ON THE OROYA RAILWAY
THE Oroya Railway is the greatest engineering feat in the world. It
runs from Callao on the Pacific to the goldfields of Cerro de Pasco.
From Callao it ascends the narrow valley of the Rimac, rising nearly
five thousand feet in the first fifty-six miles. From thence it goes
through the intricate gorges of the Sierras until it tunnels the Andes
at an altitude of fifteen thousand six hundred and fifty-five feet.
This, I believe, is the highest point in the world where a piston
rod is moved by steam, and this elevation is reached in eighty-five
miles. The contractor was Henry Meiggs, of California, the concession
was granted to him by the Peruvian Government in the days of Peru’s
prosperity. To serve what purpose the Oroya Railway was built it is
hard to understand, passing, as it does, through a mountain district
with very little commerce and no population but a few scattered
Indian villages. I do not think the line has ever paid one penny of
dividend to the shareholders, and apparently was only constructed to
benefit the parties concerned. To begin with, a far larger sum than
the construction of the line would actually require was demanded from
the public. English shareholders contributed largely, and the surplus
balance was divided between Mr. Henry Meiggs, the government of that
day, and any opposing parties.
There are two remarkable things about this railway. It is the highest
in the world; it is the greatest of engineering triumphs, and there are
not a few in the world, and it cost five million pounds, the contractor
getting forty thousand pounds per mile for the construction of the
same. To describe the marvellous feats and freaks of the Oroya Railway
is impossible. It is the triumph of the engineer over every obstacle
employed by nature to daunt him. A mountain is no barrier, they tunnel
clean through it, a valley is made little of--a bridge is thrown across
it--a raging, rushing torrent is no hindrance--they span it. It is the
only place in the world where you can ride one hundred and seven miles,
at any speed you like, without any means of propulsion; you can ride on
a trolley from the summit of the Oroya Railway, Monte Meiggs, as it is
called, fifteen thousand eight hundred feet above the level of the sea,
right down to the water’s edge of the Pacific Ocean at Callao, with
nothing to drive you but the trolley’s own momentum, over bridges, on
the edge of precipices two thousand feet deep, around curves that make
your hair stand on end--you start from the region of the eternal snows
and finish among the humming birds and palms. Such is the Oroya.
The following morning at six o’clock I reported myself to the traffic
manager at Monserrat. I had supplied myself with a kit consisting of
two brown blankets, some spare underclothing, one extra suit, an extra
pair of boots, two good Chilian knives, a Colt’s revolver and a box of
one hundred cartridges, and I was ready for anything that might come
along.
I was ordered to join the gang then about ready to start. There were
twenty of us in the gang, engineers, foremen, four carpenters, five
blacksmiths, six labourers, and four sailor riggers. A small engine
named the “Favorita” with one compartment and three trucks was ready to
take us up, one truck containing all the breakdown gang’s tools, the
second their kits and several coils of rope, and the third containing
stores for the bridge builders up the line.
We had only got a few miles outside Lima and were running alongside
the Rimac, when, in crossing a culvert, the superintendent noticed
something wrong, he stopped the engine to examine it, and found two
large iron bolts in one of the crossbeams were broken. The repairing
gang were soon engaged making good the damage, and in a little more
than an hour we were ready to continue our journey.
We were now travelling over a level patch of ground, dry and stony,
with little herbage or green, for in this strange and interesting
country it is in the higher latitudes, and within reach of the rainfall
from the clouds that, it becomes greener with every ascending valley.
We noticed overhead a large flock of turkey buzzards--a species of
vulture that feed on carrion, they are ugly, and bald-headed, with
a curved beak, their plumage being of a dirty dull brown. They were
hovering about in a very peculiar manner, ascending and descending,
spreading out over the field or paddock right abreast of us, and then
gathering together again. Our foreman told us to watch them well, for
it was a sight not often seen, and ten to one we should never see the
like again. In the field over which the buzzards were hovering, there
were two young horses and a mule. They seemed to scent danger, for they
were rushing about like mad things, neighing, snorting and kicking,
terrified at something we could not understand, but we were not kept
long in suspense or doubt. The animals gathered in one corner of the
field as if for mutual protection, with their heads in a corner and
their tails towards us, stamping their feet all the time as though in
great fear, and making a peculiar neighing noise. The buzzards now
began to draw together, then, hovering about fifty feet above the
animals, they made the most horrible squawking noise, and about a dozen
of them dropped to the ground about thirty feet from the horses. If
the animals attempted to leave the corner, the birds on the ground
would hop about and flap their great ugly wings to drive them back,
until the poor things were almost paralysed with fear. After keeping
the horses in the corner for fully ten minutes, the buzzards overhead
drew near, and those on the ground gave a peculiar screech, then, like
a flash of lightning, down swooped a number of them and alighted on
the heads and necks of the terrified animals, and for a few minutes we
could not distinguish the beasts from the buzzards, there was nothing
but feathers to be seen. It was a horrible sight.
Then the buzzards arose in the air, but not all of them--there were
a number left crushed and dead on the ground. The animals broke away
from the corner, screaming with pain, and raced at full speed across
the field with heads hanging down. The mule came straight towards us,
and the stone wall that bounded the field. He never raised his head,
or checked his speed, we all thought he would jump the wall, but not
so, he struck the wall with his head and broke his neck. Several of us
ran to it, and to our horror we found that the poor beast’s eyes had
been picked out by the buzzards. We turned to look at the horses, and
saw them both drop from pain and exhaustion. Then began a scene I shall
never forget. With screeching and squawking, the whole flock swooped
down, and commenced their horrible work, and in half an hour there was
nothing in that field but buzzards and bones.
We continued our journey up the line, stopping at intervals to examine
the bridges and the culverts and small streams. The first ten miles we
went through fairly level country, then we began to ascend through the
valley of the Rimac full of the bright green reed of the sugar cane.
Strange though it may seem, and notwithstanding the great height to
which the railway is carried, it is always more or less in this valley
until the summit is reached. Our first stopping place is Estacion de
Chosica, two thousand eight hundred feet above the level of the sea,
having passed on our way a little place rejoicing in the quaint name
of Sauce Redondo, surrounded by willow trees. Here there are a few
navvies’ huts, these like many of the humble dwellings of the country
are built of reeds and mud, with flat-topped roofs. The ground here was
bare and rocky and sun-scorched, not a scrap of vegetation anywhere,
but highly mineralized.
After leaving Chosica, the railway begins to climb the mountain in real
earnest, and soon we saw signs of vegetation, beginning with a few
stunted willows and pepper trees, which increased in size and number
as we rose higher up the hills. As we were steaming up the track the
foreman ordered me to examine and overhaul a number of tackle blocks,
chain slings and rope slings I should be using when we got to my
destination, which I was told was the Verrugas Bridge, then in the
course of construction.
But we were not to get there without two more exciting incidents, to me
at least. A few miles above Chosica we entered a deep cutting, I think
it was about a mile long, with a space of about twelve feet each side
of the rails. As we entered the cutting we saw a flock of sheep on the
line about half way along, and higher up still a couple of mules. As
the engine was on a stiff incline, the driver did not feel inclined to
stop, so he blew his whistle and rang the bell on the engine, hoping
the sheep would scamper along the track in front of us, but not they,
whoever knew sheep to do what was expected of them. As the engine drew
near, they all went over to the left side of the track, and got well
clear of the engine, and there they stood until the engine was nearly
abreast of them, then, for some unaccountable reason, known only to
sheep, one of them started to cross over to the other side, right in
front of the engine, and, as is usual for a flock of sheep, all the
others followed the leader, the consequence was that the engine rushed
among them, crushing and mangling about fifty of them, and making the
rails so slippery that the engine was brought to a standstill. We had
to clear the track of the dead carcases, and rub the grease off the
rails with sand before we could get started again. However, after a lot
of trouble, and a lot of strong language from the driver, we started
off once more, and had proceeded about half a mile, when we drew near
the mules, these we thought would surely clear off the track before we
got up to them, but we reckoned without the mules, they were bent on
disputing our passage, and to our surprise and astonishment they stood
stock still side by side in the middle of the track facing the engine,
with their heads up and their tails on end, pawing the ground all the
time.
“Ring the bell, and blow the whistle!” cried the foreman, in
exasperated tones. This was done with noise enough to wake the dead,
but it took as much effect as a whisper on the mules, and by this
time we were only about twenty feet from them, when, like a flash,
round they turned and began kicking as only mules can do with their
hind feet. They kept this up until the engine struck them. The mule
on the right was killed at once, and was thrown off the track by the
cow-catcher, while the other one had both hind legs broken and was
thrown clear of the track.
When the engine got to the head of the cutting, and was on a stretch
of level ground, the foreman ordered a stop while a gang went back to
clear the dead sheep from off the track. I went with them, and helped
to gather up the pieces, which were taken back to the train and cooked
for supper that same night.
While the rest of us were getting up the slaughtered carcases, Brian
Flynn, the blacksmith, walked over to one of the dead mules, it was
lying on its back, with its legs upwards, and its spine apparently
broken.
“Hello, moke!” cried Brian, as he approached it. “You’ve done your last
kick,” at the same time giving it a kick on its hind quarters. But it
hadn’t given its last kick for the instant he touched it, whether from
some contraction of the muscles, or some other cause, I know not, its
legs straightened out, and the hoof caught Brian’s leg, breaking it
just below the knee. His cries brought us to his assistance, and we
carried him to the engine and at once proceeded to Matacama, where a
Chilian doctor set the leg after a fashion.
Up to this point the track had been fairly easy through the valley
of the Rimac. From Chosica to Matacama, eight thousand feet above
the sea, vegetation shows itself in greater quantities, the railway
leaves the bed of the valley and begins to climb the side of the
mountain, overcoming every difficulty. About two thousand feet above
Matacama brings us to the great Verrugas Bridge, the highest bridge
in the world, and one of the greatest achievements of engineering the
world has ever seen. Upwards of two thousand lives were lost while
constructing this famous bridge, all the labourers suffered from a
dangerous fever, in which the body was covered with pustules, often
half an inch long and full of blood. It was supposed to be caused by
some poison that was inhaled while excavating, or from the water, and
came to be known as the Verrugas fever, it seemed to be confined to
some ten or twelve miles and only attacked those actually working there.
From the Verrugas Bridge upwards, the mountains are covered with thick
vegetation, owing to the humid and rainy atmosphere, there we see a
little green village full of tropical vegetation, of camphor, banyan,
sumach, which is much used for dyeing and medicinal purposes. There,
too, are some ordinary looking butterflies, also a swallow tailed
species, a fine black and yellow, the only species to be found on these
western slopes of the Andes. After leaving Verrugas, the track is
marked by a number of black looking tunnels. They seem to be pointing
in all directions, and you wonder how on earth you are going to get
up there. You enter a tunnel facing one way, and you leave it facing
another, often in quite an opposite direction.
I cannot find words to describe the stupendous and almost insuperable
difficulties overcome by the engineers who built this masterpiece of
railways. There are fifty-seven tunnels in a stretch of a hundred
and seven miles, and seven thousand men lost their lives in the
construction of this railway. It has only to be seen to be believed,
and the wonder is that there were not a greater number lost.