Diamonds—Animals of Chiquitos—Decree of 1837, and act of
Congress—Señor Oliden's voyage on the Paraguay river—Salt—Fall
of trees—Descending the mountains—Monkey meat—Coca
plant—Espiritu Santo—Creole workmen—A night in the wild
woods—Yuracares hunting—River San Mateo—Province of Yuracares.
It is a singular fact that no diamonds have been found on the Bolivian
side of the Madeira Plate or La Plata basin, while among those streams,
in Brazil, which flow into these rivers diamonds abound. The general
opinion is that these precious stones do not exist in Bolivia. The
streams which pay tribute to the Madeira and Paraguay, from the east in
Brazil, are clear water rivers. In these transparent waters the diamond
is easily discovered. The washing away of the earth on that side is not
very great, even in the rainy season of the year.
All the streams on the western or Bolivian side bear muddy water; the
wearing away on that side is very great. The filling up of the Madeira
Plate is done from that side, just as the Titicaca lake is filling up
the fastest on its western shore, so that the diamonds of Bolivia, if
they exist, are lost in the mud. We were told by diamond hunters that
in rivers where the divers descend some distance, they find the water
coldest on the bottom where they pick up the precious stone, and the men
are so chilled when they returned to the surface, that they require to
be warmed by the side of a large fire, even under the heat of a tropical
sun.
In the woods, and on the pampas of Chiquitos, roams the Tapir or Brazil
elk, the meat of which resembles that of the ox, and is considered
a delicacy by the Indians. In the forests, the fields, and about the
rivers, birds abound. The wild boar pushes his way through the grass,
and the American lion or jaguar leaps to fight the spotted tiger for the
fatted calf. The bear and wild-cat prowl through the tangled creepers,
while monkeys and parrots chatter their own peculiar idioms. The fox
and armadillo inhabit the hill sides; near the river banks the turtle
deposits its eggs. Large and small snakes require no search.
From the Pacific coast to the Paraguay river, on the parallel of 18°
south latitude, there are three different climates; that of Oruro,
cold, with an unproductive soil, thinly populated, and the inhabitants
generally poor; the towns becoming every year more and more depopulated,
and the resources of the country less valuable than in former years. The
ruins of the ancient Peruvians there stand as truthful memorials of "the
Past." Descending the steppe of Cochabamba, the climate is temperate,
the soil more productive, the inhabitants increasing in numbers, and the
Spanish race in their strength. Here are found the most intelligence
and the greatest improvements. In the heart of the nation are living
examples of "the Present."
Proceeding to the bottom of the Madeira Plate into Chiquitos, we find
the means of agriculture, commerce, and manufactures on the very top of
steamboat navigation, presenting to us elements of the blessings of a
peaceful "future."
The nation of Bolivia now stands facing the Pacific coast. The
appearance of one little steamboat on the Paraguay river, anchored on
the coast of Chiquitos, would turn the whole "right about."
On the 27th of December, 1837, Andres Santa Cruz, President of the
republic of Bolivia, issued a decree by which foreign merchandise should
enter the province of Chiquitos and Mojos free from all duty or tax
whatever, and that all the productions of these provinces should be
exported upon the principle of free trade.
On the 5th November, 1832, the Bolivian congress, as compensation for
revolutionary services, had granted to an enterprising citizen, Don
Manuel Luis de Oliden, a tract of land, twenty-five leagues "in all
directions from a point on the river Otuguis."
Señor Oliden sent me a short account of an exploration made by his
relative, Señor Don José Leon de Oliden, in the year 1836. Mr. Oliden
launched a canoe in the river Cuyaba, from the town of the same name,
in the province of Matto Grosso, in Brazil. It was during the dry
season, in the month of October, when the river was shallow. Descending
he found the banks low, and the country as level as a floor in some
places, while here and there the land swelled up like a smooth heave
of the ocean in a calm. During the wet season of the year, a portion
of the journey from Cuyaba to the frontier of Paraguay can be made in
canoes over the same road, travelled in dry weather on horseback—the
whole country being overflowed, except on the higher grounds. On the
seventh day after leaving the town, the canoe touched the waters of
the Paraguay river, the banks of which are inhabited by a nation of
Indians called "Guatos," who came off in a friendly way to offer fish
for sale, and were delighted to receive payment in a glass of rum. On
the Bolivian shore, opposite the mouth of the Cuyaba, the land is hilly,
the elevations range with the stream, and also stretch back into the
Bolivian territory. Among these hills is a large lake, called Gaiba.
Descending the stream of the Paraguay river for two days, brought the
canoe opposite the ancient town of "Alburquerque," which was abandoned,
the people having moved off to another part of the country. Two days
farther down was the mission of the "Guanas," inhabited by about fifty
families, who formed the new settlement of Alburquerque. Near the
frontiers of Brazil and Paraguay, he passed the fortress of Coimbra,
erected in 1775.
Mr. Oliden then entered the territory of Paraguay, searching on the
western shore of the river for the mouth of the Otuguis, which he
desired to ascend to the town of Oliden. He suddenly came in sight of
the Forte de Borbon, with twelve pieces of iron cannon, from which
several shots were fired at his canoe. He pushed on and landed at
the port, where a soldier met and conducted him up the bank. He sent
his compliments to the commanding officer, and requested permission
to enter; the soldier returned with permission. His passport was
demanded; in handing it to the commander, he told him he had a letter of
recommendation to his Excellency the Supreme Dictator of the State from
the Governor of the Brazilian province of Matto Grosso. The commander
replied, that he could not allow him to descend the Paraguay without
_special_ permission to do so from the one man who ruled the country.
Mr. Oliden requested that he might continue down to Assumption, the
capital of Paraguay, and present his letter in person to the "Dictator."
The commander replied, that he could do "ni uno ni otro"—neither one
nor the other.
Mr. Oliden, finding his requests fruitless; that the gates of Paraguay
were shut in his face, and that the great highway cut through the earth
was closed up by this one man's power; that the trade of Chiquitos and
all of Bolivia was blocked by this passage, and that the people of his
country were cut off from the path of peace and commerce, took leave,
and returned to his canoe to await a passport giving him permission to
_retrace_ his steps. The logs of wood that floated by on the stream of
the river excited envy in the heart of the enterprising Oliden; they
were free and he was chained; for he was forced to go where they would
not go—up the stream again. Had he dared to push his canoe off and
let her float quietly down by the sides of the logs with the current,
there were one hundred soldiers ready to take arms against him, and
insultingly turn him back. He remarked that the soldiers had very
expressive faces, were tall, well-made, handsome-looking fellows, stout
and white. They spoke the "Guarani" and Spanish languages. They brought
him "mate" and tobacco, for which he exchanged a little gunpowder and
a cotton handkerchief.
The soldiers were nearly in a state of starvation. The government had
neglected to send them provisions from Villa Real, a town some distance
down the river. There was not a solitary article of food to be gathered
about the fort. No man dare go more than one hundred paces from the
walls, for fear of being murdered by the savage tribe of "Guaicurus,"
who inhabit the country around.
The "Capitan Commandante" was rather ancient, having arrived near his
hundredth year, and very seldom left his bed. Oliden said he had great
confidence in his soldiers, as there was only one musket outside of
the storeroom, in the hands of the sentinel at the entrance of the
fortification. The soldiers were almost naked, and not a woman among
them. Several of the sergeants came to the canoe to converse with
Oliden. He observed two old men sent by the commander to hear what was
said, news being rather scarce in those regions. Mr. Oliden invited them
to speak of the state of their country, which they declined; and when
Oliden spoke of the Supreme Dictator, they immediately took off their
hats, but refused to talk politics or express their opinions with regard
to the Paraguay government. The term for which the soldiers enlisted on
this station was twenty years.
A soldier returned with the passport granting Mr. Oliden permission to
retire—to return to his own country. His Cuyaba crew pulled the little
canoe up stream towards the north, and slowly paddled against the
current. Oliden's patriotic spirit saddened when he found the expedition
a failure. He was the son of a man who had fought for the liberty of
Bolivia.
Mr. Oliden reports the Paraguay navigable for all classes of vessels
from Borbon to Alburquerque, and mentions no falls either in the Cuyaba
or in the Paraguay up to the Villa Maria, which place he reached in
twenty-four days from Alburquerque.
The road from Villa Maria to Cuyaba is travelled by mules and horses.
For heavy articles, the route is down the Paraguay river to the mouth of
the Cuyaba, and up that stream to the town of the same name, in large
canoes made of a single log, and manned by the Indians of the country.
I am induced to believe that this trip can be made in canoes in the dry
season; that these rivers may be navigable for small steamboats at least
six months in the year, and below the junction of these rivers for the
whole year.
Cuyaba is between 15° and 16° south latitude. The river from that town
flows south, winding through a rich country, more than one thousand
miles, to the south Atlantic ocean. Any road, constructed of wood,
iron, or water, which passes through that latitude, must exhibit great
varieties of vegetable growth. At Cuyaba, the coffee and chocolate tree
flourish. There is nothing to do but plant and gather. At the mouth of
the river La Plata neither of these plants will grow. The planter must
study his heights above the sea-level, or reckon his distances from the
equator, as the sailors do, and plant those crops which are congenial to
the climate he lives in; watching also carefully on which side of the
hills he sows barley or plants sugar-cane; for if he gets them both on
the same side, one will fail.
The country at the mouth of these great rivers—Paraguay and La Plata—is
a grazing country; their trade is in hides, tallow, and glue. The
drover has no time to plant, sow, or gather grain; he would rather
exchange hides for flour manufactured where wheat is produced. He
will give beef for coffee and sugar, which he cannot grow. He wants
copper boilers to prepare tallow, and the bark of the up-country to
tan hides. The climate at the mouth of the river for half the year is
cold; the "pampero" winds blow across the pampas of Buenos Ayres from
the frosty regions of Patagonia, where the hills are covered with snow,
and icebergs float along the coast. The drover, therefore, requires
the wool of the table-lands, vicuña hats, and cotton; he can make his
own shoes and boots, but his wife has no time to spin wool and knit his
stockings, even if she knew how. The merchants at the mouth of the river
do business with ships that come from all parts of the world.
The cattle on the pampas of Buenos Ayres and Brazil suffer for want
of salt. They who prepare the beef of the southern provinces for the
markets of the northern parts of South America, require both salt and
saltpetre.
The train of mules behind which we travel are partly loaded with cakes
of salt from the plains of Potosi, which the Indian arriero says was
produced from a lake of water formed by a mountain stream. When he
is questioned closely, as though it was doubtful about the salt being
produced from a _fresh_-water stream, he very knowingly looks up and
says: "If I take my hoe and lead the upper waters between the rows of
my potatoes the lake will produce no salt."
The people inhabiting the rainy regions are much troubled with a
swelling in the neck and throat, called goitre, which they attribute to
the absence of salt in the water.
The Indians of the desert of Atacama, where the rains are not hard
enough to wash away the earth from off the rock salt, lead small streams
directly over a vein of salt with their hoes, so that their cattle may
fatten the quicker on a poor pasture-ground.
The mule, Rose, has carried me nearly two thousand miles, and is in
better order now than after she had travelled in a drove from Tucuman in
the Argentine republic, in latitude 27° south, through the mountainous
regions to Lima. She is the admiration of all good judges, from the
arriero down. The reason she has kept in good order, while the mules
throughout our route, from Lima to Oruro, look so miserable, is because
José constantly gives her salt, and I observe it is not the general
custom of the country to do so. The good old padre we met in the montaña
of Cuzco was an exception. He called his cattle from the woods to offer
salt. The moment they heard his voice the bulls came rushing out as
though they were angry with him. It was a beautiful sight to see the
fierce-looking animals halt in front of the old gentleman, robed in his
clerical garments, and gratefully lick salt from his hands; afterwards
rubbing their horns against his legs by way of thanking him. He did not
seem to like this much. It may be mentioned in confidence, padres in
these countries sometimes go about without trousers.
I met an intelligent gentleman, Mr. Mauricio Bach, who had spent some
years in the province of Chiquitos, and to him I am indebted for much
information.
Mr. Bach travelled by land from Rio Janeiro to Bolivia; he was fresh
from his own country, and was so much impressed with the value of the
lands, productions, and climate of Chiquitos, that he remained there
some years, during which time he had a fair chance of judging it.
He told me that the route through Brazil is inhabited by some savage
Indians; on the plains herds of cattle are raised, and there was much
wood. He passed over with a large party, who were prepared to protect
themselves from the unfriendly Indians; but at the present day the mail
from Rio Janeiro reaches Cuyaba every month.
The town of Santiago, in the southern part of Chiquitos, is situated on
a hill of the same name, and has a population of 1,380. The climate is
delightfully fresh, healthy, and compares well with Chiquisaca, with the
difference that the air is not so dry in Santiago; it is free from all
troublesome insects also. The country is well watered. The streams which
flow into the river Oluquis contain gold, silver, signs of cinnibar, and
a suspicion of precious stones. In the forests are ornamental woods and
medicinal plants. To the south of Santiago the country is thickly wooded
with a great variety of palm-trees. In the plains the pasture affords
a plentiful supply of cattle and horses already there. The soil is so
fertile that the products of both the torrid and temperate zones may be
produced, from chocolate to the wheat and sugar crops. On the river Agua
Caliente Mr. Oliden, in the year 1836, established a town, and called
it Florida, over the ruins of the old settlement of Santiago, where the
Jesuits first established themselves in this wilderness. The Indians
built large wooden houses, cleared the land, and raised an abundant crop
of rice, superior to that of Bengal.
From the size of the streams which empty into the river Otuguis, their
slow, steady current and deep water, Mr. Bach considers that a steamboat
could come up from the ocean to these rice lands, but neither he nor
Mr. Oliden could descend to examine, partly from the fear their Indians
had of the savages, and want of knowledge in the management of canoes,
which they did not use like the Brazilian Indians. Mr. Oliden gave up
his residence, returned to Sucre, and finally to Buenos Ayres, through
the Argentine confederation, leaving his valuable lands and their
productions to the Indians, who live an easy life, in plenty and in an
hospitable climate.
There is dispute at the present day between the Brazilians and Bolivians
with regard to the boundary lines between their two countries. Bolivia
claims to the middle of the Paraguay river; but one of the Brazilian
commanders observed to a Bolivian that the Brazilian government claimed
as far west as the cattle of Brazil roamed, so that it is rather a
difficult question to determine exactly where the initial point shall
be, and then whereabouts a line could be drawn.
By treaty between the Spaniards and Portuguese, made more than a century
ago, the southern initial point was marked at the mouth of the Jaurũ
river where it empties into the Paraguay; thence in a straight line
to the nearest point on the Guapore or Itenez, should be the eastern
boundary of the territory of Bolivia, which certainly makes the middle
both of the Paraguay and Guapore, or Itenez, the division line between
the two countries. The question was not, however, of much importance
formerly either to Brazil or Spain, but now, as the South Americans
are beginning to awaken to the importance of commerce and steamboat
navigation, the Bolivians raise the question how far they are entitled
to these natural communications and necessary outlets. This is a matter
of interest to Bolivia; for if she gives up a right to the Paraguay
river, she has nothing on her southern border to fall back upon, except
the river Otuguis, which may not be navigable. After the Paraguay leaves
Bolivia and Brazil, it then flows over the soil of Paraguay and the
Argentine confederation. Each claims the ownership of the _navigable_
waters at the head of the La Plata, which God made for all.
We began to descend the great ridge of mountains to the northeast, with
a hope that we may not be obliged to retrace our steps. The moment we
touched the brow of the mountain, a thick fog-bank stood before us,
thrown up like a great fortification. The wall was distinctly marked
along the ridge, while on the southwest side the sun shone brightly.
The mules, one by one, entered the thick mass of steam vapor with great
hesitation. It was with difficulty the arrieros could push them in, so
much did they dislike to descend. As they had travelled the road before,
they turned and ran back into the light, but the men finally succeeded
in getting them all in.
In the sunlight behind us, there was a short growth of short grass,
with a portion of the soil burnt into a hard and scaly crust, like the
outside of a steam-boiler. As soon as we had passed under the fog, the
earth was found covered with a green sod; flowers bloomed by our path,
and the foliage of the bushes covered the sides of the ravines, while
the forest trees lined the bottom. The green surface looked like the
waters of the sea as they flow up on the land, pushing towards the top
of the mountain ravine in some places, while in others, where a bluff
stood out, the foliage was forced back, as if the elevation was too high
for the green wave to cover it.
Under this thick cloud the Indian finds fire-wood; here he burns
charcoal, which is used by the silversmiths, the blacksmiths, and
the city cooks. In the valley he gathers ornamental woods for the
cabinet-maker. After he has cut down trees and sold them, he finds that
his corn crop will yield him a plentiful supply without the trouble of
leading water through the fields with his hoe, for the rains come down
on the land so plentifully that he has nothing to do but to admire what
they do for him; while his neighbor, on the other side of the mountain,
eats only by the sweat of his brow.
For his comfort, the Indian must build himself a house for protection
against the rains. He cuts four forked poles, and stands them up as
supports to a thatched roof, slings his cotton hamac from post to post,
and there enjoys his rest, swinging in a cool, pleasant climate, while
he looks out upon the growing maize, and listens to the dashing waters
of the mountain streams.
We halted and asked permission to encamp on the third night from
Cochabamba, and to pitch our tent among an orchard of peach trees. We
cooked supper by the Indian's fire, roasted a wild goose, shot during
the day in a small lake, while José made tea and traded with the Indian
for fodder.
_May 14, 1852._—At 5 p. m., thermometer, 58°; wet bulb, 57°; cloudy and
calm. This observation is made in the peach orchard, not far below the
gorge through which we passed. After spending an uncomfortable night in
our tent, which we find rather close in this dense atmosphere, we loaded
up and pushed down through the forest trees over a most dangerous road.
In some places the mules jump down frightful steps, where trees stand so
close together that the baggage catches on both sides. I have constant
fear that the instruments will be ruined, or that some of the animals
will break their necks or our own. The water in the mountain streams
being very low, we cross some of them by wading. The rapid ones we pass
on miserable bridges made of long poles thrown over, and then covered
with the branches of trees. Their wide dry beds indicate great floods
in the rainy season. The arriero mentioned having lost half his train,
with all the baggage, in an attempt to cross during the wet season.
Our route from Tarma to Oruro was south. We travelled ahead of the sun.
In December, when we arrived in Cochabamba, the sun had just passed us.
As soon as he did so, the rains descended heavily on this side of the
ridge; it was impossible to proceed. The roads were flooded, the ravines
impassable, and the arrieros put off their journey until the dry season
had commenced. After the sun passed the zenith of Cochabamba, and had
fairly moved the rain-belt after him towards the north, then we came
out from under shelter, and are now walking behind the rain-belt in dry
weather, while the inhabitants are actively employed in tending their
crops.
After travelling all day through the woods, we encamped near a house
owned by a white man, with a wife and large family of children. The
place was called Llactahuasi. On the road we shot a wild turkey, which
was fortunate, for the woman declined selling us the only old hen she
had, as her brood of little chickens were too young to do without
parental attention. The only other living things about the house,
besides the children, were two dogs. The question first asked by our
people on arriving at a house is for provisions, so as to forestall the
same question from the poor settlers, who are found along the road at
uncertain distances. The country may be said otherwise to be uninhabited
even by wild Indians.
_May 15._—At 4 p. m., thermometer, 73°; wet bulb, 71°; clear and calm.
An increase of 15° of heat since this time yesterday. Temperature of a
stream, 56° Fahrenheit. As the mountains dwindle into hills, the trees
increase in size and the undergrowth thickens. Thousands of creepers
are tangled in the most confused manner. The branches of the woods are
loaded with a thick growth of moss, and immense masses are heaped up on
the tops of the trees. The creepers run up the trunk, coated with moss
on the south side, crawl out on the branches, and thence grow down to
the ground from the end, on which another creeper ascends, until the
branch becomes so loaded that it breaks down with the weight. The tops
of the trees grow up, and then are pulled down by these huge vines,
which hang like hempen cables. While the climate and soil encourage
the forest trees, the creeping parasites seem determined to drag them
downward. There is a constant cracking noise of snapping branches,
accompanied by a thundering roar, when large trunks are brought down.
Great logs cross our track, and we dare not look aloft, for fear of
seeing increased danger. A creeper runs up the trunk of a large tree,
and out on a limb, descends to another large tree, and turns itself
round the butt as if done by hand; then it wound its way up to perform
the same effort again, while the branches or roots were all pulling like
so many braces, until the limb was broken from the tree. As it drops
to the ground, there is a thick moss ready to grasp it, and the log is
soon covered out of sight and rots.
Some of the larger trees have been torn up by the roots, and have fallen
to the eastward, as if done by a sudden gust of wind rebounding from
the side of the mountain. All the easterly winds that strike the broad
side of the Andes do not glide upwards, but the current is sometimes
divided. The lower half turns under, sweeping down over the forests with
such force back towards the east as to break down the trees and place
them in the position referred to. The winds cannot rebound horizontally,
for they would meet each other and produce a calm. Their only means
of escape is either close down on the surface of the warm earth, or up
into the more rarified regions. When the heavy gales, which sometimes
blow in the rainy season from the eastward, strike these lofty Andes
with a force that uproots the forest trees, destroys the crops, and
sets the ocean in a rage, they accumulate here, and must burst their
way out. They would split the mariner's heavy canvass sails and blow
through; but here the gigantic strength of the mountains resists them
with a composure that makes the forest the sufferer. These heights of
the eastern side of the Andes are among the most terrific portions of
the earth. They seem to correspond to the rocky shores of the ocean,
where the waves beat heavily against their banks. The trees, bushes,
vines, creepers, and mosses are heaped up just here, like we find
sea-weed hanging on the rocks of the sea-coast. The fisherman paddles
his canoe into the calm ocean beyond the troubled breakers that strike
against the land. Here we find no inhabitants. There never were any. We
discover no ruins or marks of bygone ages. These primitive forests are
not inhabited by the savage of the present day. Here are no birds among
the trees, except the wild turkey; he walks through the bushes and feeds
on berries. There are very few of this family, much to our regret. Few
wild animals roam about.
While descending the mountains to the east of Cuzco, we found what we
see here, numbers of land shells. This, then, may be called the snail
district. They are certainly in the majority, and the only thing with
animal life, which seems to flourish in these inhospitable places. If
our poor mules were not so very sure-footed, we would never be able to
descend by this road, which is so precipitous in some places that horses
could not travel and carry a man. The short-legged donkey would be lost
in the deep mud holes, which the mules jump into and then leap out. At
night they are turned on the path to devour leaves from the bushes,
or seek some palatable herb among the trees; there is no shelter nor
pasture for them. Our party encamped in the wilderness as much exhausted
as the animals. The climate is damp and sultry, and when we lie down
to rest the season is so gloomy, it seems like a long and tedious
trance. Our old arriero proves to be a polite and amusing character.
He is a creole; makes a living by travelling down this road with salt
and returns with chocolate. Every now and then, after we have passed a
difficult part, he turns with most downcast expression and says, "Ah!
Patron! your boxes are very heavy for my mules." We tell him the roads
are bad in his country. "They are much better than they used to be."
He said when he travelled on the table lands, we became very tired of
riding all day, but here we went so slow that he did not feel fatigued,
particularly on his way up, when his mules were poor and could scarcely
climb back. He told us that it required at least six weeks rest for the
mules in Cochabamba, keeping them well fed on lucerne all the time,
before they were fleshy enough to load again for another trip down.
His full name is Cornelio Cespedes; he had been engaged travelling up
and down the Andes for a number of years, and appears to be an honest,
worthy man. Cornelio begs me to sell him Rose. I object, because she
would have to travel this dreadful road.
Descending some distance, the first sign of active animal life was a
perfect swarm of ring-tail monkeys. They travel along among the tops
of the trees at a rapid rate, first swinging to a limb by the feet,
and then by their long tails. A little one, who looks in the face like
a young negro, sometimes gets frightened and calls for his mother, who
promptly runs to his assistance, when the cunning rascal jumps on her
back, holds on to her hind leg with his tail, and gallops her off to
the next tree. The noise they make deafens us, particularly after a shot
is fired. They are not easy to kill. The men are very fond of the meat,
probably because there is not much other to be had on the road.
Our beds became wet by the rains during the night; this encourages the
fleas in our blankets to annoy us, and although we were tired enough to
sleep, we were not able to do so. We mount very much exhausted, while
our animals stagger with the weight.
The arrieros pile the baggage up in a heap at night, and cover it with
the pack-saddles. Our boxes were well covered with tarpaulins before
we left Cochabamba, and I had them lined and soldered inside with tin,
to be water-tight. We find this a good plan. No doubt we should have
been wanting in provisions had our boxes leaked, for the rain ran off
the sides of the hill, flowing round the baggage. Travellers supply
themselves with biscuits baked hard, without salt, as it melts in this
moist climate and the bread spoils. We carried cheese, tea, sugar,
rice, cakes of chocolate, and sardines, with two biscuits a day, and
what we could gather with our gun in geese, turkeys, and monkeys. We
worked along much better than our poor animals. The article we found
most valuable was rice. A wild turkey, cut up and well boiled with rice,
seasoned with a small quantity of ajé, a lump of Potosi salt scraped
with it, was most refreshing after a hard day's travel. The greatest
favor to a traveller met on the road in the forest, is to present
him with a biscuit. The patron who shares his bread with the men will
always get through. The arrieros generally carry a bag of roasted or
parched corn. It is amusing to see them luxuriating on the hind leg of
a ring-tailed monkey, taken alternately with a grain of parched corn.
They say the tail of the monkey is the most delicate part when the hair
is properly singed. If our game gave out, and it became cold monkey or
nothing, we opened our box of cheese. Monkey meat keeps longer than any
other in this climate; carried on the side of the baggage, it becomes
tender during the day by beating against the trees as the train passes
along. Of the skins the arrieros make pouches, in which they carry
coca beans and parched corn, suspended by the tail to a strap round
the waist, with the legs tied one to another, hair side out. This is
thought ornamental, and a greater protection from wet weather than the
best tanned leather. The arrieros are generally cheerful fellows, and
are always anxious to point out game, generally looking for turkeys,
knowing that the four-leg kind will fall to them alone.
There is great trouble in getting a fire; the dead wood is so much
soaked by rains that José has to inflate his cheeks till the tears run
out of his eyes. Every man carries a flint and steel with him. Arrieros
sleep soundly with their heads in the rain and feet in the ashes.
On the evening of the 7th May, we reached the Espiritu Santo; following
it for some distance we came to a lonely house, situated in a beautiful
and romantic spot. Standing at the door, looking up the ravine, through
which a stream dashes, the great Andes appear in might, wrapped in
their misty robes. The freshness of the foliage and thickness of the
leaves present different shaped clusters, so heavy and massive that
there seemed to be a difficulty on the soil for the crowds of trees and
little saplings to find room to grow. At the foot of the steep hill on
which the Indian's hut stood, a small piece of flat land, by the side
of the stream, was thickly planted with sugar canes. We gathered some
tobacco seed which was ripening on stalks nine feet high. The Indian was
a Quichua; his only comfort appeared to be in chewing coca, and his only
companions three tamed turkey hens. His house was well built, the sides
being open work, and roof well thatched with wild palm leaf. A stick of
wood with notches leaned in one corner towards the loft. This was his
stairway. As we sling our hamacs in the lower story, the old man went
up to bed. I told José to inquire why he slept up there, and we found
he was in the habit of doing so not to be at home to the tigers, who
troubled him by repeated and unwelcome visits during the night. He had
no objection to their calling in the day time, as then he was ready to
trade saltpetre and lead for a tiger's skin, which became valuable at
the Pacific coast.
Looking down the ravine we saw the Espiritu Santo descending with the
land, thickly coated in green. The forest trees are not so large as we
expected them; none of them are equal to the oaks of North America. The
old Indian pointed out the cinchona leaf on the opposite side of the
ravine, but said there were few trees in his neighborhood, that the bark
gatherers entered the woods farther towards the northwest of us.
The descent here is not near so precipitous as to the east of Cuzco,
though the difference in height between it and the last ridges we
crossed was very small. The road near the Espiritu Santo is over ridges
of hills which run parallel with the range of mountains, decreasing as
we descend. We rise up a short distance, and then descend on the long
side, like a boat forcing its way seaward through the rollers of the
coast, which, as they approach the land, become mere breakers. We passed
a comfortable night in the hut, which protected us from heavy rains
accompanied with lightning.
Farther down, at a settlement called Espiritu Santo, about one hundred
creoles were cultivating land on both sides of a ravine, which widens as
we descend. They were clearing coca patches of weeds; looked ghastly,
thin, sallow, and distressed. The climate did not agree with them.
I never saw so miserably weak, broken down a caste of men. The women
looked more healthy, but there were few of them.
The coca plants were small and unthrifty; the moss gathered about their
trunks gave them the appearance of trees placed in uncongenial climate
and soil. The patches looked beautiful on the distant sides of the
hills; rows were planted on steps formed by little stone walls one foot
high, one above the other, with a platform to plant the trees upon of a
foot and a half in width. The place was too wet and cool, and the soil
not sandy enough. The Indians say the Yungas coca is better than this
of Yuracares, and that of Cuzco a superior quality to either. The coca
tree of Cuzco is larger; these grow on an average four feet in height
and produce fewer leaves. Near Cuzco the trees are planted in a flat
country, where the climate is warmer, more regular and not so damp.
There the mats on which the leaves are dried are spread on dry ground
flats. Here a pavement built of stone is walled in with an opening on
two sides, so that when it rains the water may pass through, and wash
off the pavements placed below the surface of the ground for the purpose
of protecting them from sudden gusts of wind that come down and sweep
away the whole crop, the more easily after the leaves are dried. In the
lowlands of Cuzco the winds are not so violent, and the coca grower may
tell when a storm is approaching and carry his leaves under shelter.
The air is dry enough there even when it rains not to injure the leaf,
while here the atmosphere is so damp that the coca curer must carefully
secure his leaves against it, or they lose their flavor, diminishing
their market value. The Yuracares coca planter is too high up on the
side of the Andes. If he would condescend a little, he probably could
find as congenial a climate and soil as those in the lowlands of Cuzco.
In Espiritu Santo there are several patches which have run out; they are
constantly planting new crops, which show that the tree is short lived.
The coca is a great favorite of the Quichua Indian; he prizes it as
the Chinaman does his opium. While the one puts to sleep, the other
keeps awake. The Indian brain being excited by coca, he travels a long
distance without feeling fatigue, while he has plenty of coca, he cares
little for food. Therefore, after a journey he is worn out. In the city
of Cuzco, where the Indians masticate the best quality of coca, they use
it to excess. Their physical condition, compared with those who live far
off from the coca market, in a climate equally inhospitable, is thin,
weak, and sickly; less cheerful, and not so good looking. The chewers
also use more brandy and less tambourine and fiddle; seldom dance or
sing. Their expression of face is doleful, made hideous by green streaks
of juice streaming from each corner of the mouth.
The coca leaf has a very bitter taste to those unaccustomed to it. The
Indians chew it with a little slacked lime, which they think eases its
way down, and makes it sweeter.
The Incas employed the coca leaf, and it is said introduced it into
their church worship. Great attention was paid to its cultivation. They
were careful in the choice of land, descending to the eastward of Cuzco,
until they found the proper soil and climate.
The Indians have a curious custom with regard to the coca. After the
ball in the mouth has lost all its flavor, they throw it against a rock.
Along the narrow roads on the Andes, where the rocks stand out in the
way, we have noticed their faces besmeared with the coca leaf after it
had undergone a thorough mastication.
The men tell me they gather a crop of coca leaves every three months;
sometimes the season fluctuates. As soon as the trees are stripped of
their leaves, fresh ones sprout out again during the lifetime of the
bush, which in the montaña of Cuzco outlives a man.
Among the workmen was a negro, and I never beheld a more cheerful face
in any of his race. When he saw us, he grinned till it attracted our
attention particularly to him. He was fat and hearty; his black skin had
a clear, ebony color, while his teeth were so white and lips so red,
it was plain to see he had no partiality for coca. He was excessively
polite in getting us seeds from the plant, fetching us water and
oranges. We are among fruits and flowers now—a congenial climate for
the black man. His wool was curled in most glossy locks and his heels
projecting. He was dressed in a white jacket and trousers, straw hat,
but without a shirt.
The Creoles chewed coca and smoked tobacco. The negro luxuriated upon
oranges and bananas, which he guards from the ring-tailed monkeys, who
fancy the same food. This was his only annoyance, for he naturally sides
with the white man.
Of the three colors of men, the cold country suits the red, the hot the
black, and the temperate the white. On the steppes of Cochabamba the
white man flourishes best. In the snowy regions the Indians seem to be
less sensitive to cold; while in the heat of the tropical sun the black
shows his teeth to most advantage.
Crossing the Espiritu Santo, we encamped on the chocolate plantation,
Minas Mayo, near the bank of a stream of the same name. We had to wade;
the current was not very rapid, but with some danger of losing our
baggage, for the bottom was filled with round slippery stones, which
made it difficult for the mules to keep their feet.
The family on this plantation were gathering coffee in bags slung by a
strap round the neck, like the Brazilians gather it. The coffee-trees
here are about the same size as those of Rio Janeiro, and loaded
down with grains. There were only a few trees; the amount raised is
sufficient for the consumption of the people in the neighborhood. The
chocolate-trees are larger than those of Northern Brazil, and seem to be
well supplied with a plentiful crop of green nuts. Plantain and papaya
trees stand thick about a wooden house thatched with palm leaves. While
I was sketching, Don Cornelio looked on, with a sugar-cane stalk in one
hand and a long knife in the other. He cut off large mouthfuls which
swelled out his cheek. A Yuracares Indian stood by who had overtaken
us on his return from Cochabamba. The frock he wore was the uniform
established among the Indians by the Jesuits. It is of white cotton
cloth, after the fashion of a dress made by the savages from the bark
of certain trees. When this Indian and his companion first arrived on
the top of the mountains, they suffered much from cold. They doubled
their "camisas," but the winds whistled about their legs so freshly
they say they were taken sick. When they had delivered their despatches
to the Bishop of Cochabamba, from a padre in their country, they hid
away in the warmest ravine they could find, and remained there several
days waiting clerical orders. As soon as they received permission to
return, they scampered back to warm weather as fast as they could. They
left Cochabamba after us. We have not delayed a day, so that they have
travelled faster than our mules. On these terrible roads the Indian
moves up or down at a steady pace, while the mule stops to blow and to
rest.
The poor Indians had brought nothing to eat on the road, and the first
thing they seized here was the sugar-cane. We gave them some provisions.
They cannot bear the coca, and laugh when they see the Quichuas poking
green leaves into their mouths. They were examining their bows and
arrows to be ready for game and for fish, which they said were plenty
farther down the country. We gave them fish-hooks they were delighted to
get, and promised if we overtook them in the morning, they would shoot
us a turkey or some fish. After they slept for a few hours, Cornelio
says they rose up and travelled at midnight, single file, by the path
we afterwards followed by the light of day.
Their forms are straight and well made, but they were not strong men.
The expression of face was feminine. They looked bleached by the side of
a Quichua Indian, who was much stouter built. Their hair is worn long,
like the Quichua and Aymaras, wearing it in a long trail behind. The
Yuracares had rather a pleasant face, but not a very bright eye. Besides
his knife, he carried a cane fife, showing a taste for music; and from
the variety in a bark camisa, he certainly is fond of fancy colors,
which he procures from the dye-woods of the province. His bows and
arrows were the same as the Indians use in California; both long. Those
designed to shoot fish were beautifully made and fitted; the points or
heads of hard black wood; the arrow a reed, with colored feathers.
[Illustration: YURACARES PLANTATION.
By Lieut. L. Gibbon U. S. N.
Lith. of P.S. Duval & Co. Phil.]
José is again at a loss to understand the Indian language, so we make
use of Cornelio, who is an old friend among these people, and seems to
be popular. They see him often on the road which passes through their
hunting grounds. The cap the Indian wears upon his head, Cornelio says,
was purchased in Cochabamba, Indian like, instead of buying corn for
the road.
Maize and yuca serve the men here as bread. Coffee, chocolate, and
sugar are their groceries; beans and pepper their vegetables; oranges,
papayas, plantains, and bananas, their fruits. The creole is constantly
pulling at the tobacco-leaf to roll up in acorn-husk as a cigar. He
imports rice, and flour when he can get it; gunpowder, shot, fish-hooks
and lines.
This coca business is superintended by a person who employs men from the
valley of Cochabamba, willing to seek their fortunes in the wilderness
at the rate of twenty-five cents a day. One of the workmen was kind
enough to swing my hamac under a shed; he and a companion slept in a
bed close by. The contents of a pot were puffing up; the man ran through
the dark to its relief; taking the pot from off two stones, he politely
invited me to join them at supper. Our light was from the burning chunks
of wood, and a hungry dog kept watch around us, and barked when he
heard a noise in the woods. The employer of this hospitable man paid
him fifteen dollars per annum; clothed him in coarse cotton, lodged
him under a shed, and we found his supper of rice very good. Our host
was a mestizo, from the town of Sacaba, in the valley of Cochabamba. He
expressed great desire to return home. "The climate is more agreeable,"
he said; "there is less sickness, and there we have nothing to do. The
life is a gay one; we play upon the guitar, dance, and sing with the
girls, and live an easy life. The girls won't come down here for fear of
los animales (wild beasts). We get no mutton for our chupe. Ah, Señor!
above all, we never see a cup of chicha; but with hoe in hand, we go to
the coca patch at sunrise in the morning, and there remain during the
day, only leaving it in case of a heavy rain."
We tried to convince this honest laborer he was doing a better work
for his children and his country by cultivating coffee, chocolate, and
sugar, than by dancing, music, and drinking chicha. He laughingly shook
his head, and said, "the children must take care of themselves as I have
done; and as to the country, we are yet without law in Espiritu Santo,
except the law of our Catholic church, which exacts of us an annual
contribution, which has to be deducted from fifteen dollars a year."
The Espiritu Santo is joined by a smaller stream, Minas Mayo. The
two form the river Paracti, which being the main branch of several
tributaries on the opposite side, presents quite a formidable stream
of seventy yards wide. Its greenish waters flow more sedately, less
rapidly, and through a country with less declination than some others.
At the head of Paracti the thermometer stood at 73° fahrenheit, and the
temperature of the river water, 70°. The small lakes on the ridge have a
temperature of 59°, and as we are now at the base of the ridge, we note
the difference, 11° fahrenheit. The waters which flow down the sides
of the Andes in the dry seasons are partly from the melted snow, having
undergone the process of freezing into glaciers, which melt again, and
the waters form small lakes near by. As these lakes fill up, the water
overflows either on the one side or the other, sometimes on both; if
the latter, and the lake be upon the highest ridge of the great range
of Cordilleras, that which flows over the west side of the lake is a
tributary to the Pacific ocean, and that which comes to the eastward
goes to the Atlantic. The main branch to the Mamoré river does not
become navigable for canoes until it turns towards the north, and has
come fairly under the rain belt, which pours down heavily to latitude
17° south. The navigation of that stream is marked by this edge of the
rainy region so plainly, that the river Piray, which is a tributary of
the Mamoré and close by it, may be descended in a canoe from Puerto de
Jeres, while the main stream throughout its length, south of latitude
17°, is passed on bridges or forded.
On the side of the Paracti the hills are small, and our road during the
day's travel is often over flats or slopes, for we are still descending
over what may be termed the great breast of the Andes, which swells out
magnificently towards the morning sun to the delightful tropical breezes
that blow over its productive soil.
Our train of mules are much harassed climbing over the hills, on the
east side, one of them, exhausted, lost his footing and rolled over,
baggage and all.
We encamped by the side of the Paracti in the wilderness; not a house
near us. We passed our acquaintances, the Yuracares Indians, on the
road. They marched slowly along, with bows and arrows in hand, dressed
in their bark shirts, bare-headed and footed; true wild men of the
woods. They had no fish or game. Cornelio said they were treated so well
by us they would not exert themselves to hunt, but as soon as they felt
hungry, would get fish from the river or turkeys from the woods.
We slung our hamacs between two trees, a fire was made, our mules were
turned out in the woods to roam, picking up whatever they might find,
under charge of the old white mare, "the mother," as she is called,
of the train. Rice is boiling without turkey. The moist climate has
affected the gun-caps. Cornelio begins to look thin and haggard. The
mules have fallen away so much, it is very doubtful if they will be in
fit condition to return.
After supper we lay down to sleep in the rain. The noise of the
neighboring stream was musical. We felt we should make headway when once
launched upon the river. Though roughly used, our health keeps good, and
every day we gain a little. The farther we go the slower the animals
move; they are too weak to bear pushing. The men help them up steep
places by the after-part of the baggage, changing cargoes every day. The
mule that carried a heavy load to-day takes a lighter one to-morrow. Our
saddle-mules do better, as they carry a living man with more ease than
dead boxes. One of the baggage-mules ran under a tree fallen across the
road, struck the end of the box of instruments and knocked it off, and
away it rolled down the bank.
The musquitoes bothered us during the night, and the vampire bats
bit the mules. One struck Mamoré on the tail, and another Pinto—an
arriero—on the big toe.
At the head of the Paracti, we find birds of beautiful plumage. As soon
as we come where fish are found in the streams, there the woods are
filled with birds; the air with musquitoes and flies. Ants and bees
are more numerous, as well as wild animals. The wild Indians do not
permanently reside here; they only come on hunting occasions for fish
and game in the woods. The wild duck is seldom found above where the
fish reach. The different species of animals seem to be joyously feeding
on each other. One bird robs another of its eggs, while a third carries
off the young of the second. One bird feeds upon the berries of the
trees, and prepares himself as food for another of greater strength.
Some fowls feed upon the fish of the river, while the snake is busy
entrapping their mates. Bees make honey, and the bears eat it. While
the arriero preys upon the ring-tailed monkey, the vampire bat sucks
the blood from his toe or his dog's tail. The ants are disturbed by our
fire; the whole race seems to be in a rage; and while the Indian can
travel all day without shoes, these insects crawl into our boots and
sting us most unmercifully.
_May 20, 1852._—At 5 p. m., thermometer, 78°; wet bulb, 74°; cloudy
and calm. As we reached the foot of a hill, we met a train of mules
ascending with a cargo of cacao. The animals were miserably poor.
They had carried down salt and foreign dry-goods. One of the arrieros
unloaded a mule to get at a bundle of straw-hats, one of which he wanted
to sell to Richards. When they called to the train to go on, it was with
difficulty the animals were assisted to rise, who had laid down under
their loads.
As we quietly wind our way through a flat country, the lofty tree-tops
are thickly habited by the monkey tribe. One of our baggage-mules became
entangled in a creeper. The animal was wound up in it. It struggled with
all its might, became frightened, stripped itself of the baggage, and
applying all its strength, down came the whole tree over our heads. The
branches switched the poor mule severely. It looked almost distracted,
and so much wound up that no one could understand the ropes. The only
way by which the arriero could extricate it was by cutting the creepers
on both sides of the mule, who looked as if within the turns of a
serpent hanging from a limb, and winding himself round the body of the
animal. The tree by which we were standing protected us. The falling
one was caught in its descent, so that we escaped a severe whipping, if
nothing worse.
Cornelio was ahead, and halted while the baggage-mules passed by.
When we came up, we found him shaking hands with five most wild and
savage-looking men. Their faces were painted in stripes of red, green,
and blue, which gave them the appearance of being tattooed. Their hair
was short; dirty bark cloths were suspended round their waists. The
feet, legs, breasts, arms, and heads were bare. In their left hands they
carried bows and arrows; in a belt a long knife of English manufacture.
Their teeth were much worn and dirty. They had holes in their ears and
noses, but no ornaments in them. They were middle-sized men, stoutly
built, but lazy looking. Their natural color was concealed by dirt
and paint. We were unable to tell, upon so short acquaintance, what it
was. Their eyes were blood-shot, and their general appearance showed to
most advantage when viewed from amongst friends. Each one came up and
shook hands in an awkward manner that plainly showed the habit was not
natural. They smiled, however, and quickly asked for bread, fish-hooks,
and knives. Cornelio told them to bring us game and fish to the next
stopping-place, and when we unloaded our mules he would have something
for them. They at present received bread and ate it up greedily. Rose
started at a noise in the woods, and on looking round, we beheld three
more younger Indians and one woman. She carried an earthen pot slung
to her back, and was dressed like the men. Her head was large, nose
flat, and altogether such a hideous being, I shall not pretend fully
to describe her. She was small, and appeared like a child by the young
men, who were better looking, and with more pleasing expression of face
than either of the others; they were less painted, and carried smaller
sized weapons. This party of Indians were of the Yuracares tribe on a
hunting excursion. They roam through the woods and along the streams
seeking food. The woman accompanies them as cook and help; she carries
their game, and acts as the servant of these savage men, following them
in the hunt with the old smoked earthen pot hanging to her back. When
a turkey falls, or a fish is drawn from the river, or the tiger skin
is taken, they are tossed to the woman, who lugs them along with her
pot until they encamp for the night, when she builds a fire, cooks the
game, and all seat themselves in a ring and feast, after starving a day
and a half. Should it rain, a few, large green leaves are spread upon
some branches of bushes, sloped on the weather side of a ridge-pole,
supported by two forked stakes. The ground underneath is bedded with
more green leaves from the forest; the seven men and one woman retire
for the night, with their feet towards the fire, which is a protection
against musquitoes and bats. When rain falls at night the air is cold,
and these wild men are kept warm sleeping close to one another. In the
morning, before the break of day, they are all on their feet; not a word
is spoken; a death-like silence pervades before the waking up of other
animals. The moment the ring-tailed monkey opens his eyes and gapes
after his night's rest, the watchful Indian draws his bow; the screaming
monkey falls to the ground pierced by an arrow; he twists, turns, and
calls for help from his fellows; the Indians stand perfectly still,
knowing that the curious family will rush to the rescue, and, as they
one by one crawl down to see what the matter is, the arrows fly silently
through the trees, when the screaming is terrible. The wild turkey,
however, is not disturbed, for the racket made by the monkey family is
only a little louder than usual at that hour of the morning, and as he
shakes the dew from his wings before he flies from his roosting-place,
the well-aimed arrow brings him to the ground. Tigers that roam about
for their breakfast, scent the Indian's resting-place by the gentle
breezes that blow from it; they growlingly approach the rude habitation,
but the arrow meets him, strikes inside his fore-shoulder, penetrates
his heart; his claws tear the earth, and his teeth clench the slender
arrow in his dying agony.
As the sun shines brightly upon the happy waters of the river, the fish
begin to jump and play. The Indian takes his stand on the rocks in the
stream, and with an eye that seems to penetrate the depths, shoots; his
arrow is drawn up with a breakfast for one, sometimes a foot in length.
As the Indians do not inhabit this region, the game is undisturbed,
except on rare occasions. The animals increase and multiply without
being frightened by the sound of a rifle or the noise of a shot-gun,
except when the white man appears.
The Yuracares Indians are half-civilized, or, more properly speaking,
are half friendly to the white man. We may pass among them without
danger. The creoles are careful to treat them kindly, well knowing they
would silently draw their bow-strings if they did otherwise. Cornelio
was exceedingly polite; gave them part of what they asked for, and
promised more when they brought us game, which appeared reasonable to
them, so they came anxiously after us. We were equally as polite. I was
obliged to be unusually particular, as one of them inquired after the
health of the "Patron." After they had looked at us, it was plain they
distinguished a difference between us and the Spanish race. One turned
to the other and quickly disclosed his discovery. They then drew near
to examine the North Americans. When Richards remarked "We were among
the savages at last," they all laughed and talked among themselves
in quick succession. They examined our boots and gloves; pointed to
my stirrups, which were English, and differed from those used in the
country, which are formed of painted blocks of wood, with a hole cut
in one side to slip the foot into and protect the toes against rocks.
The creoles prefer this stirrup because it provides against rain and
mud; but they are clumsy, particularly in the woods, where they are
constantly catching in the trees and bushes, that I do not think them
an improvement. The mountain saddles with high backs and pommels are
indispensably necessary on the eastern slope of the Andes; but on the
table-lands and along the roads, among the Cordillera, the plain saddle
is more comfortable, though probably it is not so safe. Cornelio uses
nothing but his bedding, over which he slings his saddle-bags attached
to a strap, with two great wooden blocks slung to each end, and a
crupper to which he often turns and holds on as the mule jumps down a
steep place in the road to the risk of the animal's tail.
On the evening of the 21st of May, we sat straight in the saddle,
the mules walked leisurely along over a level road to the bank of the
beautiful river San Mateo, flowing swiftly to the northward to join
its sister, the Paracti, which runs east. The stream was from sixty to
seventy yards wide, with an extended rocky bed, which shows that during
the rainy season it is a large one, though less rapid than the Paracti.
The Indian lives by the side of the San Mateo. Brighter days and clearer
nights are found here. The soil is rich, the country undulating. The
Indian has an uninterrupted view of the valley of the San Mateo, until
his eye strikes the Andes.
We halted at a place called San Antonio, composed of a single shed,
very neatly built and thatched. Our hamacs were slung up and baggage put
under cover. We bathed in the waters of the stream, and were refreshed
by our suppers. We felt grateful we had crossed all the mountains in
safety, as we look up at their heads among the clouds.
The evening is like that of spring. As we found everlasting winter on
top, so perpetual summer is here. The flats are covered with a growth
of forest trees, besides which there are cane-brakes, bamboo, and
coarse grasses, sappy bushes, and plants that prove the soil to be of
the richest kind. This is the place for the axe, the plough, and the
hoe. The axe has never touched one of the trees, except when the Indian
wanted its coat. The face of the country is a true picture of nature.
The hand of civilization has not yet touched it, though probably it
contains a soil and a climate that would produce as well as the richest
spot known, and would astonish the planter, not only by an enormous
yield, but encourage him in planting a variety yet unexampled.
A log canoe lay fastened to a stone near the bank of the San Mateo. This
is the first _wooden_ vessel we have seen since we left the steamship
"Bolivia" at Callao, begging pardon of the wooden spoons, plates,
stirrups, and other ware along the route.
Cornelio has unpacked a small bale of cotton goods, and is measuring off
several yards of white cotton cloth for four Yuracares Indians' pay in
advance for their services in the morning in helping us cross the river.
The trade is interesting; the Indians have thrown down their bows and
arrows in confusion, and stand watching with eager eyes the unrolling
of colored cotton handkerchiefs, knives, needles, &c. When they see
the fish-hooks there is a shout of joy. They crowd so close round old
Cornelio that he has great difficulty to keep the savages from trying
on all the colored cotton caps he has brought. These Indians have no
gold ornaments to trade for what strikes their fancy; they are nearly
distracted with desire to get what they see. They own nothing but bows
and arrows, a little yuca, and a few ears of corn to offer in exchange.
Animal food is so plentiful here that they are not obliged to cultivate
the soil, however productive it may be.
The province of Yuracares belongs to the department of Beni. It
comprises the sides of the ridge from head to foot, and therefore within
its borders the climates are cold, temperate, warm, and hot. Gold is
reported to have been found in its streams, though we were unsuccessful,
after washing all the way down from the top. We did not see the people
gathering cinchona bark, prohibited by a decree of the government. Few
of these trees are on our way down, yet we saw trains of mules loaded
with bark crossing the Andes on their way to the Pacific, and workmen
packing it up in bales in the bank at Cochabamba. Unless a different
system is followed in the gathering, this valuable article of trade will
be lost. The lands wooded with cinchona trees belong to the government.
Private individuals have no control over the preservation of these parts
of the forest. All who desire to gather may do so; this is a destructive
plan. Every man in the country has an interest in the trade; yet, those
who reap the greatest benefit by it, destroy every tree they meet,
chopping it down, and stripping every inch of bark from its trunk and
limbs.