coastwise. The steamer furnishes the only communication
with the world beyond, and the arrival of the boat is an event of great
importance. Each town has its own specialty. At Guayaquil and Paita
many merchants will come aboard with Panama hats, and good-natured
bargaining will then be carried on with the passengers. Buying a hat is
a tedious matter. The seller does not expect more than about one-third
of the price he asks. If the passenger looks indifferent the native
will hunt him up and reduce his offer. “How much would the señor give?”
“Thirty soles! That would be robbery.” But the ship’s gong strikes and
the time of departure is at hand. “Here, señor, is your hat. _Muchas
gracias. Adios!_” The deal is concluded, and you have your hat at the
price you offered, if you are shrewd enough to see that a cheaper hat
was not substituted at the last minute. Deck traders board the vessel
and stay with it for days, doing a good business in almost everything
from vegetables and fruits to dry goods, and jewelry. Parrots, monkeys
and even mild-eyed ant-eaters are offered the passengers for pets.
Passengers join the boat at every stop, and, instead of hat boxes, as
American women would be burdened with, the women here all bring on board
their bird cages with their noisy occupants. Swarthy Spaniards and the
darker-hued natives join the boat, many of them dressed in gay attire,
and particularly wearing gaudy neckties and waistcoats. The boat always
anchors at some distance from the shore, while passengers and freight
are brought out either in lighters or row-boats. At some places a dozen
lighters may be filled with freight for the steamer. The ship’s crew
bring up from the hold scores of bales and boxes with labels familiar and
unfamiliar. International commerce becomes real—almost a thing of flesh
and blood. Each sling load brought up from the hold has its own tale to
tell, and everyone becomes commercialized. The crowing of roosters at
night, the bleating of sheep and bawling of the cattle remind you of a
country barnyard at times, for the boat carries its own live stock, which
are killed as the conditions of the larder demand. Thus it is that these
slow galleons float along the coast past Paita, Pacasmayo, Salaverry,
Pisco and the rest of the little ports. Five minutes after the ladder
would be lowered the deck would become a floating bazaar.
Guayaquil is the port for the equatorial republic of Ecuador. Quite a
business is done there, for more than one-third of the world’s supply of
cacao beans, from which our chocolate is made, comes through this port.
It is generally infested with more or less fever, and most people prefer
to make their stay as short as possible. One of the curious things to
attract the traveller’s attention is to see the mules with their legs
encased in trousers. This is not due to any excessive modesty on the
part of the inhabitants, for children several years old may be seen
without as much clothing on. The purpose is to protect the legs of the
animals from the bite of the gadfly, which is very numerous here. It was
near Guayaquil that Pizarro landed with one hundred and eighty men to
conquer the empire of the Incas. The capital of Ecuador, Quito, lies in
a saucer-shaped cup at the foot of Mt. Pichincha, with many other lofty
peaks in sight. It perhaps retains more of the original characteristics
than any other city of South America. It vies with the City of Mexico the
distinction of being the oldest city of the Americas. For centuries prior
to the coming of the Spaniards it was the capital of one of the branches
of the Incas, and Atahualpa used to eat his meals off plates made of
solid gold. Hitherto accessible only over a long and difficult mountain
trail, which was impassable during half of the year, Quito can now be
reached by a railroad—thanks to American enterprise. No less than twenty
volcanoes are visible from the track, of which three are active, five
dormant and twelve are classed as extinct.
Callao (pronounced Cal-ya-o) is the principal port of Peru. It is always
full of steamers and masts and has a general aspect of business. More
than a thousand vessels touch here every twelve months. Its history has
been exciting and there are many monuments to its heroes. Some warships
are generally floating in the harbour. Lima is distant but seven miles
from Callao, and it is a ride of only twenty minutes by an excellent
electric road of American construction throughout. To the hum of the
trolley one is hurried past irrigated fields, beautiful gardens and
villas, and Inca ruins many centuries old. As the boats remain at Callao
for a day the traveller is able to spend a few hours in the “City of the
Kings,” as Pizarro christened it. Lima is a wonderfully interesting city,
and its history is full of romance. It preserves in wood and stone the
spirit of old Spain as it was transplanted into the New World. Carved
balconies, which were patterned after their native Andalusia, still
overhang the narrow streets of the Peruvian capital. Up-to-date electric
cars whirl past old monastery walls where life has scarcely changed in
three centuries. The Limaños are an easy-going, pleasure-loving people,
among whom the strenuous life has few disciples. It has been the scene of
many revolutions, and the marks of street fighting are numerous. Churches
and ecclesiastical institutions abound on every hand, and ecclesiastics
are numerous on the streets. The cathedral, in which the sacristan will
show the alleged bones of Francisco Pizarro, is a fine specimen of
architecture—one of the best in the world. On another corner of the plaza
is the passageway from which the conspirators emerged on their way to
assassinate the conqueror. The building which was the headquarters of the
Inquisition in South America occupies still another site on the plaza.
[Illustration: A MILK BOY IN PERU.]
Pisco is the next port of importance, and it is situated near a rich
and fertile irrigated valley where sugar-cane grows abundantly. It is
the port also for the interior towns of Ayacucho and Huancavelica,
where numerous rich mines are found. Just a few miles out at sea are
the Chincha Islands, from which Peru obtained such a large revenue for
the guano found there. These deposits, once considered inexhaustible,
because in places they were eighty feet or more in depth, have been
almost exhausted. The great wealth received from them and nitrate has
been dissipated.
At Mollendo, the last Peruvian port, there is a railway that runs to La
Paz, the capital of the inland republic of Bolivia. It is a surf-lashed
port where vessels are sometimes unable to land their passengers and
freight. In fact the landing is through a “sort of Niagara Gorge gateway
of rock, which gives to the mere landing some of the noise and a good
deal of the excitement of a rescue at sea.” It takes three days’ travel
to reach La Paz from Mollendo, as the train only runs by day. The first
stage of the trip, as far as Arequipa, is over an almost trackless
desert, where the wind piles the sand up in movable half-moon heaps. The
sand-storms of the centuries have covered everything with these whitish
particles, and the dusted peaks and hillocks stand out without relief
of any kind. The second day brings the traveller to Lake Titicaca, the
sacred lake of the Incas, which is crossed by boat, and a side trip
will take the traveller to Cuzco, the capital of the Inca confederacy.
Lake Titicaca is the highest and one of the most wonderful lakes in
the world. It is larger than all the lakes of Switzerland together, and
lies in a hollow two and one-half miles above the waters of the ocean.
Lying in a peaceful valley, in a scene of desolate grandeur, where the
trees are stunted and only a few of the hardiest plants survive, lies La
Paz. The City of Peace, its name indicates, but this city has been the
scene of turmoil and strife entirely foreign to its name ever since the
Spaniards invaded these solitudes. Bolivia is another Tibet—one of the
highest inhabited plateaus in the world, as well as one of the richest
mineral sections.
In no part of the world, perhaps, is there such an abundance of life in
sea and air as along the coast of Peru. Soon after leaving Callao the
tedium of the voyage is relieved by the flight of millions upon millions
of birds. There are gulls, ducks, cormorants, divers of all kinds and
great pelicans with huge pouches under their bills. The sea is as
animated as the air, and schools of fish, innumerable in numbers, may be
seen darting through the water with their fins showing above its surface.
Danger besets them from above and from beneath. The divers poise on wing
every few minutes and then drop suddenly into the sea like a flash. For
a few seconds they disappear beneath the surface, and then reappear with
a fish in their bills. The lumbering and stately pelicans drop with a
mighty splash that sends up a dash of spray. These greedy birds continue
this foraging process until their pouches are so filled with fish that
they are unable to rise out of the water until the load is digested or
they disgorge themselves. The seals and sea lions keep themselves as busy
as the birds, and constantly display their sinuous and shiny bodies above
the surface, as they pursue the fish or come up to breathe.
We passed by the famous guano islands just before nightfall. The air was
filled with birds, all of which were flying toward a great island that
lifted up its rocky surface above the blue of the sea. At some distance
above the sea were the smaller birds, which, at a distance, looked like
mere specks against the sky. A little lower were the pelicans flying in
single file, and in flocks of from twelve to thirty. They seemed to play
the game of “follow the leader,” for if the leader poised his wings or
lifted himself higher all did the same. Near the surface were divers,
called “pirates” in the local parlance, in flocks of a thousand or more.
They sailed along just above the surface of the water and continually
altered their formation. With the naked eye the number of birds was
myriad, but the telescope showed ten times as many. As far as one could
see there was the same multitude of birds, all heading for this one
island. The island itself was black with the birds already settled for
the night, but each new arrival seemed to find a resting place either on
the surface of the rock or in the caves underneath. For countless ages
these birds have occupied these sterile volcanic rocks as their resting
place, and have deposited the guano which has brought millions of dollars
of wealth into the Peruvian treasury. A glimpse of this remarkable bird
life shows how the guano has accumulated in such enormous quantities.
[Illustration: ROW BOATS CROWDING AROUND A STEAMER.]
The northern part of Chile contains the dreariest section of this forlorn
coast. There are no harbours, and a tremendous surf which rolls half way
around the world before it strikes a breakwater dashes into foam upon
these beaches. Several prosperous towns are located here as a result
of the workings of nature’s laboratories. To reach these ports it is
necessary to trust yourself to one of the boatmen, who crowd around the
ladder as soon as the vessel drops anchor. Judicious bargaining is always
advisable, and never pay the boatman until he has returned you safely to
your floating hotel. The boat is guided through the surf with amazing
skill, and it is very seldom that an accident occurs. They sometimes
crowd each other off, however, in their eagerness to get the best
position at the bottom of the ladder and secure the first passengers. But
all these men are good swimmers, and the only result is a good wetting
and much amusement for the steamer’s passengers who welcome any diversion.
Arica is the first port of importance in Chile at the north. It is only a
day’s journey from Mollendo, the last Peruvian port. The Peruvian heaves
a sigh when he enters Arica, but there is some hope in it, for he trusts
to add this province to Peru’s possessions at some time in the future
again. But at Iquique the hope fades, for sovereignty is lost for ever.
Although not a large town, Arica has been the scene of several memorable
events. It was here that were built the boats which carried the troops
for the conquest of Chile. It was at that time a place of some importance
among the natives, and the valleys back of it were densely populated and
were cultivated by means of irrigation. Sir Francis Drake touched at this
place in 1579, and found a collection of Indian huts on the shore. It is
supposed to have been founded in 1250 by the Incas. It is like an oasis
in the desert to the traveller who has coasted along the shore for days
or weeks without seeing vegetation. At the present time it is famous
for its oranges. They are grown in the rich valleys that lie behind the
rather unattractive and forbidding hills next to the coast, and through
the opening in the flat-topped hills one is permitted to catch glimpses
of these valleys. Near the coast is a prehistoric cemetery filled with
dead bodies, which were embalmed with almost as great skill as the
mummies of Egypt.
Arica is a pleasant little place of several thousand inhabitants. There
is a handsome little plaza which encloses a plot of shrubbery adorned
with morning-glories and purple vine trees. One of the striking features
is the brilliant colouring of the houses. There is also a rather imposing
parochial church which is painted in the gaudiest colours that I have
seen in any country; and it would be hard to duplicate it anywhere, even
in Spanish America, a land of rich colouring. It used to be a great
market for the skins of the vicuña, which are so beautiful. In late
years, however, the skins are becoming less plentiful and the prices
have jumped accordingly. The harbour is commodious and well sheltered.
Interesting glimpses of native life are afforded by the Indian women
coming to town. Some of them ride astride, being almost concealed by the
huge panniers containing their market produce. Others trudge along by the
side of the animals.
From this city a highway runs into the interior of Peru and Bolivia,
which was constructed by the Incas a thousand years ago and has been
used ever since. To-day caravans of mules, donkeys and llamas may be
seen constantly passing up and down this ancient trail. They bring down
ore and take back mining supplies and miscellaneous merchandise. It is
known as the “camino real,” and is several hundred miles long. Near here
is supposed to be the underground outlet of Lakes Titicaca and Poopo.
One argument advanced in favour of this theory is that a certain kind of
fresh water fish that abounds in that lake is caught in considerable
numbers in the ocean near this town. It has been the scene of several
disastrous earthquakes. On August 13th, 1868, it was almost washed away,
and many of its inhabitants perished in a tidal wave which came without
warning and devastated the coast for a hundred miles. Two United States
men-of-war, which were in the harbour at that time, were lifted from
their anchorage by waves sixty feet high and carried inland a mile over
the roofs of the town. One of the vessels, the _Fredonia_, was dashed
against a ledge of rocks and entirely destroyed, while the other, the
_Wateree_, was left lying in the sand. Everyone on the former boat was
lost and about half of the latter. For many years the boat lying on the
sand was used as a boarding house for the railway employees.
[Illustration: THE HARBOUR OF ARICA.]
On June 7th, 1880, Arica was the scene of a furious battle and a terrible
massacre. At one end of the town, and directly on the sea front,
is a promontory, which rises six hundred feet above the sea almost
precipitously. On this rock, which is known as the Morro, the Peruvians
had erected a powerful battery to defend the harbour. The Chileans,
however, landed a force of four thousand men several miles below at
night. In the morning the Peruvians found themselves attacked in the
rear with no means of escape. As their guns were pointed to the sea they
were useless to defend against those back on the landward side. Although
short of small arms and ammunition, the Peruvians made a heroic defence
and engaged in a hand-to-hand contest that lasted for an hour. At the end
of that time the commander leaped over the precipice into the sea, and
his body was crushed to a pulp among the rocks. Several hundred of his
soldiers followed him, preferring to die that way to having their throats
cut by the Chileans. For months afterward their bodies could be seen
lying where they had lodged on the jutting rocks below. It is claimed
that seventeen hundred Peruvians were killed, as this was the total
strength of the garrison and no prisoners were taken. On a slab near the
slope of the rock is an inscription in whitewashed stone, “Viva Battalion
No. 4.” It was placed there by the victorious Chileans to commemorate the
heroism of the enemy.
Arica is in the province of Tacna, which is the most northerly province
in the republic, and is about the size of New Jersey. Agriculture in
this province is very limited, and there has not been much of mineral
development. There are some veins of copper and lead, and some scattered
deposits of nitrate as well that have not been worked. A railroad from
Arica runs back to the city of Tacna, the capital, which is one of the
oldest railroads in South America. It is quite an important town, and is
situated in a valley made fertile by irrigation. A railroad is now being
built across the Cordilleras from this city to connect with the Bolivian
railways. When that is completed it is believed that this line will be
the best one, as it is the shortest, and every traveller is anxious to
escape as much of the dust in crossing the desert region as possible.
It is only a little over three hundred miles from Arica to La Paz. This
road will add to the importance of Arica, for it will be one of the main
arteries of commerce from Bolivia to the outside world, but it is not
likely to help Tacna any in its growth.
The next province adjoining Tacna is Tarapacá, which is one of the
wealthiest sections in the Americas because of its nitrate deposits. It
contains the richest nitrate region in the world. From Arica the cliffs
rise up almost perpendicularly from the sea for the first day’s journey.
Pisagua, the first port as you travel “up” the coast, is a city of about
five thousand. This port does not differ much from a mining town in the
States. Although considerable shipping is done here, Pisagua fades in
importance beside its more important rivals.
“We do not want rain in Iquique.”
This statement was made to me by the manager of the nitrate trust, who
lives in that prosperous city of thirty thousand or more inhabitants, and
which is one hundred and eleven miles south of Arica. It was the first
time I had ever heard of a community that did not desire rainfall. Water
used to be brought by boat from more favoured regions, and was peddled
through the streets at so much a quart or gallon. At times it is said to
have sold as high as two dollars per gallon. A pipe line one hundred and
fifty miles long now supplies this necessary liquid to this city, and it
is sold by the metre instead of being put up in pint or quart bottles.
A walk through this city on the edge of the sea, with bare, brown and
rugged hills for a background, showed not a blade of grass, except on
the public squares and in a few diminutive courtyards within the houses,
where the hand of man supplied the necessary water for growth. It is
little wonder that lawn-mowers are a drug on the market in Iquique. The
sun is fierce, and its unrelenting rays, absorbed and reflected by the
vast area of desert waste, inflame the air to almost furnace heat. The
streets are dusty and the fine particles get into your ears and nostrils,
and you can almost taste it on your tongue. Many of the houses have a
piazza on top, or a second roof, to break the force of the sun’s rays.
The Arturo Prat Square has been made quite attractive, and is ornamented
with a very creditable statue of that hero. Business around the shipping
quarters is always lively, as it is bound to be where such an enormous
export and import trade is carried on. In 1891, during the revolutionary
fighting between the Balmacedists and Congressists, the custom house was
the scene of a stubborn battle. The town was set on fire and confusion
and disorder reigned supreme. At the present time Iquique is an important
port and more than one thousand vessels enter it each year.
The dreariness and unattractiveness of the surroundings is hard to
describe. Street cars with girls as conductors, good stores, the
telephone and other modern conveniences, and even comfortable clubs
do not make up for the lack of green vegetation. The groceries are
filled with condensed milk from England, sardines from France, sausages
from Germany, cheese from Holland, jellies and jam from Britain, and
macaroni from Italy. But fresh vegetables and meats are at a premium,
and unnatural tastes are developed. Many English live in Iquique. They
are great brandy drinkers, and show discrimination “in not exhausting
the wealth of the nitrate beds by taking too much soda in their brandy,”
as one writer says. Nevertheless the people are happy, for wealth lies
at their very doors and rain would cause great loss. By reason of this
Iquique has grown until it is second only to Valparaiso in commercial
importance. It has grown with a swiftness than can only be compared with
our own western towns. In the first days of the saltpetre era nothing
went slow and the town spread like magic. Much of the population is a
rough one and hard to govern, but the authorities have done well. The
battles that have been fought with fortune in Iquique and on this coast
have cost many lives and much privation. A few have acquired fortune,
but more have not even obtained a modest competence in return for the
deprivation and sacrifice endured. Whatever has been gained at the cost
of much labour and privation has been fully earned by some one—and
perhaps by one who did not reap the reward.
[Illustration: A STREET SCENE, ANTOFAGASTA.]
The province of Antofagasta joins that of Tarapacá on the south.
Tocopilla is the first port of importance, but Antofagasta, a little over
two hundred miles from Iquique, is the principal city. This province is
a desert in appearance similar to the other, and this city can boast no
advantages over its more northerly rival. Antofagasta is almost on the
Tropic of Capricorn, and is in about the same latitude as Rio de Janeiro,
on the Atlantic coast. It lies almost at the foot of some hills that are
quite high, and is a city of about twenty thousand. The dull-coloured
houses can scarcely be distinguished from the sombre hills at a distance.
The dust is anything but pleasant. A great deal of nitrate and some
copper are shipped from Antofagasta. There are several small wharves, but
everything has to be transferred to lighters. The harbour is a wretched
roadstead and, to get ashore, one has to brave a lashing surf. The pride
of the city is a little plaza, where considerable coaxing has caused a
little evidence of green from the grass and a few trees. A narrow gauge
railroad, two feet and six inches in width, runs from here to La Paz, and
a great deal of freight is transshipped to Bolivian towns.
The province of Atacama comes next, which does not differ much in
physical characteristics from the three previously named. In some of the
valleys, where water can be secured for irrigation, a little agriculture
is attempted. There are also a number of minerals to be found, but not so
much as in Tarapacá and Antofagasta. Caldera, the principal port, is two
hundred and seven miles from Antofagasta, and has a well sheltered bay.
The oldest railroad in South America connects this port with Copiapó, the
capital of the province. This city is situated in a fertile valley on the
banks of a river of the same name. It is an old and quite important town,
and has a number of educational institutions. It will soon be connected
with Santiago by the longitudinal railway.
The last of the northern provinces is that of Coquimbo. This province is
really at the end of the dry zone, and there are a number of rich valleys
where the land is fertile and agriculture flourishes. It is a mining
province as well, and a great deal of mineral wealth has been discovered.
Guayacan is a port, but the principal port is Coquimbo, which is only a
couple of hundred miles from Valparaiso. It has a population of probably
ten thousand. The city extends along the bay in an irregular manner for
some distance. The capital of the province is La Serena, and it is only
a few miles from Coquimbo. There is nothing especially in its favour,
although an attractive little city, but it is a relief from the dreary
places farther north which have been mentioned.
[Illustration: COQUIMBO, A TYPICAL WEST COAST TOWN.]
Every one going this way is bound for Valparaiso. The voyager, who has
journeyed twenty-six hundred miles along the Pacific coast, hails with
delight the beautiful half-moon bay in which that city is located. He
welcomes the splash of the anchor, which means a speedy transfer to the
shore and the comforts of a good hotel. Many disasters have been recorded
in this bay. In the winter terrific storms arise, and steamers oftentimes
lift their anchors and steam out into the open sea for safety. The
largest steamers are tossed about like eggshells, while the buoys bob
around like water-sprites. The enthusiastic Chilean loves to compare
it with the Bay of Naples. But it is not Naples. The waters are not so
blue, nor the skies as perfect, but it has a charm all its own. A row
boat or launch quickly transfers the traveller to the landing steps, and
courteous officials promptly pass the baggage. Then a short ride in a
rickety carriage, and the doors of the Royal Hotel hospitably open to
receive the guests.