Cinchona forest—Indians shooting fish—Department of the
Beni—Vinchuta—Small pox—Canichanas boat's crew—Cotton cloth
and silver coins—Our faithful servant José Casas and the
mules—Trade at Vinchuta—A night on Coni creek—Embarkation at
the base of the Andes—Chaparé river—Canoe life—Floods—Bark
cloth—Pick up the sick—Indians at prayers in the
wilderness—Lassoing an alligator.
The cinchona trees of Bolivia are found in that boisterous uninhabited
region on the east side of the Andes which we have just passed through,
in a sort of belt all along the side of the mountains, stretching
from about half-way down to the feet of the Andes; a beautiful green
skirt, which clothes these lofty mountains and protects their nakedness
from the heavy east winds and beating rains. The general impression
on the other side of this valuable forest is, that the cinchona tree
may be found many miles to the eastward of where the bark gatherer
has penetrated. This is not so; probably most of them have touched
the lowest edge of this rich dress. On the road to the head of the
Madre-de-Dios, in Cuzco, I passed beyond where the bark gatherers went,
and Leechler, who made his living by collecting bark, was constantly
saying to me, after we got fairly down into the bottom of the Amazon
basin, "I see no cinchona trees, sir, and I am looking out for my
fortune down here." When we returned to the boisterous region, there
he was calling my attention to the shining leaf, clearly distinguished
from the other foliage.
The impression in Bolivia is that the Yungas forest is giving out, and
the bark gatherers are turning their attention to the Yuracares forests.
There is no doubt that the forests of Yungas have been nearly stripped
of this valuable tree. The only way to save the cinchona tree is to take
the bark off in strips, so that the tree will cover itself again, and
then the supply will be constant. The decree issued by the government,
prohibiting the cutting of bark for the next three years, is no remedy.
The forest does not become enriched by a new growth of trees in that
time. It requires a man's life, and probably more, for the cinchona
tree to become of full size, and after the first growth is cut down that
species of tree may be forever lost to the land where it was originally
found in such abundance. The cinchona tree requires care and protection.
At daylight in the morning twelve or fourteen Indians came to San
Antonio's shed to see us. Three of them were on their way to a lake
for fish. While the mules were loading for the ferry I accompanied the
three savages. As we walked along they asked me all sorts of questions,
none of which I could understand. When they saw a bird they called my
attention to it, and made signs for my gun to shoot. They seemed to
admire my gun as much as I did their bows and arrows. I drew from my
belt one of Colt's revolvers and showed the number of balls it carried.
By way of trying one of them, I offered it to him; he shook his head,
no; patting his hand on his arrows, as much as to say he admired his
own invention the best. As we neared the fishing place they quickened
their pace and walked single file, like soldiers marching up to a
fortification. The lake was small and deep, with water so clear that the
bottom was plainly to be seen. The stream that fed it ran off the side
of a hill, thickly wooded. Long stakes had been driven into the muddy
bottom, and to the heads, which stick out of water, poles were fastened
by means of creepers, so that the Indians could walk out upon a platform
just above the surface of the water. As they did so they arranged their
black spears, which were about twelve feet long, and silently watched
on the bottom, one at each end of the lake and one in the middle. Their
arrows were pointed down into the water; when one fired and missed there
was a general shout of laughter, and he good naturedly talked to them
and to the fish as he caught the arrow when it rebounded to the surface,
between the bow and its string, a stout cord, neatly twisted, made of
white cotton. The next one that shot caught his arrow in the same way,
which was shaking with a heavy fish, a foot in length. He killed it
by sticking his knife into the back of its head, took out the arrow,
and threw the fish on the shore. Turning up the point of his weapon he
sharpened it with his knife, and made ready the second time. The knife
was fastened to a string suspended round the neck; after using it, he
threw it over his shoulder, where it hung on his back out of his way
till the next fish was caught. The knife looked like a table knife
broken square off, and sharpened at the end like a chisel, and was used
as such, not like a common knife.
As the fish were thrown out one after the other, in quick succession,
the excitement became very great; they chatted and laughed all the
while, and appeared to be joking one another. Their faces brightened
pleasantly as they drew out the fish, and whenever one of them missed,
they all shouted in loud laughter. Each man shot five fine fish, and one
of them one more. They then repaired their fishing scaffold and left
the lake. After we had returned some distance they stopped, cut fresh
green leaves from a sort of cabbage plant, and rolled them one by one
therein, after their entrails had been taken out. One of them made a
little willow hand basket in a moment, and the game was secured from the
heat of the sun, which by this time was shining down brightly. A part of
their morning's labor was presented to me. I returned fish-hooks, which
pleased them more than anything that could be given to them. A little
aboriginal came for the fish, and while he took them home to the women,
the Indians went with us to the ferry.
[Illustration: YURACARES INDIANS SHOOTING FISH.
By Lieut. L. Gibbon U. S. N.
Lith. of P.S. Duval & Co. Phil.]
These Indians are much more cheerful than those on the mountains. They
have a great fancy for bright colors, and live after their own fashion.
Their manners and customs are their own, and have never been changed by
the influence of the white man. Like the country they live in, they are
as the God of nature made them. Their natural disposition is a peaceful
one, with a decided character, which shows that the Spaniards may come
among them and live with them if they please. But the happy life of the
hunter is not to be given up for the more laborious work of cultivating
coca patches.
These Indians occupy about the same district of country here that the
savage and unfriendly Chunchos do in Peru, on the tributaries of the
Madre-de-Dios; but have a different expression of face, now that we know
them better. They are more manly in deportment than the Chunchos, who
are described to crawl through the woods with wilful determination of
assassins.
They loaded the canoe with our baggage, and in a smooth place in the
San Mateo, below a very rapid fall, paddled across. By several trips,
they safely carried all our boxes over, and then swam the mules. One
of them led the old white mare into the stream; the mules followed; the
Indians dashed in after them, and the train swam to the opposite shore.
The canoe came back for us, and we embarked at the foot of the Andes
on a voyage across a stream, which was not navigable, even for a canoe,
except where we passed. The color of the water was milky.
We met another train of mules, loaded with cacao, on their way to
Cochabamba. The Indians transported them over the same way they did us.
Our mules were so much exhausted that they stood upon the rocky beach
hanging their heads. As the water dripped from their sides the hot sun
dried them, and the swarms of sand-flies troubled them as much as us.
Cornelio told me his animals could not proceed—they were nearly worn
out; so that we had to spend the day on the bank of the river, while the
mules roamed into the woods and along the wide flat, which overflows in
the rainy season.
The department of the Beni is the ninth and last in Bolivia. It
comprises the northeastern portion. This and the department of Santa
Cruz are the two largest and most easterly parts of the country. They
stretch from the Andes to the Brazilian territory.
The great Beni river, which rises among the mountains of La Paz;
the Mamoré, from the department of Cochabamba; and the Itenez, whose
headwaters commence in the mountains of Matto Grosso, in Brazil, all
flow through the department of the Beni; yet it is the wild country
of Bolivia, and probably the most wealthy of the States of this
confederacy.
That part of the Beni which lies on the eastern border of Yungas is
called the province of Apolobamba. The chocolate, coca, and cinchona
bark from Apolobamba are superior.
The southeast trade-winds from the South Atlantic ocean meet, and are
checked by the great Sorata mountains. The town of Apolobamba, on the
river Tuiché, is situated half-way between the gold mines of Tipuani and
Carabaya. There is no such cinchona as that known as the "calisaya" of
Apolobamba. At the feet of these trees are found the richest gold mines
of Bolivia; and on the other side of the mountain range are said to be
the richest gold mines in South America.
The southeast trade-winds are uninterrupted, after they rise from the
ocean and pass over the beautiful "Organ" mountains in sight of Rio
Janeiro, until they strike the slope on which the town of Apolobamba is
situated.
The same wind that propels the sailor from the equator towards Cape
Horn, on the South Atlantic ocean, on his way for the Peruvian bark,
carries the moisture from the same ocean to give life to the trees from
which the sailor receives his cargo. No man is supposed by seamen to
have a right to the privileges of grumbling at the world or the winds
until he has doubled Cape Horn.
Having rested our mules, we pushed on for eight leagues over a level
road to the port of Vinchuta, which is composed of six sheds, or
Yuracares houses, one of them two stories. As this was the governor's,
we dismounted and walked up stairs. On gaining the upper floor, a young
creole stepped forward and politely invited us to a seat, from which
we could overlook the town. We were told that the governor and the
inhabitants had deserted the place—they took fright at the small pox;
and, the young man, pointing to a little Indian boy with a most ghastly
stare, who was wrapped up in a poncho laying near me, said, "my servant,
sir, is suffering very much with that disease, and down the country
the Indians are being swept off at a terrible rate." This was not the
most agreeable news, particularly as we were obliged to remain here
until the governor came to his post to discharge a large canoe which
was ready to leave for Trinidad, the capital of the department, and in
which consisted our only way of proceeding.
[Illustration: SAN MATEO FERRY, Bolivia.
By Lieut. L. Gibbon U. S. N.
Lith. of P.S. Duval & Co. Phil.]
A message was sent to the governor, who was at the small town of
Chimoré, where the Indians had collected as a retreat from the
small-pox, and where there was a padre.
Vinchuta is the point at which the traders in the cacao of the province
of Mojos reach those of Cochabamba with salt. A cake of salt, cut out
of the Lakes of Oruro or Potosi, brought down to Cochabamba, is worth
thirty-seven and a half cents. When that cake reaches Trinidad, it
is worth two dollars. A mule carries eight cakes, or six arrobas—one
hundred and fifty pounds. Salt sells, therefore, in this department at a
little over ten cents a pound. The freight to Vinchuta from Cochabamba
is eight dollars the mule load. We have made the journey in ten days,
which is about the average passage; the return train is a couple of days
longer, but it has been made in ten days back.
Cacao is bought in Trinidad at from one dollar and fifty cents to two
dollars and fifty cents the arroba, or twenty-five pounds. The market
price in Cochabamba is usually six dollars. Chocolate may be had,
then, in Trinidad at six cents a pound, while in Cochabamba it costs
twenty-four.
The houses were surrounded by the primitive forest, the only land
cleared being the space of ground in the centre, where there was a
growth of grass showing what beautiful pasture lands these flats would
make were the forests cleared away. We observed a single papaya and a
few pepper plants by one of the houses. The mules were turned into the
woods, and we towards our baggage for supper. As the young creole and
his sick "servant" were without provisions, they appeared glad to see
us.
We found the creole was a schoolmaster, going down to one of the small
towns in the country, to teach young Indians Spanish. The government
supports, upon a very small pay, teachers in all the towns to instruct
the Indian.
The next morning the governor made his appearance, read our passports,
and said there was a large canoe ready for us; that she might go off
to-morrow. He seemed to be an active little man and very obliging;
wanted to know all the news from Cochabamba, and was constantly
complaining he had nothing nice to give us, besides which he was very
particular to let us know he had the roads put in fine order, as he had
been ordered to do by the prefect of his department, as they knew we
were coming. We found the roads at best shockingly bad.
While he was talking, a man came in who had been to Potosi and back for
the purpose of getting the governor's place, but the government refused
to make a change, so the disappointed expectant governor had to present
his passports to the one in office, which he seemed to dislike.
The crew of the canoe was sent for; they were fine, stout,
open-countenanced, respectable looking Indians of the "Canichanas"
tribe, from a town in the province of Mojos, near the Mamoré river.
These polite mannered men stood before us with straw hats in hand,
dressed in a bark-cloth "camisa," listening to what the governor said
to our interpreter—that the President of Bolivia wished them to take
particular care of us; that we wanted to go down and look at the great
rivers, and stated how many yards of white cotton cloth he would give
them apiece, namely, three yards, about enough to make each a shirt.
They promised to do their duty and obey my orders.
Had I known at the time what I discovered afterwards, I should have made
the bargain with the men myself. It appeared that the governor paid them
in cotton cloth, while I paid him in silver money. The honest laboring
Indian, who was supposed to be ignorant of the act, felt the injustice
and saw its wrong more clearly than he was supposed to do. One day,
long after our first meeting, I happened to ask the interpreter which
the Indians cared the most for, silver coin or cotton cloth, thinking
of course they preferred the latter, but I found they knew how to make
cotton cloth with their own hands. So little do they care for it, that
the governor had every one of their canoe paddles standing up in a
corner of his bed room for fear they would leave without a cargo and
go home with an empty boat, after landing the chocolate which a creole
sent from Trinidad.
José was to leave us here. The good old man had performed his duty in
the service of the United States very faithfully. He had not heard from
his wife and family for the nine months he has been with us. We engaged
him as a guide, but had passed beyond his knowledge of the country
before we got to Cuzco; his fluency in the Quichua language made him
indispensably necessary to the expedition; he made himself so useful to
our small party we shall long remember his kindness. As he was nearly
60 years of age, with a large family in the Juaja valley, in Peru, we
could not persuade him to go farther with us; we shall miss him very
much. I gave the old man "Bill," as Richards called his mule, to return
home, in addition to his pay, and an honorable discharge, in writing,
from the _naval_ service of the United States.
José had two faults, more or less natural ones—he had a standing rule to
get intoxicated periodically, every six months; and, when he had time,
he would also slip into a gambling house and lose his month's wages in a
few moments. I have often persuaded him to let me keep back his pay, and
told him he should not throw it away; when he would gently answer, "Ah,
señor, there are very few perfect people in this world." We became much
attached to him; Richards would often say, "if we could only persuade
José to go down the rivers with us, we would be certain to get through."
I also regretted to part with my faithful mule, Rose. She had carried me
nearly two thousand miles over the worst roads known to the white man,
without having fallen once during the whole route. This was the _third_
time she had descended the eastern side of the Andes into the montaña,
without injury to herself or others. When she saw danger she came to a
stand-still, and never would proceed until I dismounted, and then she
would often refuse to go on until some other mule went before her.
The horse may be driven into danger by the rider; with the spur a horse
may be made to break his neck over a rickety mountain bridge; he is
man's favorite; is stabled, fed, combed, and watered, in health; when
sick he has a doctor. But the jackass will not cross a dangerous place;
whip him, he hangs down his head, lays back his long ears, and lets
fly both heels at whoever attempts to force him. He will turn round and
bite; in this he shows a higher order of intelligence than the horse.
Man beats the jack; uses him all day, and at night turns him out on the
road-side to feed upon thistles, and to find drink where he can.
Rose has the characteristics of both animals. In gentleness of
disposition and intelligence, she takes after her sure-footed father,
the jack; in activity, beauty of form, and liveliness of spirit, after
her mother, the mare, of the Argentine pampas. This cross is the only
animal valuable as a beast of burden in these mountainous countries.
The horse would fall or be worried to death where the mule passes with
ease. Their backs are short, and therefore can carry a load better than
a horse. The jackass is too slow for a long journey, but like the llama
will serve the purposes of the Indian, who suits himself to the gait of
those animals.
The best mules are thought to be the females; they are better tempered,
work easier, carry heavier loads, and keep in good order upon less food
than the male mule. The females are invariably the best saddle mules.
Vinchuta is the eastern commercial emporium of Bolivia, but foreign
manufactures come down from the mountains of the country instead of up
the rivers from the sea. After the cotton goods, glass ware, and cutlery
of Europe and North America are disembarked at Cobija, they traverse the
Cordilleras over rocky roads, through the desert of Atacama, the barren
plains of Oruro, over the Andes, and down those terrible roads we have
just travelled. After worrying and tugging for more than eight hundred
miles, all of that part of the cargo not ruined by such a journey on
the backs of mules, arrives at the most important commercial port this
country possesses.
There is very little trading going on here, because the outlet on the
one hand is such as we describe, and the people seem to be ignorant of
the advantages offered to them from the Atlantic direct, instead of the
round-about way of the Pacific.
But the business under these sheds in the wilderness attracts attention.
We find the Aymara, Quichua, and Spanish languages mingling with the
Yuracares and Canichanas; we are pleased to add the Anglo-Norman. The
arriero and the canoe men meet in friendship with each and with us.
On Tuesday, 25th May, we descended the steep bank of Coni creek,
stepping into a canoe made of a log forty feet long and four feet wide.
The model of this canoe appeared to us a beautiful one as she sat upon
the water. She was one of the largest used by the Bolivian Indians, and
the contour of the vessel resembled a model frigate more than any other.
Her cargo was piled up on the bank under a rustic house built by the
crew of the leaves and branches of trees. The boat-keeper was washing
out the canoe; she was open fore and aft.
The creek was fifty yards wide, with a swift current. As we stood in the
canoe and looked up the stream, we could see the great Andes far back
among the clouds. This was to be our last view; they were nearly out of
sight, and we were to enter upon a new life. José and the mules had left
us. Our party was composed of Mamoré, Richards, and myself. As the crew
came one by one from Vinchuta, with parts of the cargo carried on their
backs, Mamoré barked; his loud voice made the wild forest ring. The crew
became attached to him at once, and laughed at the fear expressed by
those who came up last. We found him to be valuable, and rated him as
sentinel both by night and by day.
The boat's crew was deficient. There were ten men here, four had been
left along the banks of the river on their way up with the smallpox,
and one of the ten was taken sick here; therefore our crew was reduced
to nine working men. The sick boy lay on the bank with this horrible
disease, shaded by a few green leaves from the hot sun in the day,
and partly protected from the rain during the night, without medical
attention or any relief whatever. The poor creature seemed to bear the
pain with patience, but his stare was sickening as he looked up from
under the bushes.
[Illustration: VINCHUTA, Bolivia.
By Lieut. L. Gibbon U. S. N.
Lith. of P.S. Duval & Co. Phil.]
Two of the crew were engaged with small iron axes cutting sticks of
wood long enough to rest the ends on the inside of the canoe across the
bottom, so as to leave an inch or two space under this flooring for any
water to pass clear of the baggage. Five of these floorings were laid
at equal distances apart, wide enough to place two trunks lengthwise,
and two more on top of them, with space between for two canoemen to
sit and paddle. Raw-hides were placed on the platforms, and on them the
baggage was neatly laid. Our trunks and boxes stowed very well, and were
covered with raw-hide. As the bottom of our boxes were water-tight,
we were satisfied that unless we upset or filled, the baggage would
go perfectly dry—an important matter in a wet climate under the most
favorable circumstances—and more so when there is no stopping-places on
the road from town to town, where the traveller can pick up a dinner.
Vines and creepers were bowed and fastened by the ends to the sides
of the after-part of the canoe, and over them were spread raw-hides,
hair side under, for the length of twelve feet. This was the cabin.
Our gun was slung overhead, powder-flask and shot-bag to the bows. The
instrument box was safely stowed inside, so that we might get at the
ruled paper, and chart the river. We set our compass inside also. The
floor of the cabin was a rustic grating made by one of the crew, with
small straight sticks fastened to a heavy cross piece by means of a
slender creeper. Our beds were kept in India-rubber bags. After getting
nearly ready, we found there still remained another load of salt in the
governor's house, and as night had come on and the rain began to fall,
we would be detained until the next day. Then, too, the schoolmaster and
the disappointed ex-governor were to take passage in the same canoe;
it was their only chance like ours, and as there was no telling when
another canoe would be here, all claim a right to go. Of course I could
not object, under such circumstances, although they would be very much
in our way, as we were about to explore a critical part of navigation
on the upper waters of the Madeira.
So our tent was pitched on the bank; it had been our house on the
barren mountain-tops, and now it was put up in the wild woods. There
the climate was cold, and the tent protected and kept us warm. Here the
climate is hot, and when the tent is closed and the canvass became wet,
we found the heat oppressive. We could not sleep, so we threw open the
door-way and in swarmed musquitoes. It was evident that the tent could
not accommodate so many comfortably; we were therefore driven out. The
rain-storm increased. I found my way down the clayed bank to the canoe.
Richards joined the schoolmaster under the rustic hut. The musquitoes
soon drove me out, and we all gathered round a large fire built by the
Indians, and watched their mode of passing such a night.
A large pot of water was put on the fire. It was midnight; the wind
roared through the forest trees, and the rain beat heavily at the feet
of the Andes. The Indians drew knives and gathered round the light of
the fire to skin the yuca. Some divided them into small pieces, and
pitched them into the pot with a piece of salted meat. After the pot
was properly hung over the fire by a strong raw-hide rope, they lay down
under their green leaf roof, and with their feet to the hot ashes, and
heads covered with an extra shirt, stretched out for a nap. One kept
awake as cook to attend the boiling pot.
All slept soundly for a while. We were then disturbed by musquitoes and
the rain. The Indians were snoring; the cook was talking to his pot
as it boiled over, and the water caused a hissing noise in the fire.
Suddenly all jumped up, leaving their bark-cloth camisas under cover,
and joined the cook in the rain.
We carry a tin wash-basin, which happened to be close by in the light
of the fire. I did not understand why it had not been put into the
canoe with other things. One of the naked red men picked it up and
placed it near the cook, who turned the hot yuca soup into the basin. A
satisfactory expression shone in every face as they squatted around our
tin wash-basin. Each man formed his fingers into spoon-shape, and dipped
in; thus they laughingly passed the remainder of the night. One hand
was actively playing between the basin and their mouths, while the other
was constantly in motion flapping the musquitoes, who came up from the
darkness behind. Our dog rose up from his sleeping position to look on.
The men were constantly calling him by his familiar name, and dividing
their share of the supper with him. We were obliged to be resigned to
our fate, not knowing where to go for comfort, or how to get to sleep.
These wild men accommodated themselves perfectly to circumstances.
We looked on as long as we could keep our eyes open, and at last fell
asleep. At day-break I found myself refreshed; but on opening my eyes,
saw my pillow had been the body of the poor sick boy, who was so weak
with the small-pox that we had him sent up to the governor.
These kind-hearted men pay all the attention to the sick they possibly
can; but they are at a loss to know what to do for the small-pox.
They wait patiently until it passes away. I believe they think it is a
punishment sent to them, and they must bear it the best way they can.
The Yuracares Indians are not navigators, but hunters, and are less
under the control of the church than either the cultivators of the
soil or our canoemen. I was unable to find out the number composing
the Yuracares tribe, but there are not many of them. Chimoré is the
capital of the province, and in the list of "villas," which are given
for all places containing over three hundred inhabitants, Chimoré is not
found. The Yuracares tribe are scattered along the base of the Andes
in this province in little bands of from seven to twenty; and there
may be in the whole province six hundred Yuracares Indians. The present
productions of Yuracares are confined principally to the cinchona bark
and coca.
As the streams and soils have not been carefully examined, we are
ignorant of its mineral wealth. Yuracares is an extensive province,
well wooded and watered, with a very sparse population throughout. At
the base of this ridge of mountains appears the most inviting place we
have met in Bolivia for the cultivator of the soil. It is within the
rain-belt. The coffee tree of Yuracares is much more heavily loaded with
grains than those seen at Rio Janeiro, in Brazil.
The small-pox was brought by the Indians of the low country, who in turn
had it from Brazil, and finally bore it up the mountain-side into the
city of Cochabamba.
A warehouse should be constructed in Vinchuta in the most careful way,
to avoid the dampness of the climate. Flour spoils quickly, particularly
that made from grain produced in a cold climate. Southern grain lasts
the longest there. White cotton goods must be covered to avoid the
wet, as well as all other articles which are in the least injured by
damp weather. All valuable goods should be well packed in bales of
seventy-five pounds weight. A mule carries half a cargo up the eastern
side of the Andes. Two bales, weighing one hundred and fifty pounds, are
taken at the same price three hundred are carried for on better roads.
The Indians bring up quantities of chocolate from Mojos enclosed in
raw-hides. They stow four of these bails on one platform in a canoe; but
when they arrive here, the arriero must rip the bales open and divide
them, to form suitable loads for each of his mules. By this means, some
is wasted, and all exposed to the climate.
Pieces of machinery, boxes of wine, or valuable articles, are often left
behind by not being of proper weight. Even if the animals were strong
enough to carry them, the roads are not wide enough to admit a passage.
We saw an elephant travelling on the table-lands of Bolivia, who walked
through the Cordillera range of mountains at the pass of Antarangua,
sixteen thousand feet above the Pacific ocean. When he came to the
Apurimac suspension bridge, the tollman shut his door, and refused
positively to allow the elephant to attempt to cross over, even if he
could have done so. The keeper, a Yankee, swam him over the stream.
There were many places on the mountains where the rocks were cut to
admit a mule-load to pass, where the elephant scraped his back and
sides.
Goods covered with raw-hide are preserved best from rain. It is
frequently thus used to protect bark, chocolate, sugar, and coffee.
At the national convention of 1851, a grant of twelve square leagues,
in the province of Yuracares, excepting the cinchona trees upon the
soil, was made to Don Carlos Bridoux, upon condition that he would exert
himself to raise the indigo plant, cotton, tobacco, sugar, cacao, and
coffee; provided he would take possession of the land within a certain
time.
By the same law, the executive was authorized to make grants to citizens
or foreigners of from one to twelve square leagues, in consideration of
advantages to be offered for the public benefit in working the lands.
Señor Bridoux has selected his lands near the port of Vinchuta. This
gentleman was very kind to the expedition in Cochabamba. We are indebted
to him for personal attention at his hospitable house. We owe him many
thanks for aid and assistance offered in a most generous spirit.
Citizens or foreigners wishing to cultivate the public lands of Bolivia,
may do so by a formal application to the prefect of the department in
which the lands are situated, and the prefect has authority, by custom,
to secure to the settler one square league.
For the want of laws touching the sale of public lands, citizens or
foreigners are deprived of the advantage of purchasing, but are at
liberty to settle where they please, so long as they do not interfere
with others, or the public treasury.
So extensive are the public lands of Bolivia, and so few emigrants enter
the country, that the government has thought it policy to make liberal
grants to actual settlers, as well to citizens of other countries as to
their own. These valuable lands lie idle for the want of population.
The men of intelligence in Bolivia received the idea of exploring
their rivers to the Atlantic with enthusiasm. In Cochabamba the whole
population have been aroused to the importance of the enterprise.
When the rivers are swollen in the low lands, the arms of the canoemen
have not power to propel their vessels against the current. Trade,
for half the year, stands still; human strength is not equal to the
requirements of the trade that is carried on.
There are supposed to be at least ten thousand silver and gold mines
abandoned in this country; one-third may have been exhausted, and the
remainder have been left because the miners struck below the water-line.
Respectfully taking off our hats to the gigantic Andes, we push on in
our little canoe. As the men dip their paddles in the water we glide
rapidly along with the current of Coni creek. After being tossed up and
down on the mountains for a year, the change is enlivening. We feel this
water-carriage is put in motion by the All Powerful, in whom we have
placed our trust and confidence in a long journey through the wilderness
towards our homes.
The Indians suddenly began to work hard at their paddles; the
fine-looking old captain talked to the crew sharply, and we went dashing
over rapids at a most furious rate; the waters roared against the great
trunks of trees that stuck up in the shape of snags; the logs were
in constant motion, like sawyers; the channel was narrow; one little
mistake of the pilot would have dashed us sideways among the snags,
and our canoe must have rolled under. Every man's eyes seemed, for the
moment, half a size larger, for the reduced crew of the heavy and long
canoe had to exert themselves to the utmost of their strength to manage
and keep her clear of danger.
Our cargo was bulky—cakes of salt brought her down so deep in the water
that she moved sluggishly. Richards, seated on the baggage in front,
guarded Mamoré, who was unaccustomed to the water, and it was with
difficulty he could be kept from jumping overboard.
Coni creek is not navigable for a steamboat; the lands on both sides
are flat and thickly wooded with a rich growth of bamboo; these lands
are all overflowed in the wet season, and therefore are uninhabitable.
Temperature of water, 74°. We saw a small lion or puma on the bank,
besides a number of wild turkeys, and shot a wild goose. The banks break
down perpendicularly with rich black surface soil one foot and a half
thick.
Our canoe was soon launched into the waters of the river Chaparé, one
hundred yards wide, and where we entered it twelve feet deep; we have
scarcely lost sight of the Andes. The canoe was stopped that we might
repeat the soundings; as we descended the soundings increased to two
and a half fathoms upon a current of one and five-tenths of a mile
per hour. The muddy stream wound its way through the forest trees and
thick cane-brakes like a great slow-moving serpent. We find, at the
foot of the most lofty mountains, that the lands on both sides of this
navigable river are semi-annually deluged; that the rise of the waters
in the wet season is about thirty feet, and by the marks on the trunks
of the trees, the appearance of the undergrowth, with the information
gained from the creoles and confirmed by the Indians, the banks are
overflowed about two feet deep. In the rainy season, the bottom of the
Madeira Plate would have been found covered with water, so that we might
navigate over the land in a canoe drawing less than two feet; our canoe
draws but six inches when fully loaded.
The forest trees here are not so large as higher up the country, nor is
vegetation heaped up in such luxuriance as we saw it on our way down
through the boisterous region. The climate is more mild and gentle
in its action. As night comes on, thunder roars and lightning flashes
above us towards the southwest among the mountains, while here the sky
is clear, and winds gently blow from the northwest. The winds strike
heavily against the great elevated side of the earth, and the storm
there is raging from the southeast.
The sun passes from our view behind dark clouds, and cuts our day
short by setting below the great ridge which stand between us and the
Pacific. We have watched the mercury in our thermometer as it fell by
the application of boiling water in ascending those mountains from the
great western ocean, and saw its indisposition to rise or to fall as we
travelled along on the table lands of the Titicaca basin. As we descend
on this side it gradually ran up again, until now we have arrived on a
level. The observation of yesterday was the same as that of to-day, at
our journey's end.
Turning to the table of observations, in Lima, 22d April, 1851, at 3
p. m., boiling point, 209, 250; temperature of air, 77°. Here on the
Chaparé river, May 27, 1852, at 9.30 a. m., boiling point, 209, 500;
temperature of air, 75°. These show how near the bottom of the Madeira
Plate is on a level with the ocean. They tell us we are below Lima; but
Lima, according to our barometrical measurement, was 493 feet above sea
level. On the river we are 28 feet below the general level of this part
of the Madeira Plate.
The Indians paddle their canoe for a short distance with a will, and
then let her ride along on the current. They lay up the paddles on the
gunwale, put one leg over the handle, and drawing from among the baggage
a piece of corn husk, cut it into squares, and rolling tobacco up fine,
make the husk serve as a wrapper for their cigars.
Each one carries a little spunk in the hollow end of a cow's horn, which
indicate cattle ahead somewhere, and with a piece of flint rock strike
light with the back of a knife. We noticed that the crew carried small
bags filled with flint rocks, which they gathered about Vinchuta, and
were taking down to the province of Mojos for sale. We have just passed
the rocky formation, and find the soil alluvial for over thirty feet.
We camped on a low sand beach on the west side of the river. The crew
gathered a number of canes from the brake, and the captain made a
frame-work, over which an India-rubber poncho was hung; underneath the
leaves of the cane were spread as a protection from the dampness of the
soil on which the bed was laid, and over it a musquito net.
The crew made a house by stacking cane leaves and branches on the side
of a ridge-pole, like farmers make a shed of corn fodder for cattle.
The open side of this shed was facing the east. A fire was soon made,
and our disappointed governor proved to be as good at cooking as the
schoolmaster at eating chupe. The only provision the ex-governor had
made was a bladder filled with what sailors call slush, a few cakes of
chocolate, a pot, and some bread turned green with mould. The Indians
peeled yuca, and we supplied rice and goose for the chupe, and sugar,
and tin pots for the chocolate. The schoolmaster came unprovided with
grub; it is presumed he was usually "boarded out."
The Indians gathered around their fire, while the captains of the boat
saw the patron's bed attended to. When the chupe was made, the cook
politely informed the captains, and after they had seated themselves by
our tin basin, the others gathered round. All in turn talked and joked
as they enjoyed their suppers. The crew elect their own captains; the
most active, energetic, and intelligent man was chosen, without regard
to age. Should he prove incapable, or misbehave, he is broken and placed
in the seat of the paddle-man selected over him. Every man obeys his
orders, and is particular in his mode of addressing the captain and his
mate, or rather a second captain, who helps to steer the canoe, and
generally encourages the men to keep good time with their paddles by
stamping his foot upon the floor of the canoe where he stands behind the
cabin. The captain only stamps his foot on particular occasions, when
the crew work unusually well, laying out their whole strength when he
speaks to them. The captains do very little but steer the canoe, and
attend to the wants of the person who employs them. Every man attends
to his duty according to the usages of their service. They take turns at
cooking or bailing out the boat, and while one or two secure the canoe,
a number of others run up to the woods and bring fuel for a fire, and
cut cane for the house. While one cook fetches water, another breaks
out from a platform in the canoe their provisions for supper.
As they all sat joking about the arrieros, while they smoke tobacco,
they laugh at the Quichua Indians they saw at Vinchuta, with the
arrieros, chewing coca leaves "like horses," as they said.
At midnight the captain called me, speaking in the Canichana language,
which I could not understand, however; when a man is called up in the
silence of night in such a wild country as this, he soon gains his feet.
We found that the storm on the mountains had flooded the river; the
canoe floated in close to my bed, which was gathered before the flood
passed over the spot, where a few moments before we were sleeping. As
the river was rising very fast, we were obliged to embark or be driven
into the cane brakes, which is the bed of the tigers, who growl if
disturbed by gentlemen at night.
We all took our seats in the canoe and slept sitting, as well as the
musquitoes would let us. The bow was made fast to the root of a tree,
which was fastened to the bottom by its branches.
These Indians are very careful people, constantly on the look-out. We
were aroused from a sound sleep in a moment by these watchful fellows.
Had the crew been an inexperienced one, the canoe might have been
carried off by the flood and we left in the canebrake. The Indians
expected a freshet. In the evening they carried our cooking utensils
far from the boat to the most elevated part of the beach, which was not
highest near the bank. When the flood came, the water passed between
us and the bank, leaving us on a sand island, which was afterwards
completely overflowed.
At daylight the Indians begin at the paddles. They work best early in
the mornings and in the evenings.
As we moved slowly down stream, rain began to fall; the winds were
variable. Some four or five different kinds of monkeys kept up an
excited chattering. An awkward, thick-set, ugly, bay-coated fellow was
bellowing out a noise not unlike that made by a large bullfrog. The
black ring-tailed squealed as he scampered off among the tree-tops.
The little white-whiskered tribe come down close to the river-bank
among the canes, and seem quizzically disposed to examine the character
of the craft that intruded upon their morning sports. There goes a
chocolate-colored little family, as though frightened to distraction.
Richards shouts at them in English, and the Canichanas roar with
laughter. The crew desire a ring-tailed monkey for breakfast. Their bows
and arrows lay on the roof of the cabin, but they prefer to see one fall
by a shot from our gun.
The captain suddenly called to the men, and they all shouted. Looking
down the river, we discovered two canoes well peopled, working manfully
against the current close along the bank. Canoes going down keep in
mid-channel, where the current is most rapid. These canoes were from
Trinidad on their way to Vinchuta, with orders from the prefect of the
department to report themselves to me for service in the expedition as
soon as they landed their cargo of cacao, sugar, and passengers.
A basket of fine oranges was passed on board of us, the compliment being
returned in biscuit. Our captain received news of some men he had left
on the banks of the river with small-pox.
We pushed on by islands in the stream. Though the river is flooded,
there is little or no drift-wood. Along the beach large trees have been
left as the rain-belt passed north. These trees lay on the inner side of
the turns in the stream. That side is a flat sand-beach, while the long
or outer side of the turn breaks down perpendicularly. The current of
the river strikes the bank; the drift-wood beats against the alluvial
soil; undermines the forest trees; the roots are washed clean, and the
tops fall down into the river; their branches sink; the heavy green
leaves go to the bottom loaded with mud; become entangled or anchored.
Drift-wood and rubbish collect about them; and while an island is built
up on the small frame-work of one single log of wood, the bank gives
way for the river to pass on.
The turns in this stream are very short. We are at one time heading
northeast, then northwest, and often southwest, when we turn round
northeast again. The distance between the upper and lower turns, in a
north direction, is constantly decreasing; for the perpendicular bank on
the upper turn is being dug away towards the north, and the same bank on
the lower turn is caving in on the south side. When the work is done,
the upper waters flow straight through to the lower; and as the river
grows older, like a well-drilled soldier, it straightens.
The southwest turn is deserted by the waters, and the bed of the river
lies uncovered, and becomes a proof to us that, while rivers travel,
they do not always sleep on the same side of their bed, but shift from
one to the other, as suits their convenience. The speed of the current
of the river, after it has straightened itself through the land, instead
of winding down, as the llama descends the side of a mountain, appears
to us the same. That the older the river grows the more rapid the
current would be a work directly in opposition to the natural purposes
of navigation, for which it was intended.
As the upper country wears away, and the heavy load of earth is
carried down towards the mouth of the river, the head of the stream
is deepening, and being constantly cut down towards a level with the
bottom, which is filling up at its mouth. This will be best explained by
the sounding-line, cast from a vessel entering the mouth of a river. The
pilot is taken on board to carry the ship safely over the bar, or that
bank of earth which has been carried down from the head of the streams
and deposited at the river's mouth. As the ship crosses this shoal,
the man at the lead-line calls deeper and deeper soundings as he enters
the river. He will continue to do so some distance up. From this point
back to the bar, the bottom of the river is an inclined plane, sloping
from the edge of the sea towards the mountains, down to the last deep
soundings of the leadsman, from which place to the ocean the river may
be said to be running up hill; a hill made by its own action, and which
is stretching farther and farther up stream.
We find some snags and sawyers in the channel that should be cleared
out to make this river in a condition for steamboat navigation.
As we descend, the Chaparé widens in some places two hundred yards, and
from two and a half to three fathoms water. The river has risen three
feet by rains in the up country, though the current remains about the
same, which is not half the rate of the Gulf stream between the Florida
reefs and the Bahama banks.
After paddling from daylight until 9 a. m. the crew were ready for
breakfast. Mamoré sported over the beach. We made after ducks, geese,
and wild turkeys as the only safety-valve to our boiling pot. The
beautiful pink and white spoon-bill skims the insects from the surface
of the river, while the proud-looking but homely tall white cranes
survey us like some bodies with very stiff shirt collars. Temperature
of the river water, 74°; air, 75°; and wet bulb, 74°.
We have been unfortunate at fishing. As the Indians pay no attention to
it just here, we are inclined to believe there are few fish, while in
the rocky formation we found the Indians pursuing them. There the water
is not so muddy as here. In Lake Titicaca the most fish are found on the
east side of the lake, where the water was limpid. We found more fish
at the southern end of that lake when the waters were settled than at
the north, where they come in turbid.
The air at night seems to be filled with musquitoes and bats; by
daylight birds appear in proportion. Thousands of parrots keep the woods
in a constant din.
The forest trees decrease in size and thickness; as we descend the
canebrake takes their place. Some of the logs on the beach and snags
in the stream are larger than those we generally see. These large trees
are found in the upper forests as the exception rather than the rule.
The general course of the Chaparé is north; its bottom is sandy
and muddy. There are no streams flowing into it, nor are there any
appearance of beds of streams to be filled in the rainy season. We
judged, therefore, the country on both sides of it, as far as we have
come upon it, is a dead level.
After breakfast the men entered the woods, cut down some trees, stripped
off the bark twelve or fourteen feet long and two feet wide, rolled it
and brought it on board.
The common percussion lock shot-gun is the proper arm for the traveller
in this country; the shot will keep him supplied with game. In case
of necessity, a ball carried in the pocket can be slipped in over the
shot, and answers all purposes, as the ball does execution much farther
than an Indian's arrow. The most serviceable and important arms are
double-barrelled shot-gun and a five-chambered revolver of Colt's.
The men pull irregularly. When they pull a moderate stroke, by our log
they make about two miles per hour; but going with the current they only
pull half the time, because on their upward passage they are obliged
to pull incessantly, except when they stop for breakfast, or for the
night. The down trip is the resting one. They work hard when they meet
with obstructions, and overcome the difficulties. When they find things
in their favor, they slide through them as easily as possible.
After supper they commenced manufacturing bark cloth by the light
of the fire. The end of the piece of bark was laid over the end of a
smoothly-barked log, and they commenced beating upon it with mallets,
beginning at the corner and striking diagonally the piece to the middle,
where the mallet was turned to the same angle at the other corner.
They beat the bark regularly along. The fibres spread out, and the
piece two feet wide was beaten out one foot more, to the thickness of
stout pilot cloth. After all is beaten out, it is rolled up. The cloth
is afterwards spread out in the sun to dry; the sap which has been
so thoroughly pressed out from among the fibres by the beating, soon
becomes dissipated by the sun, and the cloth is left with quite a woolly
feel, and is painted in figures to suit the fancy of the wearer. By his
own peculiar process it is cut out to form a very simple garment, and
the Indian is dressed in a fancy-colored shirt, which reaches below his
knees. This, with a hat of grass from the river-bank, is his wardrobe,
except an extra shirt of foreign manufactured cotton, worn in the heat
of the day when not at work, or in the evening when the musquitoes are
troublesome. The bark cloth is most frequently used at night, when they
particularly protect themselves. In the middle of the day they take
off their clothes, carefully fold them up, and place them aside until
they are required. When it rains very heavily they always undress, but
as soon as the storm is over, or after the weather has been unpleasant
for some time, and the air becomes cold, they dress again. They undress
while at their seats in the canoe. As soon as we stop to breakfast,
every man puts on his shirt before he leaves the boat; the captains
always wear their clothes. The men seem to be very careful about the
temperature at night. I have seen them put one shirt over another, and
double their garments.
_May 28, 1852._—The night was cloudy, and morning foggy. At daylight we
were under weigh again, after sleeping comfortably in the woods on the
bank, which varies its height from four to five feet. During the night
the river rose three feet and fell again one. A short distance below
we ran into a canebrake, and there, to our astonishment, stood three
men belonging to this crew. The poor creatures had been here seventeen
days, with the small pox. A little shelter of canes shaded them from
the heat of the sun, but rain beat in upon them as they lay helpless on
beds of green leaves, with no one to attend them. A knife was their only
protection from the savage tiger, unless the stench from the disease
kept wild animals at a distance.
Their faces brightened as they saw their friends; but there were only
three. Where was the fourth, inquired the crew? Their answer was, that
during the fever, in the middle of the night, he had rushed into the
river; they heard a splash and never saw their companion after; he was
carried down the stream by the current and drowned.
One of them was still quite sick; the others could work. Their usual
seats were in the after part of the canoe, but as the odor from their
bodies was great, I sent them as far forward as they could go. One of
them, called the padre of the crew, became very much affronted at this
order, and was disposed to disobey it, but the captain insisted, and he
moved. His duties were lighter where he was sent, and there he was not
so confined among us and the men. The idea of all being afflicted with
the small pox in this little canoe, was an unpleasant one. We were in
constant expectation of seeing some others taken sick.
The first symptoms, as described to us, were fever with pain in the
back, which lasts three days. Then the breaking out commences, with
inflamed lips. At the end of six days the disease has attained its
height, when the case of life or death is decided. After six days more
they begin to bathe, if they are well enough. This is the course the
distemper takes when the patient lies out in the woods, without medical
aid or shelter from the weather.
One of them had employed himself in making a white grass hat, after
the fashion of a Panama. They were delighted to get on board, and as
we paddled along, the one with the new hat was telling the crew what
sort of a time they had. The schoolmaster gave us the amount of what
he could understand. The crew were silent while Straw Hat was speaking,
but kept him going by questions when he held up. They seemed very much
affected, and, one by one, gave expression to his feelings at the loss
of the missing man.
At 9 a. m. we came to, as usual, for breakfast. Thermometer, 76°; wet
bulb, 74°. Temperature of water, 71°. The channel, as we descend, is
less obstructed by drift-wood, snags, and sawyers. The banks are three
feet high, the trees smaller, and the wind light from the north.
We passed an Indian slung up in a hamac between two poles stuck in a
mud bank. The crew called to him, and saw the hamac move, which was our
only sign that the poor creature was alive. He had been left with the
small pox by one of the canoes we met. The flooded river had reached
the under part of the hamac last night, and now the hot sun was shining
over him. The old captain shook his head when we wanted him to go and
see what could be done for the man. The crew pulled rapidly by.
The beach here is mud. On the shore of San Mateo, the beach was rocky,
with large and small round stones, such as are used for paving streets.
After we got below the rocky formation we found sand beaches, white
and grey. The banks of the river were high. Here we have low banks, and
run out of the sandy region into the mud. For the first time we saw an
alligator.
The waters of a stream, as it increases from a mountain torrent to a
large river, performs the labor of a system of sifters. The earth and
rocks are broken away; stone, sand, and earth, are carried down the
side of the Andes by the floods in the rainy season. The large stones
are thrown out on the sides of the stream, as it reaches the base of
the mountains, while the sand and earth pass through. Finally, the sand
is separated and deposited in another place below, and the mud, in its
turn, settles through and leaves the sifter clean. The water at the
mouth of a muddy stream is the clearest. When river water meets the
heavy salt water of the ocean, the river current comes to a stand, and
it is there, while standing still, that dirt settles from water the
quickest; there careful navigators look out for the bar across the mouth
of the river as they come in from the sea.
The muddy waters of rivers seem indisposed to mingle with the salt
waters of the sea, or rather the salt waters of the ocean turn the
muddy waters on the one side or the other of the mouth of rivers, until
they have deposited their mud, and then the clear new water cordially
joins the older, briny ocean. Where a large river empties into the sea,
if the current of the ocean flows parallel to the coast, and strikes
the river current at a right angle, all the mud is carried with the
ocean current, and is quickly placed on the bottom. By the arming on
their lead, navigators may tell, at night or in a fog, on which side of
the mouth of the river they are as they near the coast, provided they
study the ocean currents. This is, however, not always the case. An
ocean current, sweeping by the mouth of a navigable river, may not have
sufficient force to be of this service to the mariner; but it is the
case in a very important river on this continent. Where sand is found on
the south, and mud on the north side of the outlet, the former is washed
from the bottom of the sea, the latter comes down from the highlands,
and is carried out by the river.
While floods are constantly shifting the soil from the mountains to the
low grounds, and the land is pushed out into the sea, its waves are
regularly heaving back all the earth which has gotten over the shore
line. Between the currents of rivers and the waves of the sea, the earth
is found growing.
We encamped for the night on the east side of the river, where the
thick forest trees prevented my getting latitude by the stars. This is
the first clear night we have had for a long time. I doubt, even if the
branches of the trees were out of the way, if the swarms of musquitoes
would allow me to observe. Richards generally stands by with a bush when
the sand-flies or musquitoes are troublesome, but they bite through the
holes in a man's boot in spite of his stockings.
We entered the woods some distance with the gun, just before dark,
and found that as we left the river the trees became smaller, and in
some cases the land was even now covered with water, long grass, and
canebrakes.
The banks of rivers that flow through a low, flat, newly-made soil, are
thrown up high by deposits, so much so that the surface of the water,
at times, is above the general level of the country near it. When the
river rises, it breaks over the banks and floods the back lands.
The largest forest trees are found immediately on the banks; these trees
are most frequently undermined and carried down stream by the currents.
It will not do to judge of the general character of a country by the
size of the trees found driving out of the mouth of a river. When the
first navigators on the Amazon saw great logs floating out of the mouth
of the river, in whose tributaries we are, they called it "Madeira."
This fact set us all looking about for the largest trees in the world,
but they are not to be found here.
After supper the crew knelt by the light of the moon in prayer. "Padre"
gave out a hymn, and they all sang according to the teachings of the
Catholic church. The scene was a solemn one. Their voices echoed over
the waters of the river, and through the woods to the listening wild
beasts of the wilderness. Dressed in white cotton "camisas," they
kneeled down with faces up, praying with hat in hand. We were able
to look at their countenances, which were grave and serious, with an
expression of truthfulness and honest devotion.
The prayers of the evening being over, the captain, a tall, well-built,
noble-looking old Indian, stood up and made a speech to the others who
lay upon the hairy side of raw hides on the ground. It was an obituary
address of some length for the lost member of their canoe. This fine
featured Indian had naturally the powers of an orator; he was fluent
and spoke fast. When he reached the winding up of his harangue, he was
overcome by his feelings, and speaking of the unhappy news they were
called upon to convey to the mother and widow, he shed tears. His manly
arm was reached out to point towards the paddle of the lost man, as the
last and only token left by the father to the son.
When the captain finished, they all uttered "buenos noches" to each
other, and we slept by the side of the river.
At daybreak in the morning, the monkeys began the usual chattering.
We were struck at the ease with which an ugly, cheerful Indian, who
looks out for snags in the bow, and is generally laying on his belly
keeping watch ahead, repeated English words after Richards. The English
language, the schoolmaster decided, came much more easy to these people
than Spanish. "Nig," as Richards called him, was the droll one of the
crew. He pronounced clearly each word as it was spoken to him; and
yet this man was one of those who could not speak Spanish, generally
considered the most easy to learn. The language of these Indians sounds
like German. The Yuracares speak fast and constantly, like the French.
The Aymara has the sound of English more than any. The Quichua, both in
tone and notes of the words corresponds to the Welsh or Irish, which I
have heard spoken.
The Indians beached the canoe, and for the first time had a general
bath. As we passed a cross standing on the bank, the crew took off their
hats; this was out of respect for a friend who had been buried there.
We passed several of these wooden crosses; near some of them plantain
trees were growing.
The wind is very light, and generally from the north; the current of
air seems to follow the bed of the river up-stream. The river widens to
two hundred and fifty yards. We find the current by holding on to the
end of a snag in mid-channel while we heave the current log. We have no
anchor and chain.
The Indians look on with some astonishment at our work; and as Richards
was drawing in his sounding-line, with a two-pound lead upon it, "Padre"
very knowingly informed him it was useless to attempt to catch fish
in that way in the Chaparé. We were sorry to find the "Padre" was the
ill-natured one, and frequently quarrelled with the men during the
day. He spoke Spanish, and always addressed us in that language. The
schoolmaster said, when an Indian became the leading man in religious
pretension, he invariably was quarrelsome and overbearing in his manners
towards others, who seem to treat him with contempt, except when called
upon for ceremonial formalities.
We had seen cattle lassoed on the pampas of Buenos Ayres, and boys in
Mexico practise the art upon chickens, but to-day "Nig," our bowman,
gave us a treat.
A good sized alligator lay by the mud beach, with his head just on the
surface of the water. The canoe was run into the canebrake some fifty
yards below. One man cut a long cane, while "Nig," modestly smiling,
with eyes shut and mouth open, drew a hide rope from under part of the
baggage. Making a noose in one end, he hung it on the end of the pole,
and wound the rope round to the other end, so that he could grasp both
pole and rope in one hand. He pulled off his camisa, lowered himself
into the river, where he could walk on the bottom with his chin just out
of water. The noose was carried by the pole near the surface, and "Nig"
slowly moved towards the alligator, who seemed to be somewhat doubtful
of results. After watching "Nig's" eye for a while, he disappeared;
by the motion of the water it was evident he was swimming away. The
men laughed, but "Nig" stood perfectly still; the stream rolled on in
silence. In a moment the alligator's head appeared again nearly in the
same place, only he held it higher, as he attentively looked "Nig" full
in the face. He moved slowly and steadily towards the monster of the
river, and put the noose over the alligator's head; when he jumped, it
looked as though he wanted to jump through the noose. "Nig" let go the
pole, and in doing so lost the line also; and while the alligator swam
off with one end of the rope, "Nig" swam after his end, to the great
amusement of our party. "Nig" reached the line, and putting it over his
shoulder walked up the beach. As the alligator was led to the edge of
the water, "Nig" stood grinning at one end of the line on shore, while
the alligator lay quietly awaiting a ball from my gun or a stroke from
the hatchet in the hand of a man. But we were disappointed; "Nig" had no
weight to sling to the under part of the noose to keep it under water,
so when the alligator jumped he caught the noose in his mouth, and while
"Nig" was grinning, his eyes closed with delight, the alligator cut the
rope and swam away.
There are parts of the alligator near the back bone which the Indians
eat. This is the only manner in which they take alligators here; their
arrows will not enter the scales, which often turn a rifle ball. I
have seen a boat's crew in Mexico fire a volley of musket balls into an
alligator and not kill him. The alligators here are much smaller than
those found on the rivers in Tobasco. The Indians make buttons, beads,
fancy birds, and animals, of their teeth.