LIFE ON THE ANDES
THERE were several places on the railway that I became very interested
in during the time I was working on it, and one was a little above
Turco. Here the mountains form a kind of amphitheatre with the River
Rimac running through the centre. On all sides are the peaks covered
with snow, rising to about two-thousand feet above your head. Here you
see a remarkable feature of the terraced cultivation of the old Incas’
days, before Pizarro and his crew robbed them of their glory and power.
Up the steep mountain side, from base to summit, is a perfect network
of small embankments or terraces, running this way and that way, until
the mountain looks like one great chessboard. This, in itself, is a
standing testimony to the industry of the ancient Inca Indians, and
proves their good common-sense and forethought in choosing the rich
warm soil, in some places the bed of an ancient river, with all its
rich deposits, for their gardens and habitations. At certain places you
see gigantic figures cut into the mountain side, so large are they that
you can only see them from the opposite side of the valley. The figure
of the llama in particular is often seen, and the lines and dimensions
are wonderfully exact. The llama is about the size of a sheep, but much
hardier, and away among the upper districts of the Andes it is used as
a beast of burden, the weight it carries is a quintal, or about one
hundred pounds. At other places you will see, standing out against the
sky, the typical road-side cross of Peru, not the ordinary crucifix,
but a cross, draped and adorned with the well-known emblems of the
gospel story. The simple-minded Indians, full of superstition, think
the outstretched shadows of the cross will not only bring a blessing to
then-crops but defend them from the mountain storms.
I saw many an Indian village hidden away, almost out of sight, in the
mountain valleys. They are always on the banks of the river, with a
church and a graveyard, and green corrals full of lucerne, with flocks
of goats and donkeys. Both men and women are of pronounced Indian type,
the women with their large, soft, brown eyes and long hair hanging
down in two plaits, are very good to, and very fond of their shy brown
babies.
I found that the labourers who were working with us were Sambeta
Indians, and had been working for many years on the line; several of
them could speak broken English, and their old chief, Lu Alpa, with
whom I became very friendly, and in whom I was greatly interested,
could speak fairly good English. I found that they were sun
worshippers, and when our daily work was done, he and I would get
together and spend hours asking each other questions. He would want
to know about the white man’s land, and I about Peru. It was from his
lips that I learnt most of the wonderful and ancient history of his
people. They had no books, he said, but the history of his unfortunate
country was handed down from father to son, a sacred legacy--learnt off
by heart. I spoke to him about his creed, and asked him why his people
worshipped the sun, did they not know about God? The old man looked up
into my face and smiled a strange mystical smile, after a while he said:
“You white men have a God, but you do not worship Him. You tell other
men they must worship your God, but you do not worship Him yourself.
You white men call on your God if you want anything, but you only
worship this,” and he held up an old gin bottle. “You send men to tell
us about your God, and you send men with this too. This is a very bad
god,” he said, and shaking his head, he flung the bottle as far away as
he could.
I could not answer him, for I felt that there was a great amount of
truth in what he said.
The place where we were stationed was about three miles above the
highest point the engine could then go to. Our work was to repair all
breakdowns of trucks, trolleys and barrows, and to throw light bridges
over the gulleys for the navvies to cross. We were now about seventeen
thousand feet above the sea. Far below us were the lower strata of the
clouds, the peaks above us were covered with pure glistening snow,
while here and there, beautiful cascades of falling water from the snow
above could be seen dancing and quivering in the sunlight. Here also
the ferns, flowers and mountain shrubs offer a world of interest to the
botanist. Great bushes of heliotrope laden with sweet-scented bloom,
bunches of calceolaria, and the prickly tree cactus. From where our hut
stood, over a dozen tunnels could be seen at various points down the
side of the mountain, and the track seemed like a huge snake twisting
and twirling up the face of it.
One morning about two o’clock, Tu Alpa, the old Indian chief, who had
apparently taken a liking to me, came to our hut and roused me out.
He said he wanted to take me to see the sun rise from the top of the
eastern peak. I got up at once, for we had about two miles to go to the
eastern face of the Cordilleras.
It was a cold, damp, murky morning. The grass lay flat on the ground,
the trees and bushes were all drooping, heavy with dew, not a bird,
beast, or creeping thing was to be seen, the old chief and I seemed to
be the only living creatures about. The valley beneath was shut out by
the heavy clouds that covered everything about a thousand feet below
us, a light mist was hanging like a veil to the sides of the mountains,
but overhead the sky was quite clear. We reached our destination
about three o’clock. From the position we were in the vast expanse
of the prairie opened out before us, around us the mountains reared
their proud heads heavenwards, perfect silence reigned as I stood
spellbound by the grandeur of the scene around me. In silence the old
chief touched my arm and pointed to the east. The sun was just nearing
the horizon its refraction casting various and curious aspects over
the distant scene. What a glorious sight was unfolded before our eyes.
No pen, or tongue could describe that splendid sunrising. Far away,
over the distant prairie, a long thin streak of bright orange and gold
marked the division between the earth and sky. Soon it began to assume
all sorts of fantastic shapes. First it looked like a long gun, mounted
on a hill, then, in an instant, it was changed into a tall-spired
church in the midst of a field of ripe, golden corn; then, like a giant
army set in battle array, and many other wonderful forms did it assume
before it got clear of the refraction. Then, like a flash, the distant
rays were drawn in, and the round glorious sun itself sprang, as it
were, into view. It was indeed a splendid sight, one that I have never
forgotten.
After the sun had risen a few degrees, I got up to return to our hut,
but the old chief said, “wait a bit.” Then, about half-past four,
when the sun’s rays began to be felt on the mountain side, I noticed
that the grass and shrubs, which during the night had lain flat and
drooping, with their leaves and blades to the west, now began to raise
themselves and gradually turn to the east, to the warmth of the risen
sun. Insects, and all the creeping things, began to show themselves,
all making for the sun’s rays on the grass. The birds in the trees
began to twitter, and soon burst forth into sweet songs of praise to
the brightness and glory, and the power and warmth of the sun. Then the
llamas and other beasts stood out of the shadows and basked in the warm
rays, receiving new life, power and strength.
The old Indian got up, and looking me full in the face said:
“Now Shorge (George) you see, aye you savee, why we worship de sun
him god.” I returned his gaze for a moment, and then in a flash saw
the old man’s meaning. He had brought me there that the sun itself
and nature should give me the explanation that he, in his simplicity
and ignorance, was unable to find words for. To him the sun, with its
warmth, brightness and power, gave life, strength and health to all,
both man and beast, birds and all creeping things, trees and flowers,
to everything that had life, therefore, as the greatest power for good,
he and all nature, animate and inanimate, worshipped it.
Just below where we were stationed was the romantic Infiernello bridge,
or the bridge of hell, though not so lofty as the Verrugas, on which
I was at that time working. This bridge, with its unprotected sides
and slender construction, is, for situation, the most remarkable bridge
on the line, for it simply connects two tunnels in the opposite walls
of rock; here the Rimac has pierced a course for itself between two
perpendicular peaks, and a trestle bridge has been built across it, the
roaring waters rushing madly down hundreds of feet below. The train
dashes out of a tunnel on to the bridge, and from the bridge into a
tunnel in the opposite rock. How that bridge was put up there on that
precipitous mountain side, with no foothold to work on, is a marvel.
From this bridge can be seen several sections of the line extending
thousands of feet below, while nearer the summit are large silver mines
tunnelled upwards of a mile into the very heart of the mountain.
After I had been working with the gangers for a month, I was promoted
to be a superintendent, or foreman over a gang of Chinese coolies, of
which there were eight thousand at work on the line. These are engaged
in North China, they sign an agreement to serve eight years, at eight
dollars per month, with board, and at the expiration of their contract
to be taken back to China. But I never heard of one going back or even
wanting to go back. As a rule they are a well-built, sturdy lot of men,
but, at the same time, a very treacherous lot to have anything to do
with, and require constant surveillance.
They lived in large compounds provided by the railway contractors,
and were allowed very little freedom. They were locked up in their
compounds every night and a sentry placed over them, and they were only
allowed out when at work. What these compounds were like I will not
attempt to describe; they were the most horrible, filthy places I ever
saw or had anything to do with.
The coolies were formed into gangs of fifties, with a European foreman
in charge of them. The foremen were well armed, and did not hesitate to
shoot on the first sign of insubordination.
The coolies were engaged for cutting the track in the mountain side,
and all other navvy work. Very often they would be working on the edge
of a precipice, without the slightest protection to save them from
falling, or being knocked over, and in many places the fall was two
thousand feet to the rushing waters of the Rimac below.
Many an old grudge, smouldering in the breast, was wiped out here, and
no one but God and the culprit was any the wiser, and many a man, both
European and coolie, went over that precipice without a moment’s notice
or warning, and his murderer was never even suspected.
Dead men tell no tales, and there was no love lost between these
European foremen and the Chinese slaves, for that is really what they
were. It was a wild spot to be in, every man carried his life in his
own hands. There were no police at the upper part of the track, and
the only law recognised was “might is right,” and the man who got in
the first shot was considered to be on the right side of the argument.
The consequence was that many of the coolies committed suicide, and
many died from accidents and sickness. Their mode of burying their dead
was very strange, but it shewed that in some things at least they still
clung to the manner and custom of their country. When one of them died,
his mates would get a pound of candles, a parcel of rice, and any money
that the dead man may have possessed, these were all put with the body,
which was then wrapped in a blanket, and buried about three feet below
the surface of the ground.
I have known Europeans, to their shame be it said, who, when under
the influence of liquor, and after the Chinese were locked up for the
night, go to the grave, dig up the body, steal the money that had been
buried with it and re-bury the body again.
One Sunday morning, a few of us foremen were sitting outside our
huts talking and smoking. Above us towered the lofty peaks of the
Cordilleras, covered with a spotless white mantle of snow, and here and
there could be seen the sparkling waterfalls, as the melted snow rushed
in cascades down the mountain side. Away a thousand feet below, lay a
heavy bank of clouds, whilst above us, the sky was a clear soft blue,
and the sun shone with a silver radiance on the snow-capped mountain
peaks.
For some time we sat in silence, each busy with his own thoughts, all
of us glad of the day’s relaxation from our work. Presently the silence
was broken by this one and that one, each remark shewing where their
thoughts lay. The youngest of the group, and the latest addition to our
number, with more of the artistic temperament in him than his older
companions, drew a breath of absolute pleasure, and whispered almost to
himself, as he gazed on the magnificent grandeur of the scene before
him, “Could anything on earth be more beautiful?”
Old Jock McKenzie, chuckled to himself and exclaimed:
“Beauty be blowed! I see no beauty in them mountains with the snaw alus
on their heids; beauty is aye in tha een that sees it. I ken an auld
cottage and a wee bit kirk in Fifeshire that has more beauty to me een
than awe the mountain peaks in Peru.”
“How long is it since you left home, Jock?” I asked.
“Thirty long years, lad,” he answered, “and every year since then I
have made up my mind to go back to the hameland and here I am yet. But
I’ll see the dear auld place again before another year is out, I’ll
warrant yu.”
For a few minutes there was silence, as each man puffed away at his
pipe, when suddenly it was broken by old Jack Scrobbie, a rough
specimen of humanity, who remarked:
“It’s all very well for some of you youngsters talking about beauty
and scenery and such like, but a fellow can’t drink scenery and
mountain peaks, and it’s damned dry work sitting here and smoking like
a petrified smoke stack. I must have drink, if I go to the divel for
it. Who’s for Chicha?”
Old Jock McKenzie, and two others joined him, and going over the gulley
to the tool shed, got one of the light hand trolleys out and put it
on the rails. Chicha camp and station was about three and a half
miles below where we were stationed, and was at that time the highest
point to which the engine was able to go. Here there were a number of
drinking shanties, with all their attendant evils, and the whole place
had a bad character.
Now to reach this place the trolley had to go round a very sharp and
dangerous curve. The cutting itself was only about sixteen feet into
the face of the mountain, and the outer rail was laid within four feet
of the edge of a sheer precipice of two thousand feet. The trolley used
was the common four-wheeled flat trolley, without sides, having four
holes in the body, one in front of each wheel. Through these holes were
put wood handspikes, which were pressed against the wheels to act as
brakes when going downhill.
Just as they were about to start, one of the men sitting near me called
out:
“Look out for the curve, Jack, or you’ll go to the devil flying.”
“Aye, aye, lad,” he replied in a bantering tone. “We’ll have a chat
with your father, it we do.”
We sat and watched them go steadily down the line until they drew
near the curve, then from some unaccountable cause, we saw Jack
Scrobbie fall backwards off the trolley and roll over the edge of the
precipice. The others seemed at once to lose control of the trolley,
for it bounded forward. We saw them straining at the brakes, but we sat
spellbound for an instant.
“Good God! Look! They’re over!”
And to our horror we saw the trolley jump the rails at the curve, bound
into space and disappear into that terrible abyss below. The words so
lightly spoken but a few minutes before came to our minds, as each man
sprang to his feet and ran towards the path that led down to the foot
of the precipice. We searched the neighbourhood all that day, but no
traces of men or trolley were ever seen again.