THE BACKBONE OF THE CONTINENT
The trip across the continent of South America is now made very
comfortably by train. The start is from the very pleasant station of the
State Railway of Valparaiso. For a number of miles the tracks run almost
along the water’s edge, and thus afford many beautiful views of the blue
bay of Valparaiso. The trains on this road are very comfortable, for the
Chilean State Railway is one of the very few railroads in South America
that provide Pullman cars for their patrons. After leaving Viña del Mar
the line soon abandons the bay, and threads its way through the coast
range of mountains. One gets many glimpses of the higher Andes through
the passes, and there are also green glens where advantage has been taken
of the running water for irrigation. Cacti become very abundant, and one
is reminded of the plateaus of Mexico, for these silent sentinels seem to
keep watch over the herds of sheep and goats that feed on the slopes.
Any one who has seen Southern Chile first will notice the difference as
soon as the train leaves Santiago. The progressive dryness of the climate
has a pronounced effect on the vegetation. The cacti are frequently from
twelve to fifteen feet in height, and their entire surface is covered
with stout, curved spines.
[Illustration: THE ACONCAGUA RIVER.]
After creeping along the shore and then through a valley, the railroad
soon joins the Aconcagua River, which leaps and foams along, thus
forming a series of diminutive cascades. In the winter time the change
in temperature is very marked as the upward climb continues. In places
the valley spreads out to quite generous proportions, and one will
see _haciendas_ that are well kept up and which show evidence of
careful cultivation. Contrast is afforded by the sight of oxen drawing
one-handled, wooden ploughs. How powerful must have been the Moorish
influence in Spain, for these ploughs are exact duplicates of the plough
of ancient Chaldea and Egypt, which was carried along the coast of
Barbary into Spain, and left there as a heritage to the Spaniards, who
introduced it into the New World. The general impression left with the
traveller over this route, between Valparaiso and Santiago, is one of
comparative barrenness and desolation.
Viña del Mar, Limache and Quillota are three quite important towns that
are passed _en route_, the latter two of which have some important
manufacturing establishments. Llai Llai (pronounced Yi-yi) is about half
way, and this is the diverging point for the two routes. One leads to
the capital, and the other is the continuation of the transcontinental
railroad. Llai Llai is a pleasant little town of five or six thousand
inhabitants, and is situated about twenty-six hundred and twenty-five
feet above sea level. A number of fruit sellers are sure to be at the
station, and one who does not purchase a few of the delicious pears or
peaches, that are sold so reasonably, misses a great treat. They are
grown in a rich valley below which is a sort of agricultural Arcadia.
The through cars are switched to another track, a different engine is
attached to them and the traveller is soon bound for Los Andes. The
journey does not differ greatly from that already described. The city
of San Felipe is the largest town passed and it is situated amidst well
cultivated fields. It is a city of about twelve thousand. Soon afterwards
the train reaches Santa Rosa de Los Andes, which marks a break in
the journey. Here it is necessary to change trains, and frequently to
stay over night. It is at the foothills of the Andes, and one can find
many pleasant little excursions into the foothills here, if he has
the inclination to tarry for a few days. The climate is good, and the
physical wants of the traveller are very well looked after at the hotel.
A few Americans will be found there, for the railroad is operated by that
nationality.
[Illustration: LOOKING TOWARDS ACONCAGUA.]
If it is the summer time one will find Los Andes a very pleasant little
place, with quite an abundance of vegetation around it. The altitude
is about twenty-six hundred feet, which gives it a delightful climate.
Fruits grow abundantly, and the fruit-canning industry has been
considerably developed. This is in the province of Aconcagua, which
contains some of the most notable elevations in the entire republic,
and, in fact, in the entire world. This province is about as large
as Connecticut and Rhode Island combined. In addition to the eastern
boundary of lofty peaks there are numerous low hills, between which lie
fertile valleys. Through the use of irrigation agriculture flourishes
in these valleys, and there is a considerable production of grains and
wine. There are also a number of silver and copper mines in the province.
San Felipe is the capital, and is distant about seventy-eight miles from
both Santiago and Valparaiso.
“_Vamonos_,” says the conductor of the narrow gauge train, as it pulls
out of the station on its way to the limits of Chilean territory. One
will begin to take notice of his fellow-travellers. The passengers will
be found to be of many nationalities, and of many shades of colour,
for, since the railway journey is continuous, fewer people take the
much longer route via the Straits of Magellan. There will be Chilenos,
with big hats and _ponchos_, and Chilenas, whose faces are coated with
powder or paste. There will be priests in beaver hats and black gowns,
which reach to their feet. Soldiers in uniforms modelled after the
German army are quite likely to be companions as far as the border.
Americans, British, French, Germans, Italians and Argentinians—all of
these nationalities go to make up a potpourri of nations and national
characteristics. As the start is generally made in the morning, one sees
the stars disappear and the dawn break over the mountains. The gray
skies turn to a steel-blue, then to a rosy pink, until, at last, the
highest peaks are illuminated by the rays of the sun. One may leave Los
Andes clad in its summer plumage, with myriads of butterflies and moths
flitting about, but these characteristics soon disappear, for the upward
climb begins almost immediately. In the next thirty-five miles this rack
and pinion road climbs upward more than seven thousand feet. It is a much
steeper ascent than on the Argentine side, for it requires three times
the distance to reach the same level on that slope.
The track follows the course of the Aconcagua River. This river is at no
time a great stream, yet the total volume of water carried down in its
swift-flowing current must be considerable. Many glimpses of the simple
natives, and their primitive means of conveyance, are afforded on the
ancient highway that threads the same valley. On the mountainside an
occasional mud hut may be seen around and over which climb creepers and
flowering vines. The scenery is beautiful and full of variations. Every
turn of the tortuous track reveals a new scene of beauty, and there are
few railway journeys in the world that will afford a greater variety of
views than this overland route to Buenos Aires. The mountains grow from
grand to grander, as if Ossa had been piled upon Pelion. When sunlight
and shadow play upon the rock the contrasts are dazzling and the senses
gladdened. There is a prodigality of colours such as even the Yosemite,
the Grand Cañon or the Dolomites do not surpass. Guardia Viega, the
“old guard,” is one of the stations, and is so named because it was for
two centuries a guard station on the Antiguo Camino, or ancient road
between the two republics. The vegetation becomes scanter as the altitude
increases, but, scant as it is, it is a pleasing change to the traveller
coming from the other direction. Juncal, which for several years was the
terminus, is passed. One of the most beautiful views afforded is that of
the narrow gorge, known as the Salto del Soldado, the Soldier’s Leap,
through which the tempestuous waters of the river foam and toss. There
is a tradition connected with this strange freak of nature of which the
Chileans are proud. During the war of independence it is said that a
Chilean pursued by the enemy, leaped across this chasm and saved his
life. Owing to the width it is an almost impossible tale to believe.
[Illustration: THE SALTO DEL SOLDADO.]
Just beyond Juncal is a beautiful little lake, which is as opalescent and
translucent as any of the lakes of Switzerland, and several thousand feet
higher. It is the Lago del Inca, the Lake of the Incas. Pure as crystal,
and clear as an unclouded sky, this little body of water rests tranquilly
amidst as harsh and severe a setting as one could well find. Masses of
rock seem poised on ledges ready to project themselves down into valleys
with destruction in their path. The mad gods who formed these eternal
peaks must have paused for a moment in their work in order to add this
one touch of real beauty to the landscape.
Here one may also see the huge condors, flying at such heights that they
look no larger than a swallow. The glass will sometimes reveal others
that can scarcely be distinguished with the naked eye. They sail and
circle around in the rarefied air with scarcely a flap of the wing. In
the winter time the condor may be found near the coast, but in summer
they always return to the highest Andean peaks, where they rear their
young. The eggs are deposited in lofty clefts or caverns, where no form
of animal life exists that might destroy the young birds. A young condor
during the first year clings to the parent bird, for its body is too
big for its wings. This royal bird figures on the national escutcheon of
Chile as an emblem of strength and independence. The Indians surround it
with many legends, and some of them believe that the souls of the lost
enter the bodies of the condor and are thus poised between heaven and
earth, so as to see the glories of both and be able to enjoy neither,
like the doom of Tantalus.
At last Caracoles, the name given to the little station at the Chilean
end of the international railroad, is reached, at an elevation of a
little more than ten thousand feet above sea level. The tunnel is just
about the same length as the altitude, for it is ten thousand three
hundred and eighty-five feet from entrance to exit. Near the centre of
this hole bored through the Andean rock the international boundary is
passed, and, when the train emerges at Las Cuevas, the other terminus,
the traveller catches his first glimpse of Argentina. It is a scene of
vast desolation that meets his gaze. It is a picture of solitude, with
nothing to relieve it in the way of vegetation. The vivid colourings of
the stratas of rock and the white summits of the many peaks in sight,
however, make it a scene of wild glory that uplifts the soul at the
majesty of nature. One stands aghast at the marvellous richness of
colouring that is revealed on every hand.
[Illustration: REFUGE HOUSE ALONG THE OLD INCA TRAIL.]
The traveller may be thankful that he has not been obliged to traverse
this pass in the winter time. Nothing can surpass these vast ridges
clad in their winter dress. White and cold, they form a veritable
valley of desolation. It is the cold of death, the white mantle of
annihilation—something that the brain can scarcely compass. The feeling
of solitude in the midst of the whiteness everywhere almost overwhelms
the traveller with despair. In places the snow is frequently as much as
fifteen feet in depth, deep enough to bury a horse and rider. Sudden
storms are likely to overtake the traveller, and he would be snowed in in
one of the _casuchas_. These are shelters that were built at intervals
along the pass for the protection of travellers. They are dome-shaped
structures which remind one of lime-kilns. They have a small door, but
no windows, and will accommodate as many as twenty people at a time. The
interior has a brick floor and is absolutely bare. Although protected
from the weather, woe be to the traveller obliged to spend a day or two
there with a group of _arrieros_, for filth is everywhere and the stench
is almost overpowering.
Although fewer travellers ventured over this pass in the midst of winter,
the mail service continued uninterruptedly, and there was seldom a
day that some one did not attempt the crossing. A _capitas_, who was
generally a man with a little capital, would undertake to carry the
mails or other freight over the pass at a fixed price. He would then
engage his force of porters as cheaply as possible, agreeing to furnish
them with board and lodging so long as they remained with him. As time
was not specified in the mail contract, if a traveller came along the
_capitas_ would dump the mails and carry his baggage at an exorbitant
price. Everything was done up in packages weighing about sixty pounds.
Some of the porters would even undertake to carry two of these—a terrible
strain on a rough road. It is little wonder that this and unrestrained
dissipation usually gave these men a short life. Sometimes they slid
over a precipice, or were hurled to their doom by a falling stone. There
are many graves of those who met an untimely end along this route, and
it seems almost marvellous that they are not more numerous. After the
highest point was passed the porters would toboggan down the slopes,
seated on a sheepskin and guiding themselves with pointed staffs. In
this way the descent was quickly accomplished. The packages were simply
tumbled down, and oftentimes reached the bottom in a very dilapidated
condition.
The Trasandino Argentino Railway threads its way out through the valley
of the Uspallata, and follows a small stream which gradually becomes
larger as little rivulets of melted snow join it. It soon becomes more of
a stream, and is given the name of Rio (river) Mendoza. At a distance of
less than a dozen miles the station called Puente del Inca is reached,
which is so named because of a natural bridge of stratified rock at
that place, which is very similar to the Natural Bridge of Virginia.
Underneath it bubble up boiling waters which are claimed to have great
medicinal value. It is said that the Incas in pre-Spanish times knew of
the value of these waters, and their chiefs came here to receive the
benefits of its curative waters. Near here one catches a glimpse of a
marvellous freak of nature, called the Cerro de los Penitentes, the
Ridge of the Penitents. The scattered rocky peaks and points standing
up through the sloping debris of the ascent, with their remarkable
imitations of toiling wayfarers, must have greatly impressed the Spanish
pioneers when they first came upon this scene.
The route continues a picture of desolation, caused by volcanic upheavals
and the erosion of countless ages. The Mendoza River, coloured by the
various metals of the rocks over which it pours, tumbles along near the
railway as both follow one pass after another. Las Vacas, Uspallata, La
Invernada and other small stations are passed. About thirty miles before
Mendoza is reached a change begins, and poplar and larch trees, alfalfa
fields and the grape enliven the scene. Irrigation is utilized and the
melted snows cause the land to bloom with remarkable fertility. At last
the train runs into the creditable station of Mendoza, and the second
stage in the transcontinental journey is ended.
[Illustration: THE CHRIST OF THE ANDES.]
At Mendoza a change is made to the broad gauge trains of the Buenos
Aires and Pacific Railway, which will carry the traveller over the
remaining leagues of the journey. After leaving the irrigated lands of
this neighbourhood, another stretch of miserable scrub land is crossed
before the level pampas are entered. From there to Buenos Aires the
route is over as level land as is to be found on the earth’s surface.
Hour after hour the train rolls over these pampas, past small towns and
through great stretches of grain and alfalfa. At last, after about a day
and a half’s journey, the train enters the suburbs of Buenos Aires, and
finally, with a shrill shriek, rolls into the Retiro Station, which is
the end of the trip.
Grand and wonderful as is the ride through and across the Andes by
railroad, the traveller has missed one of the most striking features of
these solitudes. Almost immediately over the tunnel, and nearly three
thousand feet higher, stands the famous statue, known as the Christ of
the Andes. This statue was erected in 1904 as a symbol of perpetual
peace between the two neighbouring nations. It was cast in bronze from
the cannon of the two nations, which had been purchased through fear of
impending war. Its location is on the new international boundary line
that had just been established by arbitration. Near it is a sign with the
words “CHILE” on one side, and “ARGENTINA” on the other side.
The figure of Christ is twenty-six feet in height. In one hand it holds
the emblem of the cross, while the other is extended in a blessing, and
as if uttering the one magic word “Peace.” On one side is a tablet with
the inscription: “Sooner shall these mountains crumble into dust than the
people of Argentina and Chile break the peace to which they have pledged
themselves at the feet of Christ the Redeemer.” On another side is the
inscription:
“He is our Peace
Who hath made both One.”
The Cumbre, as this ridge is called, is the highest point on the old
trail. Travellers and baggage were transported over it by mule-back or in
carriages, if the almost springless vehicles could be called by such a
name, during the summer. It is a very zigzag trail up which the carriages
wound, where as many as twenty twists and turns can be counted. On the
downward trip the horses ran and jumped, until the timorous traveller
began to have visions of disaster. Accidents were rare, however, and
seldom was a vehicle overturned. Corners were turned on two wheels,
with only a few inches between the outside wheels and the edge of the
precipice.
“The clouds have voices, and the rivers pour
Their floods in thunder down to ocean’s floor;—
The hills alone mysterious silence keep.”
One of the most striking aspects which impress the traveller crossing
the Andes is the terribly bleak and desolate outlook that they present.
Blades of grass here and there, or perhaps a few stunted shrubs, are
the only signs of vegetation, for of trees there are none. There seems
to be no tree line, as in most mountains. A huge expanse of yellow sand
and stone spreads out everywhere with peaks rising up on every side in
clearly defined and rugged stratification, whose many-coloured hues are
almost bewildering to the eye. Great torrents flow down the middle of the
valleys, the water being of a dull brackish hue. The fording of these
streams is a very dangerous task for the explorer, as the torrents are
exceedingly rapid and full of deep, treacherous holes.
[Illustration: THE SOLITUDE OF THE ANDES.]
On either side rise high peaks, and the traveller is always interested in
knowing the names of these peaks. If he asks the average native which is
Aconcagua, or which Tupungato, he is likely to be misinformed. There is
to the inexperienced mountain traveller a disappointment when he finally
has one of these lofty peaks pointed out, and which he knows to be above
twenty thousand feet in height, because he has expected, perhaps, to see
an isolated peak rearing its snowy head to the sky for a distance of four
miles or more above the level on which he stands. The traveller forgets
that he himself is above the sea level almost half that distance, before
he gains a good clear view of the higher peak. It is well established
that Aconcagua is the loftiest peak of the Andes, but it is a little
uncertain whether Tupungato or the Mercedario is the second in height.
Ten thousand miles of majestic mountains stretch from Alaska to Cape
Horn—the grandest range of mountains that can be found on the earth’s
surface. Throughout this series of connected mountains, from the wilds
of Alaska to those of Patagonia, and including the tropical plateaus
of Ecuador, there are many peaks that pierce the ethereal blue of the
skies. These are generally termed the Sierras, which is the Spanish word
for “saw,” and the name is applied to mountains because of the fancied
resemblance of their outlines to that of the carpenter’s tool. A dim
knowledge of the majesty of mountains is obtained from the smaller ranges
of North America, such as the Appalachian Mountains, but Mt. McKinley,
highest of North American mountains, must yield in majesty to a number of
peaks in the lofty Andean range of mountains.
The lure of altitude seems to have caught at the spirit of man from early
times, and led him struggling up almost unscalable peaks. In recent years
the fascination of mountain climbing has become the romance of geography.
During the last half century daring explorers have conquered more
mountains, and gathered more geological data, than in all the previous
centuries. Many lives have been lost by devotees of this science, while
pitting skill and strength against nature and her secrets. It has not
been long since the elevations of the southern half of this continent
were an unknown land; some lofty peaks were unexplored and unnamed, and
only dim suggestions of their majesty and splendour had reached the
scientific world, but they now hold an interest second to none. The
loftiest peaks in the world, excepting only the Himalayas, are found
along the western coast of South America. They are in truth and reality
the mountain monarchs of the western world. In travelling along the west
coast of South America by steamer the serrated backbone of the continent
is ever in sight, but its hazy outlines are at such a distance that they
give but a dim idea of their real height from the steamer.
It remained for European mountain climbers, men who received their
schooling in the Alps, to first conquer these lofty giants of nature.
Chimborazo (20,498 ft.), the “white watcher of the western seas,” was
the first to yield its topmost secrets to Edward Whymper, who fought his
way up the rugged snow-clad slopes to the very top. Next he conquered
Cotopaxi (19,615 ft.), and has given this volcano the following
recommendation: “Cotopaxi is an ideal volcano. It comports itself,
volcanically speaking, in a regular and well-behaved manner. It is not
one of the provoking sort—exploding in paroxysms and going to sleep
directly afterwards. It is in a state of perpetual activity, and has been
so ever since it had a place in history.” Could any volcano in the world
show a stronger recommendation? It is certainly an exemplary exponent of
the volcanic art. The explorer spent a night on the very edge of the
crater, peering into the cavernous recesses that belched forth fire and
smoke, and must have been under its hypnotic influence when inditing the
above.
Going farther down the coast one reaches the mighty peaks of Peru and
Bolivia. An American woman, Miss Annie S. Peck, has scaled Mt. Huascaran
(22,051 ft.), and holds the unique record of having climbed higher than
any other woman. It was an achievement that deservedly brought her great
honour. Mt. Illimani (21,490 ft.) is the loftiest peak in Bolivia. It
means “bright condor,” according to the generally accepted derivation.
Its frozen crest was conquered by an Englishman, Sir Martin Conway, and
the Union Jack was planted on the very summit. This mountain, and its
neighbour, Mt. Sorata (21,490 ft.), were worshipped as gods by the Incas.
A band of superstitious natives, on learning his intention to invade the
sanctuary of their god, who dwelt on Illimani, made an attempt to murder
him, but did not succeed in finding the party. Their tradition asserts
that a great cross of gold was planted by the god on the summit, and they
were afraid these strangers would carry it away. At the foot of these
mountains lies Lake Titicaca, the sacred lake of the Incas.
The hardships endured on these climbs are almost indescribable. The
intense cold and the rarefied air almost overcome the reserve vitality.
The weakening effect of diminished atmospheric pressure is so enervating
that exertion can only be made a few steps at a time. Headache, nausea
and blood running from the nose and ears are the more violent effects.
It is almost impossible to keep the feet from being frost-bitten, and
they have to be rubbed occasionally to restore circulation. Says Mr.
Conway: “I asked myself more than once whether the game was worth the
candle, for there was something so cold and unsympathetic about the
gloom and the ice and the bare rocks, that for a time it weighed like a
nightmare upon my spirits.” The exhaustion is so great that it is almost
impossible to enjoy the triumph of success. Speaking of this the same
explorer says: “The moment was one of satisfaction, in that our toil
ceased; but we had no sense of triumph, nor was there breath enough left
in any of us for an exclamation of joy in the hour of victory. Nothing
was said or done for several minutes; we just sat down and rested.” As
compensations, however, there are frequently magnificent cloud effects.
Out of the white sea of snow there mount, under the uplift of hot air
currents, great towers of cloud, which rise high into the air like the
smoke-discharge from a volcano. Huge caves and cloud avenues are formed,
wherein dark-blue shadows gather, with occasionally a high mountain top
peeping forth like the foundation stone of a gigantic cloud castle. Then
one’s vision is so broadened that he seems to stand on the very top of
the world itself.
In “Argentina and Her People of To-day,” the writer has given an account
of an ascent of Aconcagua by Mr. E. A. Fitzgerald’s party, and in this
work some mention will be made of the conquest of Tupungato by the same
party. This mountain can be seen clearly outlined against the sky from
the Pass of the Cumbre, although it is distant fully thirty miles. The
route lies down through great masses of fallen rock, the stones being on
an average twice the size of a man’s head. The stones are hard and unworn
by the forces of nature, presenting a surface of sharp, jagged edges. It
is an extremely difficult pass to traverse because of these rocks and
danger of slipping, which in many cases would hurl the traveller many
hundreds of feet below. Sudden and violent storms also rage around this
mountain, which renders the work of climbing still more difficult and
dangerous.
The distances, as in almost all mountain climbing, are very deceiving,
and what oftentimes seems to be but the work of an hour may require many
hours to accomplish. Terrific wind storms at times spring up, against
which it is almost impossible for a man to stand, and this also adds to
the dangers because of rocks which are sometimes hurled down the mountain
sides. As the altitude increases the rarity of the atmosphere and the
consequently intense cold render progress almost painful. It is necessary
for the mountain climber to stop every few minutes to rest, as the cold
and the wind and rare atmosphere all combine to exhaust the vitality.
Three times Mr. Fitzgerald’s party attempted the ascent of Tupungato,
and as many times were they compelled to abandon it. Bleeding at the
nose, frozen extremities and weakness of the heart attacked the various
members of the party, and compelled them to descend to lower altitudes.
A fourth attempt, however, was more successful. Each failure had taught
something, so that each effort was made under slightly better conditions
and with better equipment.
Here is the description by Mr. Vines, as it appears in “The Highest
Andes:” “I was on the summit of Tupungato at last, and all my efforts and
disappointments were more than repaid. I stood on a great mound in shape
like a pyramid, with a blunted top some two yards wide rising several
hundred feet above the general surface of the dome. In the whole expanse
of sky around over ocean and land I could not discern a single cloud.
Only in the direction of the Pacific a haze hung over the mountains. In
the brilliant air the spectacle that lay before us was one of vast extent
and grandeur. Range upon range of mountains stretched away towards the
great plain of Santiago, forty miles to the west. Far away, beyond the
hills that almost seemed to lie at our feet, stretched the great waters
of the Pacific, a tract of blue ocean sparkling to the horizon, and
clearly visible, although the distance from Tupungato to the seacoast is
not less than one hundred and thirty miles.
“The view from the top of Tupungato is in many ways even finer than that
obtained from Aconcagua. The expanse of ocean visible toward the west is
less vast, but there is ample compensation in the outlook over the great
unknown plain on the eastern side. The Pampas of Argentina stretch almost
without a break from our very feet to the South Atlantic Ocean. The Andes
seem to rise up from Santiago in ever ascending gradations, until at
last they culminate in the immense mass of Tupungato; behind, they fall
brokenly away; the mountains disappear; and a country almost fen-like in
its monotonous flatness succeeds. The only break on the Argentine side is
that of the Sierra de la Plata, not many more than twenty miles to the
northeast. On the Chilean side a score of dark peaks rear their heads,
a sinister array of precipitous impossibilities from which any climber
would turn away in despair. To the north and to the south the same great
barriers arise. Looking along this distinct and sharp edged chain to
the north and south it was hard to understand how any frontier question
between the republics could come about.
“That Aconcagua was a high mountain we well knew. We had all suffered
from its height, but, when near at hand, it was quite impossible to
realize the vastness of its proportions. Not so from where we now stood
on a pinnacle sixty miles away. I had long known it was over four
thousand feet higher than any mountain within thirty miles of it, but
it looked ten thousand feet higher as it reared its immense head and
shoulders from amongst its brothers, like some huge rock projecting out
of the waves of the sea. It stood before me without rival, even the great
ridges of Juncal did not challenge it, although they were almost thirty
miles nearer. Behind Aconcagua, but almost forty miles farther, and too
far off for comparison, I could see the white slopes of Mercaderio.”
The guanaco and llama are animals which are peculiar to the Andean
regions. The former is especially plentiful in Patagonia and the southern
Andean ranges, and many of them are found in Southern Chile. To the
natives it means food, garments and tents, so that it is hunted both for
its meat and skin. Without the guanaco the question of existence would be
a difficult one for those people to solve. The vicuña, which is found in
Northern Chile and Bolivia, is of the same family but smaller and more
beautiful. Its fur is very valuable and this animal is becoming scarce.
The alpaca is still smaller but flocks of this animal are maintained as
we herd sheep. The wool is almost as fine and soft as silk, and, after a
year’s growth, becomes almost a foot long.
Of this animal family, which is closely allied to the camel, the most
important is the llama. To one who has never seen the llama, except in
a menagerie or “zoo,” its real usefulness is not apparent. Before the
arrival of the Spaniards on the west coast this gentle animal was the
only beast of burden known to the Inca races. Thousands upon thousands
of these American camels were used by the natives in transportation on
the plateaus and across the lofty mountains. Like the camel it can go
for days without food or drink. Even to-day, with the introduction of
the horse and mule, there are probably as many or more llamas in use
than when Pizarro first landed on the shores of South America. It is to
the Andean native what the reindeer is to the Lapp—milk and flesh for
food, skin for garments, hair for cloth, sinews for thread, etc. Some are
black, with pretty little white kids, while others are almost white and
have black little llamas following them.
The llama is one of the proudest animals in the world. No matter where
you see this aristocrat of quadrupeds he holds his head high up in the
air, and looks out upon the earth as though he owned it. Unlike the
camel the llama never sulks, although sometimes stubborn. I have seen
camels grunt and groan as the loads were placed on their backs. They will
sometimes snap viciously at whoever passes near, and at other times tears
will flow down a camel’s cheeks like a baby’s, so it is said. The llama
always carries his burden with a proud air, scanning the landscape as
he goes, and pricking up his ears with interest at every new or strange
thing. He will carry a load of just so much, about one hundred pounds. If
a greater load is strapped on his back than he is accustomed to carry,
the llama will neither grunt nor groan, but he calmly kneels down and
will not move until the burden is lightened.
The llamas are the most common burden-bearing animals in Bolivia and
on the high plateaus of Peru to-day. They will also be found in the
extreme northern part of Chile on the Andean slopes. They form the great
freight-carriers in that portion of the Andes, but cannot be worked
successfully at a lower altitude than two thousand feet. They are never
seen as near the coast as Lima, the Peruvian capital. One will see llama
trains every day in La Paz, or the other towns of Bolivia, and herds of
these animals feeding on the plains around Lake Titicaca are a common
sight. They are principally used in the carrying of ore from the mines to
the smelters or nearest railway station. These little animals, which are
said to have the head of a camel, the body of a sheep and the legs of a
deer, are only about four and one-half feet high and are really beautiful
creatures. They are gentle when well treated, and become very fond of
their masters. The Indians pet them and talk to them much as though they
were human beings. They sometimes dye the wool on the backs in different
colours, and tie bright-coloured ribbons through holes which they make
in the llamas’ ears. The wool of the llama is much coarser than that of
sheep, but one can see the Indian women spinning this wool into threads,
and then weaving it into cloth in many places. It can easily be used in
the coarse garments worn by these people. If offended the llama has a
curious habit of spitting on the offender, which is rather disagreeable,
as I know from experience. As the llama is a cud-chewing animal it seems
to have this material always ready for such occasions.