Silver mines of Sicasica—Productions of the Puna or Table
lands—An exile returning home—Department of Oruro—Silver,
copper, and tin—Climate—A chicha factorer—The expedition
out of Titicaca basin and into Madeira Plata—Department
of Potosi—Population, climate, and productions—Rio
Pilcomayo—Mint—Quicksilver trade—Imperfect mining
operations—Smuggling of precious metals—Statistics of
silver—Trade with the Argentine Confederation—Port of
Cobija—Desert of Atacama—Eastern side of the Andes—Frosty
mountain tops and thermal streams—A Washwoman—Cinchona
bark ascending to the South Pacific—Department
of Cochabamba—Increase of creoles—Incas colony of
Quichua Indians—Hail storm—Gardens—Fig trees—City of
Cochabamba—Hospitality of the merchants—The President of
Bolivia and his cabinet—Commercial proposition—Brazilian
minister—President Belzu—Cavalry and infantry—Armor of
the Bolivian troops—Public force—Calacala gardens—Market
people—Rio Mamoré—Legislative power—Church ceremony—Climate—A
bishop's opinion of the consequences of steamboat
navigation—Cabinet ministers—Reception of a farmer by the
President—Heavy shock of an earthquake—Sudden departure of
the Government—Clisa Fair—Trade to the Pacific coast.
After changing our baggage mules at the small Indian town of Ayoayo, we
came to a winding stream, a tributary of Desaguedero, on which was a
grist-mill, and arrived at Chicta post-house, which stands alone like
a toy-house in the middle of this green-carpeted plain. At 5 p. m.,
December 4, 1851, thermometer, 52°; wet bulb, 42°. A view of sunset over
the snow-peaked mountains is most beautiful. The post-house is well kept
by a creole with a wife and large family of children.
Three hundred Indians work the silver mines in the neighborhood. In
this province, Sicasica, there exist three hundred and twenty abandoned
silver mines. The yield of the nine mines at present worked produces
some profit, but no fortunes are made by those concerned. Antimony and
stonecoal of good quality have been discovered.
During the cold nights here, dew from the damp winds freezes. We
observed no dew to the west of the Illimani.
As we move to the southeast the bushes are larger; some of them are
three feet high. A moss grows, besides the sprigs of grass, on which the
llamas feed, as they slowly move under loads of grain on the way to the
grist-mill.
Scarcity of vegetables appears to produce an intimacy among animals.
Here the sheep graze in flocks, exclusive of horned cattle or horses,
and the vicuña keeps aloof from all; but in less productive places,
vicuñas are found eating from the same scanty table with the sheep and
llamas. Animals which inhabit the highest atmospheres are obliged to
come down among those below them.
The Puna seems the natural elevation for sheep; they thrive best there.
The llama don't do so well. The place of the vicuña is between these two
mountainous distributions of animal life. Horned cattle and horses are
above their station here, and thrive badly. The hog dives down into the
very sloppy bottom; his greediness could not be satisfied on the upper
plains; he would certainly perish for want of food, and is never found
at such altitudes, unless forced up.
There is a sparse population and very little cultivation. The people
are supplied with grain and fruits from the ravines on the edge of
the Madeira Plata. We changed baggage mules at the town of Sicasica,
a flourishing place during the days of wealthy miners, but an
uninteresting and lifeless Indian town now.
At the post-house of Oroma, where we spent the night, a party of
gentlemen stopped for baggage mules. They were travelling in haste,
one being on his way to La Paz to join a wife and children after a
banishment of eighteen months. His expressed political opinions happened
to differ from those who came into power by force of musketry. His
friends had obtained permission for his return, giving security he
should not offend in the same way again. He pointed out on the map his
wanderings through the wilds of Eastern Bolivia and the province of
Matto Grosso in Brazil, and described his sufferings. He had not heard
from his family, not knowing, until lately, they were still alive. He
laughed and joked about his troubles, as though happy at getting home
again.
A priest of the party sat on the baggage listening to our conversation.
One inquired if the President of the United States sent those out of the
country who expressed political opinions in opposition to his own, and
really seemed surprised to learn that sometimes nearly half the nation
did not agree with our President in all things, and were not interfered
with.
Changing mules at Pandura post-house, we arrived at Caracollo, in
the department of Oruro, which contains a population of 8,129 Creoles
and 86,943 aborigines. This department has produced a large amount of
silver.
The city of Oruro, the capital and largest town in the department, has
a population of 5,687. One hundred and twenty years ago, it contained
a population of 38,000, without counting Indians. This decrease is
accounted for by the state of the mines.
There are twelve hundred and fifteen abandoned silver mines near the
town, and not less than two hundred gold mines, most of which contain
water. Eleven silver mines are still worked.
In the province of Poopo fifteen silver mines are worked, and three
hundred and sixteen stand idle; besides which there are four silver
mines worked in the province of Carangas, and two hundred and
eighty-five abandoned. On the discovery of a mine, it is reported and
registered to be taxed. The miners of silver ores are required by law
to sell their metal to the government at a certain price. As merchants
are willing to pay higher, the silver of Bolivia often passes out of
the country in bars. Gold may be exported by paying a duty of three per
cent.
Lead, iron, antimony, sulphur, copper, and tin abound in this
department; the tin is found on the surface of the plain.
The climate of Oruro is cold, and the soil very unproductive. Potatoes,
quinua, with a little barley, are raised in some places. Llamas,
alpacas, vicuñas, guanacos, and the skins of the chinchillos, are used
as exchanges on the coast of Peru for rum and wine.
From shallow lakes salt four inches thick is gathered, and exchanged
for grains and flower. The pasture is so scarce that few cattle are
raised. Jackasses being more economical than horses, pick up a living
on the plain as they carry salt to the cattle districts, or journey
over the mountains with silver and gold, a distance of one hundred and
eighty-three leagues, to the seaport of Cobija, where they meet ships
from the United States loaded with flour.
Cobija is a free port of entry, and merchants send this distance for
many articles of trade, in preference to paying duty from Arica through
the territory of Peru. As the jackass travels very slowly, and the
Indian driver generally accommodates his pace to the loaded animal's,
the cargo from Cobija requires thirty-five days. It is difficult to find
men willing to make the trip over that barren country.
The inhabitants of Corocoro were generally intoxicated on our arrival;
neither the postman nor the governor appeared. Two persons, incorrectly
supposing they were sober, called for our passports, saying the governor
was absent, and they were the authorities next in power. One of them
encountered some difficulty in reading the document.
He inquired of José the reason it was not presented at the governor's
house? José answered, "It was usual for the authorities to call upon
strangers." The man became very angry, and abused José. Being requested
to read our papers and take his departure, he said "he did not know
whether we were English or French gringos." We pointed out to him the
words "Los Estados Unidos;" when looking up with surprise, he bowed,
touched his hat, and bidding us good evening, they quietly and quickly
walked off. I mention this fact solely because it was the only case
throughout our route where a personal difficulty with the authorities
was encountered; having to deal with such a number, it was the only
exception to politeness and accommodating manners—possibly occasioned
by some foreign importation.
The town is on the decline; it looks so dilapidated, and like the dusty,
unproductive country round about, that had it not been for the church
steeples and the chicha, we might have passed without having seen it. A
cura, travelling with his servant, left his intended road and joined us
for company. He had been on a visit to La Paz from Sucre, the capital
of Bolivia, with a remittance from the church. As we rode along on the
table-lands, he would point out an unusually level piece of ground, and
say, "What a beautiful place for a battle between two armies." The man
who had carried the remittance to La Paz trotted on foot after us, and
travelled every day as fast and as far as the cura with his fine bay
mule. We read each other's passports.
Stopping on the plain at a small hut, the only habitation in sight,
except a large stone church, we inquired for water; there was none, but
a fat woman said she had chicha. The cura purchased a gallon for the
same price other people usually pay for a pint. The woman said "she had
chewed the maize for it herself;" so we had the manufacturing apparatus
before us, established without wheels or water. She kissed the cura's
hand, and asked for his blessing. With one hand on her head and the
other occupied with the chicha jug, he uttered a short prayer, tossed
off the beverage and mounted his mule.
Our course is now east; we leave the table lands and enter a small
narrow pass in the Andes. As the sun goes down over the Cordilleras,
the hawks go to roost among the rocks. All is still as we ride up to a
lonely hut—the post-house of Condorchinoca; while the Indian attends to
our mules, his wife cooks supper, and his little child plays with the
post dog. The night is clear, calm, and cold.
Ascending the western side of the Andes we come to a spring at the
temperature of 68°; the water flows westward. We are now about to leave
the Titicaca basin, which contains an area of thirty-nine thousand six
hundred square miles. It is a curious basin; all round its edge snow
is found, from which numerous streams of water flow and wash away the
soil, so as to show that the earth is partly made up of silver.
If, during the rainy season, an unusual quantity of water is poured
into its southern side, the large stream passing to its bottom flows
northward; but generally most water enters on its northern side, so that
the water nearly always flows south. Its climate may be a healthy one,
but not a hospitable one for man.
In some parts of it sheep and vicuña flourish, and the llama was
thought, in this basin, to prove in better condition than elsewhere.
Our observations go to show they and the sheep in the neighborhood of
the Juaja valley, in Peru, are superior.
The mineral wealth of the Titicaca basin is very great, but its
vegetable productions too small for the support of its present
population, who are employed extracting metals, and who draw from the
Madeira Plata many of the necessaries of life, and rely upon foreign
countries for their manufactures.
A clear, deep-blue sky opens the day; but as the tropical sun shines
upon the white edges of the basin, he evaporates so many feet of the
snow per annum, that the clouds formed daily seem to curtain in the
inhabitants from the rest of the world.
The Aymara language and people excite the imagination to a belief that
their history is of an anterior date to that of the Quichuas, and more
interesting to those who seek, in the depths of time long passed, for a
knowledge of the origin of the aboriginal races of men on this part of
the earth.
There is a peculiarity found in the Titicaca basin which we noticed, but
are unable to solve—the wind blows all the year from the east over the
lake, while on the plains it is variable and whirling. Water appears to
attract wind, and to keep it in active motion.
Slowly winding our way up the Andes, meeting droves of llamas loaded
with flour, we find the strata of rocks pointing to the east at an
angle of 45°. Arriving at the top of the great ridge, the strata is
perpendicular; and on the east side it inclines to the west, also at an
angle of 45°.
We now look over the Madeira Plate, but before entering it we turn to
regard, from these lofty peaks, the south of the Titicaca basin.
From the line of the twentieth degree of south latitude, water flowing
north belongs to Titicaca, and that running south tends for the great La
Plata basin. These are the waters of the river Pilcomayo, which empty
into the Paraguay between latitude 25° and 26° south, after passing
through more than six hundred miles of longitude.
The Pilcomayo is a rapid stream, with falls and a rocky bed, like
the Beni. It appears not navigable for steamboats in the territory of
Bolivia. This stream takes its rise in the department of Potosi, which
lies between Oruro and the Argentine confederation, and contains a
population of 83,296 creoles of European descent, and 164,609 Aymara
Indians.
The city, situated at the base of the far-famed Cerro de Potosi—the rich
sister of Cerro de Pasco, in Peru—has a population of 16,711.
In the Cerro de Potosi and neighborhood there are twenty-six silver
mines worked, and eighteen hundred standing idle. Besides which, the
government accounts show us that, in the provinces of Porco, Chayanta,
Chichas, and Lepiz, there exist three thousand and eighty-nine silver
mines which have been abandoned, and only sixty-five mines worked now.
In former days the department of Potosi excited the envy of the world.
The silver ore was found rising from the top of the peak; the vein
being followed below the water-line, when it was given up and a new
one sought. The work was carried on in this manner until few new veins
remained. The people are now burrowing in at the base of the peak,
striving to strike the vein below, where it was left in its richness.
This is an expensive business, and some have given up the plan, after
an unsuccessful entrance into the very core of the mountain, with heavy
losses.
There is a mint at Potosi, where the miner finds a ready market for
silver and gold. It received and coined in the year 1849 one million
six hundred and twenty-one thousand five hundred and thirty six dollars
in silver, and eleven thousand nine hundred and eighty-four dollars in
gold.
The government purchases quicksilver to trade with the miner. It is a
singular fact that, while the rich quicksilver mines of Huancavelica are
so close at hand, Bolivia annually imports two hundred thousand pounds
of this important fluid mineral, in iron jars, from England, around Cape
Horn, and over the Cordilleras, one hundred and fifty-eight leagues from
Cobija.
Owing to the imperfect apparatus used for separating quicksilver from
the silver ores, the waste of the imported metal is very great. Five
thousand pounds of ore, yielding one hundred and fifty pounds of pure
silver, required four hundred and fifty pounds of quicksilver for the
amalgamation; of which, I was told, not less than one hundred pounds
were lost. A simple cast-iron silver burner, or distilling apparatus,
would probably save half this waste, and certainly much labor—both the
labor and mercury being the most expensive items in the miner's list of
expenditures.
It is supposed that much silver is smuggled out of Bolivia every year.
The miner hands one bar to the mint, while another he pays to the
merchant for clothing, rum, coca, and so forth, for the use of the
Indian laborers, from whom he reaps a profit in the retail business.
It is difficult to get a near estimate of the real annual amount of
silver and gold taken from the mines of this country. The following
table, taken from the government account, may prove interesting. It is
the yield of these two metals given every five years:
From 1800 to 1806 $21,186,460
1811 16,288,590
1816 10,789,816
1821 9,749,350
1826 9,089,787
1831 9,784,620
1836 9,848,342
1841 9,678,420
1846 9,789,640
However much short of the annual product, this table may show at a
glance the decrease under the present system of mining.
The climate of the city of Potosi is cold and unpleasant, being elevated
over fourteen thousand feet above the ocean. The vegetable productions
in its neighborhood are less than are found on the plains of Oruro. The
llamas, alpacas, vicuñas, and guanacos, are large and valuable.
Rock salt is found among the mountains in large veins. Small springs
of water shoot up and flow down the La Plata basin, uniting in streams
which wash away the earth from silver, gold, copper, tin, and precious
stones. These streams run rapidly to the base of the Cordilleras;
there meeting expanded plains, they form lakes, which are evaporated
and leave a crust of salt. Numerous streams, passing on to join each
other, finally cut their way boldly through the Andes, where they become
large enough to accommodate schools of fish. Then the Indian is found
planting maize and potatoes; sowing wheat, barley, and lucerne; raising
horned-cattle, sheep, and horses. He buys salt from the up-countryman,
and gives him salted fish in payment, or receiving hard silver dollars
for beef, mutton, and flour.
Near these tributaries of the Pilcomayo, at its head, the Indian plants
sugar-cane and coffee. His wooden hut is shaded by the trees of the
valley, and his doorway decorated with the chirimoya and granadilla
plants.
The Pilcomayo is a muddy stream. It creeps along at the base of a ridge
of mountains, which stretch towards Brazil, as though seeking an outlet
to the south before it trends to the Paraguay, as the Beni runs to the
Madeira.
The department of Potosi imports from the Argentine Republic annually
about five thousand mules, eight hundred horses, and five thousand
jackasses, and three thousand head of cattle. A mule is worth twenty
dollars, a horse fifteen, a donkey six, and beeves ten dollars a head.
Bridle-reins, stirrups, saddle-cloths, soap, and tobacco, also enter,
for which silver is paid in exchange.
Chinchilla skins are worth seven dollars the dozen; hides, two dollars
each; coffee, from Yungas, twenty-five dollars per quintal of one
hundred pounds; sheep's wool, twelve dollars; alpaca wool, thirty
dollars; tin, twelve dollars; bar or pure copper, sixteen dollars and
fifty cents; Yungas chocolate, twenty-five dollars; and vicuña skins,
forty-three and three-quarter cents.
There are imported from the Pacific coast annually six hundred thousand
dollars worth of silks, woollen, and cotton goods.
The foreign trade with Potosi is principally carried on through the port
of Cobija. The road passes through the great desert of Atacama, which
is called "Departmento Litoral."
Among the lofty, barren Cordilleras, the donkey driver finds it
difficult to climb the steep roads, or to descend into the deep
ravines, where on small flats are found a few vicuñas or chinchillas,
and halts to feed his tired animals. Some of these pasture-grounds or
"portreros"—as they are called—are inhabited by Indians, who cultivate
the ground, and are attentive to persons with droves of mules from Chili
on their way to Peru.
A few cattle and sheep are raised, and the Indians lead streams of water
over the veins of salt, which help to refresh and fatten their cattle.
In the ravines through which the tributaries of the Rio Loa flow towards
the Pacific, some barley, maize, potatoes, and fruit-trees are produced
by irrigation; wherever in the barren countries these Indians can get
a little water, they are enabled to make a crop of something for use.
In former days, gold mines were worked in Atacama, on the Pacific side
of the Cordilleras; silver, iron, and copper, of excellent quality, are
found there also.
The guano along the coast was known and used for manuring land by the
Incas before the discovery of the country by Europeans.
Bidding farewell to the Pacific side of the Andes, we enter the small
village of Challa for the night. The only conspicuous thing in sight was
a large steeple, with a small church tacked on to the heel, built of mud
and stone. The place looks miserable, yet the Indians appear cheerful,
and of a lighter complexion. Some of them speak Quichua. José was told
there are no more Aymara Indians to the east of us.
_December 9, 1851._—At 7 a. m., we found a heavy frost on the ground.
Thermometer, 41°; wet bulb, 36°. This observation is made on the very
edge of the Madeira Plata. Water flows to the east of where we are
standing.
The country round is thrown up into confused and rough shapes,
uninhabited by man or beast. Great rocks stand clear and clean of soil.
Not a living bush or green leaf to be seen, nor a bird in the air. The
day is calm and warm.
The bright sun shines on the east side of the peaks, and in the shade,
on the west side, there is frost. When the sun passes the meridian,
the frost disappears until after night, when it is first seen on the
east side. While the sun is on his trip to the south, and the rains are
falling, the frost may be found deep down in the ravines and valleys;
the traveller passes over it in the road, and it lays all day long on
the tops of the Andes.
Descending a steep, winding road, we were surprised at the sudden
appearance of flowers, patches of grain, Quichua Indians, and the
most delightful air we ever breathed. Getting down from our mules, we
followed them on foot. A comfortable temperature makes a man want to
feel his legs again.
At midday, the thermometer stood at 66° in the shade. A small stream
trickling over rocks, coated over with a green slime, had a temperature
of 107°. One flowing into it, at a temperature of 70°, had an iron-red
coating over the stones. The mingled waters of the two showed a
temperature of 104°.
An Indian woman was washing clothes in the more than half boiling
water. After rubbing them over a smooth stone, she wrenched the
argentine soap off in the cooler stream, and had hung them up to dry
in the tropical sun on a small bush, under the shade of which she sat
composedly. Her petticoat was conspicuously a new one. As we attentively
observed some distinct letters upon the stuff, which were "Lowell,"
she seemed somewhat surprised, and laughed as though she thought us
very inquisitive to be so closely examining a woman's clothing. Her
earrings were of gold; a silver cross was suspended by a guard of vicuña
wool around her neck. The black wooden ring upon her finger was carved
from the hardest and deepest colored wood that grows to the east of
us. A doubled-up piece of coarse scarlet cloth lay on the top of her
head to keep off the rays of the sun, being used at night to cover
her shoulders, which are now bare. She envies our straw hats, and says
it is mean not to give her one. She wears shoes and stockings only on
Sundays, when she goes to church; the former of fine black leather, and
the latter, silk. Her language is Quichua. When the wise Incas mastered
the Aymara tribe they colonized the country to the east of them, sending
the Quichuas through the Aymara territory to surround those who never
would be taught a strange language, nor give up their own.
While José enjoys a short flirtation, we get out our map to find that
this woman has been washing her garments at the source of the river
Mamoré; she is dipping her fingers into the main head of the great
Madeira river.
Descending the side of the warm stream, we met a drove of sixty spirited
mules, with heavy loads upon their backs. They ran up the road, fretting
and staggering under the weight; getting out of breath, they make a full
stop, and then clamber up again.
We halted, and had a talk with the arrieros; they were from Cochabamba,
bound to Arica, in Peru, with one hundred and eighty quintals of
cinchona bark from the province of Yuracares. They make the trip to
Arica in about twelve days over both ranges of mountains.
Calling loudly to their mules, they move slowly up hill. It was hard
work for them to get to the South Pacific shore with their bark, while
the Indian woman's soapsuds went dancing by us on the dashing stream
towards the North Atlantic.
On gaining the base of the mountains, we rode into the pretty town of
Tapacari. The lofty church steeples were just visible above the tops of
the richly green willow trees. Peaches were half ripe in the gardens,
and our tired mules anxiously called out for food as a donkey passed
with a load of green lucerne just reaped by the Indian's sickle. At
3 30 p. m., thermometer, 72°; wet bulb, 60°; cumulus clouds.
The people are so much whiter than those we have lately seen, that
some of them appear very little like Indians. They are dressed in thin
clothing. The women wear ruffles about their necks, and the lower parts
of their dresses are fancifully worked by their own hands.
This is the land for chicha; the ravines seem to be flooded with it.
People are dashing about on horseback, feasting and making merry near
by. The postman, a most polite and attentive old fellow, attended to
his business while taking his part in the frolic. He evidently had his
share of chicha, which made him show loss of teeth when he laughed. His
wife, one of those who help to keep the world balanced, cooked us a very
good dinner. She had seven pretty daughters, but as our fresh mules were
loaded we pushed on.
The streets of the town are very narrow, paved and clean. The houses are
small, and well filled with large families, who are so gay and look so
happy, that we leave them with regret.
The ravine is narrow; in the middle of the dry bed of the river flows
a small stream. Rain falls in great quantities in due season, and the
sides of the hills are washed into deep gullies. The contrast between
the barren dry hills and mountains, with the green, gay little valley,
is very great. But what attracts our attention are the crowds of
children; some are sleeping on their mother's backs, others hang lazily
in front; they crawl about the doorways, and I stopped my mule for a
naked little fellow paddling turtle fashion over the street.
The Indian men are fine looking; their forms are straight and well
developed. The creoles are more numerous and frank in their manners. The
effects of climate and provisions upon people are wonderful, and quite
astonish the traveller.
We are in the department of Cochabamba, which has a population of
231,188 creoles, and 43,747 Quichua Indians. It will be observed that
the proportion between the two races, when compared with the population
of the departments above us on the Andes is reversed. The Spaniards have
crossed over the mountains, east, to find here a more agreeable climate
than in other parts of Bolivia, and delight in fruits and flowers.
In the province of Arque, a short distance to the southeast of us,
there are three silver mines worked, and one hundred abandoned, besides
several which have been left at the base of these mountains.
After a few claps of thunder among the heights to the north, heavy
clouds doubled themselves up over head, and a pelting shower of hail
stones, the size of peas, came down. The mules ran about with us as
though we were beating them over their heads. The moment a little breeze
rose, they turned their tails to it and stood with their noses close to
the ground. The rain that accompanied the hail froze to our hat-covers
and India rubber ponchos, while the hail rattled as it beat upon us.
A hail stone which struck the top of my boot left a pain I felt for an
hour after. Lightning flashed about in the very midst of us, while the
loud thunder roared through the valleys like the noise from cannon of
heavy calibre. Soon the sun shone out, the storm melted away, and all
was clear again. It seemed like the winding up of a pleasant winter.
As night overtook us, our path, though level, was difficult to find
among the sand and gravel of the river bed. Near some Indian huts,
we hear them singing and playing upon a small guitar. We seldom heard
singing on the mountains. José was ahead with the baggage, and, as the
bright moon rose above the low hills before us, we discovered we had
taken the wrong road. The Indians soon put us right; we were nearly
fagged out with the day's work descending the Andes, but enjoyed the
calm summer night. Our postillion's horn told us we had arrived at
Zizque post-house.
At 8 a. m., thermometer, 70°; wet bulb, 61°. The difference between this
temperature and that of yesterday morning at 7 a. m., on the mountains,
is for the air 29°, and wet bulb 25°. Cool springs of fresh water rise
along the edge of small green meadows; fine cattle feed under the shade
of large willows trees. The postman keeps a good horse, and his house
is surrounded by fig trees, loaded with fruit. By the side of a small
stream snipe fly up. The doves and pigeons coo among the trees and
bushes, while the turkey-buzzard soars over the tops of the small hills
about us.
The road is narrow but level. On one hand we have the maize ready
for the reaper; while, on the other, it is just peeping out of the
ground; further on, in one field, the Indians are planting corn, and
others are gathering their crop. Barley and wheat produce large heads
and rich grains; beans seem to be favorites. Old hens run through the
corn-patches with their families, while Spanish cocks square off before
us in the road for a fight.
Under a grove of fig trees, which are large, were seated a party of
merry Indian girls, sewing, spinning, and drinking chicha with their
lovers.
On the 10th December, 1851, we rode into the beautiful city of
Cochabamba, having a population of 30,396 people, situated close to the
south side of a range of mountains, jutting out from the main trunk of
the Andes, in latitude 17° S, and stretching off into the Madeira Plata,
over two hundred miles in an east by south direction, separating this
valley from that of Yungas.
As the newly appointed prefect was sick in bed with fever and ague, and
his family not yet in their own house, we were obliged to seek quarters
in the post-house. There was no hotel, and our letters of introduction
were to the prefect. We had a horror of a post-house, not usually so
habitable in a large city as it is on the road, and thought we had
better go back into the country and pitch our tent under the fig trees.
But the postillions and mules seemed tired, so we let them lead the way
through well paved streets.
The houses are neatly painted, and some of them three stories in height,
with an air of respectability about the place we little expected to
find. The streets crowded with people of all sorts and sizes, and nearly
all seemed to be busy. The large plaza was decorated with fine old
willow trees.
Gaining the post-house we found a miserable woman and child its only
inmates. Our baggage was piled up in one corner of the room. The
child raised a terrible dust in sweeping the room and driving out the
chickens, who laid eggs in the corners, and roosted on the centre table.
Our postillions bade us farewell, and our mules were put in a yard close
by. The woman cooked some chupe of mutton and potatoes. We were tired,
sunburnt, and not a little disgusted with our situation.
On a platform, built of adobe, we spread our blankets. After an
unsuccessful attempt to get to sleep upon this bed of sun-dried bricks,
I got up and struck a light that I might see some rude, uninvited
inmates of the posta, who were making themselves too familiar with us,
and found them to be chicken lice, ticks, bed bugs, and fleas. It was
difficult to tell which species predominated. There was no rest for the
weary that night. Richards rolled and tossed in his sleep as though his
bricks were baking. I generally watch José for information upon points
which he has had some experience with. Looking out upon the bright
starlight night, I found the old man sleeping soundly in the stable yard
at the feet of the mules. He had shaken his cold blankets in the cold
air and rolled himself in them, where the insects would not go.
After a long time daylight came to my relief; with an application of
cold water and a change of clothes, the horrible little man-teazers were
gotten rid of.
After breakfast I walked through the city. The streets are laid off
at right angles. On the south side of the main plaza stands a large
cathedral, and opposite to it the palace occupies the whole side of the
block. It is remarkable for its handsome appearance, being much superior
to the palace in Lima. The ladies are also beautiful. In the centre of
the plaza is a fountain fed by water from a snow peak on the ridge in
sight. From the appearance of the houses and stores, there certainly
must be wealth here for an inland town.
Strolling along looking at the people, I came to a corner where there
was an unusually neat-looking store, and in the doorway stood an
intelligent-looking gentleman, who seemed a stranger to this country.
He was a German. The house belonged to a Frenchman, of whom I had
heard. As soon as they found out I came to make an examination of the
rivers, men were called to fetch our baggage and mules, and we were at
once comfortably quartered. The French gentleman had been many years in
Bolivia, was married to a Cochabambina, and surrounded by a beautiful
young flock, who heartily laughed at our dislike to fleas.
The stream between the mountains and the town is a tributary of the
Mamoré. It flows around the town, and after creeping along the ridge
some distance to the southward and eastward, it passes round the
mountains, and enters northward into the Madeira.
The President of Bolivia, with his cabinet, were here on a visit,
and would leave shortly, under a large escort of regular troops. As
there was not much time to lose, I immediately employed myself in the
preparation of a commercial proposition to the government. A Brazilian
minister had concluded a treaty of limits and navigation between his
country and Peru. He was now awaiting the action of this government in
Sucre, the capital, for the purpose of securing the use of the navigable
rivers of Bolivia for the Brazils alone. I decided to ask the right
and privilege to navigate the rivers flowing through the territory of
Bolivia by steamboats or other vessels.
On Sunday morning, agreeably to appointment, two influential merchants
of the city accompanied me to the palace.
The soldiers drilling in the plaza were young, spirited-looking,
well-disciplined men, though small in stature. They were stout built,
and nearly all half-breeds, except the officers, who were white. There
was but one negro among them; he was the drummajor, and the largest man
in the regiment. The officers lounged about the doors of the palace in
full uniform, buttoned up to the throat, and looked as uncomfortable as
the soldiers in their thick Sunday mustering clothes.
Entering a large patio, and ascending a stone stairway, we came to a
balcony, where two officers in costly uniform rose and saluted. Entering
a large hall, well carpeted and furnished at one end with curtains of
the national color—red, yellow, and green—which hung over the sides of a
large arm chair, in front of which was a small table, a tall, graceful
officer of middle age rose from his seat in fall uniform, a velvet cap
embroidered with gold pulled down over his eyebrows. This gentleman
was his Excellency Captain General Manuel Isidoro Belzu, President of
the republic of Bolivia. After shaking hands and being offered a seat
on the sofa, I said to him: "That the President of the United States,
desiring a more active exchange of the productions between the two
Americas, I had the hope that a more direct route between the United
States and Bolivia might be found than by the way of Cape Horn." To
which the President replied: "He had heard of my arrival in La Paz,
and was pleased to see me. My country," said he, "is in its infancy. I
would be the more pleased to join hands with the United States, because
we are all Americans. You may depend upon me for aid and assistance in
your enterprise." Upon the entrance of some persons in uniform, we rose
to take our leave. Before doing so, however, I was introduced to the
Minister of War, who was an older looking soldier than the President
himself.
Upon inquiring how the President came by some wounds in his face, I
was told that in September, 1850, Belzu was invited to take a walk in
the alameda of Sucre. A friend persuaded him to continue on outside
the usual promenade, where they met some persons riding on horseback,
upon the report of whose pistols Belzu fell, three balls having entered
his head. The ruffians escaped from the country; the friend was shot
in the plaza of the capitol before Belzu was well enough to interfere
in his behalf. The plan was well laid, and so sure were the intended
murderers that his days were ended, they rode off, leaving him on the
ground, shouting "viva Ballivian," an ex-president, who at that time
was known to be lingering along the boundary line between Bolivia and
the Argentine republic.
This attempt to assassinate Belzu made him the more popular. The country
is taught that his escape was Providential, and he had been spared for
the good of the people.
As we recrossed the plaza one thousand horsemen were waiting orders. The
horses small, but spirited, were in good order. The men, too, are larger
and a more daring-looking set of fellows than those of the infantry we
saw; each man wore a small scarlet cloak, and upon close examination I
found every one of them had brass armor breast-plates; such as we read
were worn by the ancients.
We visited the several ministers of the government, of whom there are
three, according to the last constitution. Their families are with
some of them, and government clerks travel about the country with the
President. A part of the standing army marches in advance, and a part
in the rear, as the administration winds along the narrow road through
the Andes. The artillery does not travel, the roads being too narrow and
rough for the cannon to pass on wheels. It may be taken from Oruro to
Cuzco through the Titicaca basin, for there the country is level, and
a railroad might be built without much expense for bridges or cutting
through hills.
The arms used by this army are the old tower flint muskets, kept in
bad order. The cavalry have a short carbine slung to the saddle, and
carry a lance kept very bright and sharp, to which is attached a small
swallow-tailed red flag. They manœuvre by the sound of the bugle; when
in motion the noise made by enormous spurs and bridle-bits sounds not
unlike that of a tin pedler's wagon. The horses are not well gaited,
and some of the men bad riders; they all lean back, as though riding
down hill all the time. There was not much discipline among the cavalry,
unless smoking paper cigars and drinking chicha are regulations for
cavalry drill. The women fancy the horsemen; crowds of them collect
to look on. Some of them bring chicha, and with the most daring manner
slip in between the horses a jug or light for a cigar. The population
of Cochabamba is composed of about one man to five women, or more when
the government comes. There are an unusual number of weddings, for the
beauties of Cochabamba are thought to surpass those of other towns in
the country.
The public force of Bolivia is composed of a standing army, an organized
national guard, or militia, and a police. The standing army consists of
three thousand men, with one officer to every six soldiers. Indians are
not enlisted, they being considered the agriculturists of the country.
Bolivia has a population of about one million five hundred thousand;
more than one-half are Indians, so that there is one soldier in the
standing army for less than every two hundred and fifty Creoles. The
cost of maintaining this army is not less than one million of dollars
per annum, drawn from the labor of the aborigines. This is a heavy tax,
when we consider that the value of the exports, exclusive of silver and
gold, are not over five hundred thousand dollars a year.
The organized militia, about twenty thousand strong, are ready to defend
their country, and when called out, fight bravely. Those who are natives
of the Andes have an advantage over the soldiers of the lower countries,
in being able to exert themselves in a then natural atmosphere. When
men who live in the lowlands travel to the height of fifteen thousand
feet above sea level, they give out for want of breath, and lay harmless
upon the ground, while the Bolivian soldier smokes his paper cigar with
comfort, and laughs at the imprudence of his enemy.
We visited the family of a countryman, the widow and two handsome
children of a gentleman very much respected by the people of this
country. His son, a fine-looking little fellow of ten years of age, had
the manners of a Spaniard, and spoke his mother's language; but the
quick flash of his black eye, and his desire to join our expedition,
plainly bespoke his relationship to Uncle Sam. His sister, the elder of
the two, promises to be the beauty of Cochabamba.
At daylight in the morning we passed the river Mamoré; it is called
here Rio Grande. The Indians waded across knee-deep. The width of the
bed of the river was about one hundred and fifty yards, with bottom of
stones and gravel. The water is drawn off at this season of the year
for irrigating the beautiful gardens of Calacala, opposite the city,
and close under the mountains. As the sun rose we met Indians going to
market with the vegetables of Calacala. The ride on horseback through
roads shaded by willows is delightful at this hour of the morning. My
companion's horses were the finest in gait and action I saw in South
America. The Indians were reaping lucerne to load their donkeys. The
jackasses are large; attention is paid to the breeding of them with an
eye to size. They are more required by farmers than mules or horses.
Oxen are used for ploughing, and donkeys for marketing.
Flowers are in full bloom; strawberries are nearly ripe. Christmas is
not far off; peach, orange, and fig-trees are loaded with fruit. This
is the time of the morning to count the weddings, as the parties pass
us on horseback.
The Indians cultivate with a hoe; they work the ground very carefully
and neatly, manuring and keeping the plants of the strawberries clear
of weeds. The patches of onions, cabbages, and maize are very fine. In
a peach orchard we see a grape-vine overrunning a tree, and loaded with
fruit. There was a time when fifteen thousand bottles of wine per annum
were made at one hacienda, near the base of this ridge to the southeast,
but its manufactory has been abandoned in favor of chicha.
As we turn back we hear thunder to the east, and a heavy black cloud
covers up the bright morning sun. Before us in the road was a loaded
jackass, slowly walking before an Indian woman with a heavy weight on
her back, while she carried a sucking child in her arms; behind her a
poor old blind horse bore two stout, well-built, lazy-looking mestizos,
with more Indian than Spanish in their composition. Their long legs
hung down so straight that they looked like natural appurtenances of
the animal they rode. Around their shoulders they each had wrapped a
comfortable poncho.
After spending some time at a hacienda we reached the river again on
our return, and were surprised to find the stream swollen so much that
the Indians could not cross with their loads. Close by us were a number
of Creoles on horseback discussing the chances for horsemen to cross.
One man, mounted upon a tall horse, risked it; entering the stream, he
waded, turning the horse's head diagonally up stream, and passed safely.
I was delighted when I saw our two lazy companions kicking their heels
into the sides of their little blind pony, and urging it where the horse
evidently had sense enough to know he should not venture. However, the
riders had their way, but steered down stream instead of up. When they
got into the deepest, the rushing waters rose on the horse's quarter,
and the animal went down stern first, carrying ponchos and company
under. When their heads appeared above water, the shouts of laughter
from not less than one hundred Indians, made the valley ring. The men
were so frightened they clung to the horse as soon as he could get up to
breathe, and down they all went again. Finally, they aided each other,
and so found their way back, leaving the horse to take care of himself.
In two hours the water ran off, and we crossed without a ducking.
The valley of Cochabamba supplies many parts of Bolivia with flour;
wheat, maize, and barley are transported to the miners of Potosi and
Oruro, and to the coffee or chocolate planters of Yungas. This has been
called the granary of Bolivia; although it is at the base of the Andes,
yet it is higher than the garden of Yungas. Following the course of the
Mamoré, from Tapacari into the bottom of the Madeira Plate, the descent
is long and gradual.
The apple, the pear, and the quince, are produced in the valley of
Cochabamba; coffee and chocolate in Yungas. These are not plants that
flourish by the side of each other. Yungas is thickly wooded. Here
the hills and some of the plains are too dry to produce any vegetation
without the help of man.
The winds seem to draw up into the Yungas valley more than here, while
the crops suffer for the want of rain, and the heavens over Cochabamba
are perfectly clear. We have seen heavy clouds driven along the northern
side of the range, and heavy rains pouring down just on the edge of
the ridge, far enough on the south side to flood the tributaries of
the river which flow past the city. The clouds come in contact with the
Andes' sides, and seem to be turned and twisted up, so that sheets of
water fall to the earth, and produce a growth of forest trees. The winds
drive well up into Yungas, loaded with moisture, and meeting the great
Illimani and Sorata, form an immense quantity of snow and ice.
The moisture of this valley is carried up through the ravines of
Tapacari, and strike the table-lands on the Andes, where we met the
cedar bushes.
The rainy period fluctuates in some seasons a month. At Cochabamba it
usually commences about the first week in December, but sometimes there
are few showers until the first part of January; yet it seems, from our
observations, that the heavy rains have set in in sight of the city;
while here, the 15th of December, it has not commenced to rain.
In the garden of the minister of haciendas, we were shown the morus
multicaulis, which had been lately imported. In comparison with those we
have seen growing in North America, they appeared to be in a congenial
climate and soil. The minister was fond of gardening, and was at
work early in the morning, giving the Indians instructions before he
went to a cabinet meeting. While the husband travelled about with the
government, his wife remained at home raising silk. She appeared with
a basket of cocoons. Most of the cabinet families were from Sucre.
The ladies of that city are celebrated through the country for elegant
manners. It is impossible to resist the temptation to notice the beauty
of the fair sex in this part of the country.
Lemons, limes, and oranges are raised in Calacala, but not in
perfection; pumpkins and peppers seem to flourish better. Seven cuttings
of lucerne are made here in the year. The cattle and horses are kept
in fine order upon it. Donkeys are fastened by a fore-foot to a stake
driven in the ground; cattle are tied by the horns and fed. They are
seldom turned out in the field to pasture. The Indians plant a row of
quinua round maize, sweet potatoes, or other patches. The animals will
not eat it, and are even afraid to touch it. This is the only fence
we have seen in the country, except those built of adobe, which are
generally so high that the view of the garden is entirely obstructed
from the road. The quinua plant grows from four to six feet high, and
looks like a coarse weed. The grain is small, like turnip seed, and very
nutritious. It is an important crop in this country, particularly on
the table-lands. When boiled like rice, and eaten with milk, it is very
savory.
The flowers raised in the gardens are generally those imported from
other countries; the tube rose and others are cultivated in perfection.
There are no pretty flowers indigenous to this part of the country,
except the Indian girls.
The alameda is frequented in the evening; there are plenty of seats,
but for the want of water the plants and walks are in disorder. The
level walk is about eight hundred yards long from a large brick arched
entrance to the bank of the river. The arches were decorated with
representations of battles and great men. We noticed a white figure
very much besmeared with mud thrown at it. Over the head of the figure,
letters carved in stone expressed the name of BALIVIAN. He had been thus
pelted by the soldiers of his successor, each man as he passed showing
his love of country by flinging a handful of mud at the image of the
late President.
The legislative power is vested in a Congress composed of two houses—one
of representatives; the other of senators—all elected by the people
for the term of four years. There is one senator for the department of
Litoral; three for each of the larger departments; one for the Beni, and
two for Tarija—twenty-two senators at present. No man can be elected a
senator who has less than a thousand dollars a year income, or who has
suffered imprisonment by law. The value placed upon a representative is
fifteen hundred dollars income.
By the last constitution, Congress is directed to meet at the capital
every two years, on the 6th of August, and to remain in session seventy
days.
The President has the power to change the place of meeting at regular
or extra sessions to any part of the country, when in his opinion there
is danger from internal or external wars.
One representative is elected by thirty thousand creoles, and one for
the fraction of twenty thousand, counted by departments, whose governors
or prefects are appointed by the President.
A President is elected for the term of five years, and cannot be
re-elected until another term of five years has expired. We believe
there never has been an election of President by the people. The last
President came into office by overthrowing the government.
The power of the government of Bolivia rests upon its armed force. The
voting population is thinly scattered over an extensive country, and
the army is large. Intelligent people of this country much dislike the
mother country—Spain. They blame her rulers for the manner in which the
creole portion of South America were treated while she held the country.
To keep them ignorant and get their silver was the sole policy of that
government.
I was surprised to be invited to the house of a family in great
distress. The husband and father was thought to be dying. Without
understanding why I was asked, I went. The house was situated on the
corner of a street opposite to a church. It was crowded with ladies
and gentlemen. The patio was filled with frame-work, made of reed, some
ten feet high, to which fire-works were fastened. The street in front
was crowded, and the centre of it carpeted the length of the house. The
ladies on the balconies, as far as we could see along the street, were
dressed in white, and had gathered quantities of flowers in baskets.
The gentlemen were dressed in deep black, as if going to church. We
were introduced to the lady of the house, who seemed to be greatly
distressed, but was engaged paying attention to the people like at a
ball. Her daughters were dressed with flowers, and with so much care as
to lead us astray. The father was evidently dying in the next room, the
doctors being said to have given him up.
The sound of music drew us all to the balconies to see a grand
procession. A large wooden image of a female was carried on a platform;
a company of regular soldiers followed with music; then came priests
and attendants, with lighted candles, and a long train of young padres,
all under a shower of flowers from the balcony. When the wooden image
appeared opposite the house, the men under the front part of the
platform let her down on the carpet; the priests knelt by her side. The
bells of the city churches struck, and the population took off their
hats and knelt in prayer for the dying man. After singing a hymn they
marched away to the music. The carpets were removed from the street,
and, as night came on, the fire-works commenced. Wires leading from the
sick man's bed-room to the altar of the church, carried messengers of
fire backwards and forwards, while brilliant fire works attached to the
great frames were set off along the street. The noise made about the
poor man was deafening. The crowd of people returned home, stopping on
their way for ice-cream sold in little shops alongside of the plaza. In
a few days after the doctors reported the sick man out of danger. The
cost of these proceedings was two hundred dollars.
The climate of Cochabamba is very apt to deceive persons from the Andes.
The people here are very careful about their dress, and never expose
themselves by drinking water or sitting in a draft of wind when heated;
severe colds taken in this way, with sore throats, frequently cause
death.
We observe the same phenomenon as in the Titicaca basin. A vertical sun
shines upon the valley, and at mid-day its effects are very powerful;
while all around, on the tops of the highlands, hang curtains of clouds
reaching half way down the mountains. The air underneath and on the
snow, near the city, becomes very cold, and suddenly a puff of wind
comes down, bringing along the clouds, and the population are shivering.
In an instant they clap on their woollen ponchos and close their doors.
We have had processions through the streets for some days. Padres, with
bands of music and wooden images, praying for rain, as the crops are
suffering in some parts of the valley. Numbers of Indians join as they
pass along. The praying continued till rain fell, and then the Indians
believed the priests had the power of persuading the Almighty to send
them relief.
We met the bishop of Cochabamba in society. He inquired anxiously
whether "the people of the United States wanted to navigate the
rivers of Bolivia?" He was told that "they desired to trade with the
Bolivians." After he left, a lady said he was opposed to the opening
of the navigable streams of the country to the commerce of the United
States, and had informed the people that it would be the cause of
declaring religious liberty.
The cabinet ministers returned visits, and expressed themselves highly
in favor of the enterprise. The minister of state said my proposition
should be attended to as soon as they arrived at the capital, and he
should be pleased to hear from me, should I wish to address him on the
subject.
The President enclosed a short note to the principal families in the
city, saying he regretted his public duties kept him so much confined
that he had not time to call upon them, but if they had any orders for
Potosi or Sucre, he would be happy to attend to them.
The government troops were drawn up in the plaza on Sunday, December
21, 1851, and after being inspected, the cavalry was ordered off in
advance of the president, who has appointed Monday morning for his own
departure.
A fine-looking man, who had been colonel under Balivian, and left
the country when Belzu came into power, had recently returned to
Cochabamba. As he took no particular or active part in politics, and
was successfully farming in the valley, his friends persuaded him to go
and pay his respects to the President before he left. So he walked in
with some other persons. As he dined with us after his visit, we offer
the account he gave of it to a number of gentlemen, with the spirit
and merriment of a good actor on the stage. "I have come, sir," said
the colonel, bowing, "to pay my respects to the President of Bolivia."
Belzu in a rage. "You are the scoundrel who raised volunteers and fought
against me!" Colonel bowing again respectfully: "Yes, sir; and in doing
so I did what every officer is expected to do—obeyed the authorities of
my country." Belzu in greater rage. "Get out of my sight, sir; if ever
I hear of your taking part against me again, you will be shot in the
centre of the plaza." The Bolivians all laughed, and like himself seemed
to think it a very amusing visit. I noticed closely the effect produced
upon the faces of the party as they listened; not one of them looked
grave. They seemed to listen as though they expected some joke of the
sort, or with admiration of a noble looking fellow for daring to speak
out so freely of what had taken place. He left us after dinner, and in
the evening we saw him standing in the plaza telling a number of his
friends the same story. Many leading men who belonged to the Balivian
party kept very close while the President remained here. The election
of president is a fighting affair usually.
At fifteen minutes past twelve, at midnight, we had one heavy shock of
an earthquake. I heard the door shake and my bed move as though some
person had taken hold of one of the posts and given it a violent jerk.
The people in the next room hurried out, and the whole population was
up in a moment. The scraping of matches and grasping of candles was
terrible. The dogs howled in the most mournful way all over the city;
horses rushed round the corral as though frightened half to death. The
atmosphere was filled with a strong odor of sulphur. The night was clear
and starlight, the thermometer standing at 72°. The population trembled
in silence expecting the great Andes would again shake; but the night
continued calm.
Throughout our route we have observed a great work of displacement going
on. The earth seems to be fashioning itself into shape. The mountains
are being carried off to the lowlands by the floods, and the dry lands
seem to be growing at the expense of the sea.
In the morning we mounted our horses, and a number of persons prepared
to accompany the President entered the street. We were told he had long
since gone with the whole army at 4 o'clock.
Many of the Indian girls and boys have followed the army. Families find
great difficulty in keeping servants from going off. It is amusing to
see troops of women following after the cavalry, sometimes three on one
horse, or two on a donkey, with kitchen utensils and bed-room furniture,
serving in the place of riding gear, but without any idea that they are
going to the frozen peaks of Potosi.
There are a few foreigners in Cochabamba—English, French, German, and
Scotch; some of them engaged in mining. All expect to make fortunes very
soon; but say they have been thirty and forty years in the country, and
are poorer now than when they came. A hard-working, cheerful, honest
Scotchman, who had been a number of years in a woollen factory in New
York, told me the most unfortunate thing he ever did was to leave the
United States.
The wages paid the Indians for mining silver varies according to the
value and hardness of the veins—from twelve to sixty dollars the yard.
The mines containing water are cleared by the means of llama skin
buckets, passed from hand to hand. This required a number of Indians,
working day and night. If a man could not make his fortune with a
corn-shelling machine in this country, he would very much astonish the
natives by the use of such a convenient implement.
The merchants of Cochabamba send off every week a supply of goods to the
valley of Clisa, a short distance to the southeast of this city. The
Indians from the surrounding country come in on Sunday to buy at what
is called the weekly fair. Six hundred dollars worth of chicha have been
sold in a day at these fairs. A foreigner once had this liquor prepared
by pounding the corn between stones, and offered it to some of the
country ladies to drink. An old chicha toper, after tasting it, said,
"for her part, she much preferred chicha made of chewed corn, which gave
it a different flavor from that made by the stones, and she was fond of
good chicha."
The merchants make their remittances to the sea-coast by putting
twenty-two hundred dollars in silver in bags well covered with leather,
forty-four hundred dollars being a mule load. The arriero signs the bill
of lading and arms himself for the robbers. Sixteen dollars per mule
load is paid for delivering it at Tacna, in Peru, near Arica. The trip
is made in fourteen days. It is strange that these trains are seldom
robbed among the uninhabited regions of the Andes and Cordilleras,
where the arriero sleeps upon the mountain-top or in the deep gorge by
himself.
The trip from Cochabamba to Cobija is made in forty days. The distance
is two hundred and nineteen leagues.
Since 1830, the government have thought it policy to debase their
coins about twenty-six per cent, worse than ordinary dollar standard;
sometimes they have exceeded this standard. Their doubloons of 1827
to 1836 contain eight hundred and seventy parts of fine gold in one
thousand. The dollars and portions from 1827 to 1840 are from six
hundred and seventy to nine hundred and three fine in the one thousand,
showing very great irregularities.
The consumption of their cotton cloths and silks increases as we move
east, and where the climate is warmer. The Indian girls are seamstresses
here, and are very handy workers with the needle. Wine, rum, and dried
fish are imported from Peru, for which wheat, maize, and soap are given
in exchange, making up the balance of trade with Peru in silver.
The inland situation of these people places them so far from the markets
of other countries, that they are obliged to supply their own wants very
much, and we find various descriptions of industry. Weavers produce
beautiful cotton and woollen cloths; hatters form hats of the vicuña
wool equal to well-taught workmen. We found them much more comfortable
than our own. The women cut out and make dresses, and tailors abound.
Blacksmiths are in greater numbers, and carpenters' shops, a rare
establishment on the mountains, indicate our close proximity to the
forests. Cabinet-makers supply the city with much furniture, although
the deficiency is still apparent. We have seen a train of jackasses
entering the city loaded with cane-bottomed chairs manufactured in the
United States, and another train loaded with iron bedsteads from France,
while the shops are well supplied with ornamental woods. The difficulty
in producing is from a want of a proper teaching of the trades. A boy
handles a North American chisel very awkwardly, while the head of the
shop stands in the doorway smoking a paper cigar, with a broadcloth coat
on his back, and a poncho over that.
While the President was in Cochabamba, a young man was presented to
him, who it was said "invented" a piano. He was highly praised, and his
piano valued as a home production. The tin men are good workers after
their own fashion, but they seem indisposed to be employed out of their
usual routine. We wanted a funnel, one inch perpendicular at the mouth,
for the purpose of catching rain, and measuring the quantity of water
during the rainy season. The most experienced tinner in town looked at
the drawing and measurements, but handing it back, said, "I never work
my tin up in that shape;" though he willingly made us a common funnel;
there appeared no disposition to be uncivil or disobliging, but a very
strong indisposition to exert the brain. We see few men saving their
hands' labor by practising head-work.
The tin is found in the Titicaca basin, carried over the Cordilleras,
and shipped around Cape Horn to the United States; manufactured, then
re-shipped, and after doubling Cape Horn a second time, returns by the
mouth of the mine, crosses the Andes, and is sold here to make tin pans,
funnels, and coffee pots for the original miners.
There are few jewellers in the city; now and then a travelling German
sets up shop, and does a good business for a while. The bishops and
priests carry their timepieces, and visit him before breakfast. Many
persons having business with the church, go to the jewellers to settle;
then they have an opportunity of seeing clocks and watches that excite
a penchant for antiquities.
The gunsmiths are tolerably good. There are more old pieces in their
shops than new ones. It is doubtful if a Cochabambino ever "invented"
a gun, but they repair stocks and barrels to satisfaction, and charge
double prices.
Indian women purchase of the merchants cotton goods, needles, thread,
beads, scissors, brass or silver thimbles, and small looking glasses,
which they retail in the plaza under the willow trees and along the
shady sides of the streets, working at their needles, or spinning wool
and cotton by hand, during any leisure; others sell shoes. The fruit
huxters are invariably the fattest, and the dry goods sellers the best
looking, and always dressed surprisingly neat. The girls from Calacala,
who bring potatoes and quinua, have a more country air.