SAN LUIS
The average stranger coming to the United States to see the country
very seldom pays a visit to an obscure state capital. The very contrary
to this is what I did after I had been but little over a week in
Buenos Aires, as I maintain that the only way to see a foreign country
properly is to avoid the show places and get out among the people in
the smaller cities. Knowing that San Luis was but a short distance
from the main line of the Buenos Aires Pacific Railway between Buenos
Aires and Mendoza, and is reached by one through train daily in each
direction, I decided to stop off there.
I left Buenos Aires at three o'clock one afternoon when the thermometer
registered 100.4° Fahrenheit and was soon traversing the flat landscape
remindful of the valley of the River Po. The white, cream-colored
tile-roofed houses, the small vineyards and vegetable gardens, the
long rows of Lombardy poplars, and the oxen hitched to the wagons on
the country roads presented a picture that could just as well be that
of northern Italy as that of the Province of Buenos Aires. Nearly
everywhere in eastern Argentina where the country is well settled,
the landscape is decidedly Italian, due largely to the presence of
the trees indigenous to the Po Valley, originally brought there by
immigrants from that part of Europe.
[Illustration: Plaza San Martin, Mercedes]
The train I was on was a very poor one, the first-class compartments
being no better than third-class ones in Germany. Thirty-four miles
out of Buenos Aires, we reached the town of Pilar, which lies a short
distance north of the railroad. Its station is the terminus of the
Buenos Aires suburban trains. Eight miles farther on is seen on the
crest of a rise of ground to the south, the insane asylum of Open
Door, a model of its kind. The method employed for the treatment of
the patients is freedom from restraint, with the privilege to do what
they please as long as they keep within bounds. The originator of this
method of handling the insane believes that by allowing them to follow
out their whims, they will eventually become tired of them, and that
the confinement of the demented prisoners tends to aggravate their
condition. This theory which he put into practice has had good results.
Mercedes, seventy miles from Buenos Aires, with a population of thirty
thousand inhabitants, is the junction of three railroads, the Central
of Buenos Aires, the Western, and the Buenos Aires Pacific. It is
one of the oldest cities in the republic and is the stamping ground
of Irish settlers who drifted in here a few generations ago and have
become rich. Unlike most Argentine cities, its streets are numbered.
Chacabuco, one hundred and thirty-one miles from the capital, was
reached about 7.30 P.M. It is a stock-breeding center and is in the
midst of a rich agricultural district. One hundred and seventy-nine
miles from Buenos Aires is Junin, an important small town from which
leads a branch of the Central Argentina Railway to Pergamino and
Rosario. The place was formerly called Fuerte Federacion from a fort
on the Salado River. As late as 1876 it was attacked by Indians, the
last attack having been made on December 10th of that year under the
leadership of Pincen. The Indians were badly defeated and fled, leaving
behind all the stock they had stolen on the way. A man from Junin who
sat directly across the table from me in the dining car informed me
that farm lands in the neighborhood of his city were selling at as
high as three hundred pesos a hectare. That would make common prairie
land worth there fifty dollars an acre. During the night we crossed a
corner of the Province of Santa Fé at Rufino where the dining car was
taken off. The train then traversed the southern part of the Province
of Córdoba and entered the Province of San Luis in the early morning.
[Illustration: Street in San Luis]
Excepting the capital, Villa Mercedes, which was reached at 7 A.M.,
is the only place of importance in the Province of San Luis. It is a
well laid out little city with a fairly good hotel, the Marconi. It
was here that I was met by J. D. O'Brien of Detroit who remained with
me for some time in the capacity of servant. He had been gymnasium
steward on the _Vauban_, and not liking the British ship's officers,
took French leave at Buenos Aires, and decided to try his luck in
Argentina. I needed a servant as I had considerable baggage so decided
to hire him. He dropped his grip over the railing of the ship's deck
one night when nobody was watching, and fearing arrest because he had
quit the ship after signing a contract to make a round trip, thought
it would be better to get into the country until after the _Vauban_
had sailed. Therefore I had him precede me on the journey, he going
to Villa Mercedes the day before. Dr. M. de Iriondo, president of the
Bank of the Argentine Nation, had given me a letter to the manager of
its branch bank in Villa Mercedes, but unfortunately I did not stop off
there.
[Illustration: Bank of the Argentine Nation, San Luis]
There was a remarkable change in temperature compared with the previous
day, because it was now cool and windy. The country that we now
traversed was very much like that of eastern Wyoming, only the soil was
better. There seemed to be a lack of water. Cattle grazed the endless
pampa; here and there buttes and mountains rose from the plains, their
sides covered with coarse grass and sagebrush. At the wayside stations
were halfbreeds in ponchos, strong, good-looking fellows. Presently the
mountains came down to the railroad track and we were in a sort of an
oasis watered by the Chorillo River.
San Luis, the capital of the thinly settled province of the same name,
is 493 miles west of Buenos Aires. It is a poor, unpretentious, and
uninteresting town of fifteen thousand inhabitants with nothing to
attract the ordinary tourist. Its buildings, with the exception of a
few on the main streets, seldom attain a height of over one story and
are for the most part built of coarse red brick, which here sell for 28
pesos ($11.96) a thousand. Many of these brick buildings are plastered
over, but most are not, giving them but a half finished appearance on
account of the poor masonry. The original idea of the man who builds a
house in most of the cities of the republic is to eventually have the
brick stuccoed over, but it is frequently the case that his money gives
out, before he gets that far, and he has to forego that luxury. There
is also a considerable number of adobe buildings. These are mostly
in the outskirts of the city. I also saw a few huts in the outlying
districts whose roofs were thatched.
There are no large fortunes in San Luis although my informants told me
that there might be one or two men who could boast of possessing the
equivalent of one million pesos paper ($427,000.00). There are only
seven automobiles in the city, two of them being Cases; two are Fords.
The only one that I saw was of the last-named manufacture. When asked
if the governor of the province, Señor Juan Daract, possessed one,
I was told he was too poor to own one, although his monthly salary
is 750 pesos paper ($320.25). This would make his yearly salary from
governmental sources $3843.00. I was surprised to see horses sell so
cheaply, mediocre hack ones bringing only thirteen dollars apiece. Good
mules averaged about thirty-two dollars each.
[Illustration: Capitol, San Luis]
None of the streets of the city are paved. On the main one, San Martin,
there are several good buildings, the Bank of the Argentine Nation
being the best. It is the newest. The post office, the Federal Court,
and the custom house are also possible, although they are but one story
high. Nobody should overlook the Casa de Gobierno or Capitol, which is
in a class by itself. Its Renaissance façade, which faces the Plaza
San Martin, and its side which faces one of the main streets contain
sockets for nine thousand electric light bulbs. When the building is
lighted up in all its external brilliancy, the electric meter which
controls the other lights of the city has to be shut off because the
electrical plant has not power enough to keep them both going at the
same time. So much money was expended on the lavish decorations of the
Capitol that there was not enough left to furnish the building.
The two large plazas, Pringles and San Martin, each contain an
equestrian statue in bronze erected to the memory of the heroes of
their nomenclature. General Pringles, the popular local hero, was born
here. The square that bears his name is the handsomest in the city.
It is bordered by giant pepper trees whose fragrance perfumes the air.
Facing it is the huge unfinished brick basilica, the Matriz, the white
dome of which is a landmark for quite a distance, and is visible from
all parts of the city. By the side of the Matriz on the Calle Pringles
stands a small algorroba tree scarcely twenty feet high. It is enclosed
by an iron railing and is held in much reverence by the inhabitants
of San Luis, because to this tree, the Guerrero, General José de San
Martin, tied his horse in 1816 on his westward march to Chile, where he
overthrew the Spanish dominion at the battles of Chacabuco and Maipu.
There is an interesting old church in San Luis, that of Santo Domingo.
It is of Mission style of architecture, and in many respects is similar
to San Gabriel Mission near Pasadena, California. Taken as a whole, San
Luis differs much from most Argentine cities. Its buildings are of a
decided Spanish colonial type of architecture. The city has an antique
appearance and is nearly gravelike as to tranquillity.
[Illustration: Matriz Church, San Luis
The tree in the distance is an algorroba. To it San Martin tied his
horse in 1816 on his westward march across the Andes to Chile]
When I stepped out of the fine spick and span, five-year-old depot, I
was in a dilemma regarding which hotel to go to. My guide book, which
I never trust, and which I only look at when I desire to kill time,
favored the Español; the landlord of the Marconi at Villa Mercedes
recommended to O'Brien the Royal; the sleeping-car conductor on the
train praised the Comercio; the cab driver extolled the Mitre, so
thither I went. The German photographer, Streich, whom I met later in
the day, boosted the Pringles, whose landlady is German.
The Mitre, which is owned by Perez and Iglesias, is leased to two
brothers whose prenomens are Pedro and Juan; nobody seems to know their
patronymics, although many persons seemed to be on intimate terms with
them. I later found out that their surname is Negera. When the fat,
loquacious cab driver stopped in front of their one-story hotel, he
announced my arrival by bawling out "Pedro!" The person addressed came
slouching out of the barroom, unkempt and unshaven, and despite the
earliness of the morning fairly drunk. He reeked of alcohol. I thought
he was the porter until differently informed. Several times in the
course of the morning he came into my room out of curiosity, each time
making an excuse. In the early afternoon he sobered up, shaved, and
donned a tuxedo. Drunk or sober, Pedro was a worker. He waited on the
table, tended bar, made the beds, swept the rooms, and assisted in the
cooking, besides doing errands for the guests. I never saw a better
hotel man. The rooms opened onto the patios and were kept scrupulously
clean, excepting the privy, and even that was much cleaner than in most
rural South American towns. The chickens had taken refuge in it to keep
away from the lean cats, which eyed them voraciously. Several times
I had to drive a yellow cat out of my bedroom. The food would hardly
remind an epicure of the menu of Oscar of the Waldorf-Astoria, but as
there were many people eating it in the long rectangular dining room
with its twenty-five-feet-high ceiling, I imagine it was wholesome.
Despite the coldness of the weather (the temperature was no more than
60° Fahrenheit, a drop of 40° from the temperature of Buenos Aires
the day before) flies abounded in my bedroom and in the country were
myriads of locusts.
Speaking of the yellow cat that persisted in occupying my bedroom,
Argentine and Chilean animals have a penchant for human society. They
seem to take delight in crawling under the beds and other furniture,
and no matter how often they are driven out they persist in returning.
A peculiar incident of this nature befell an acquaintance of mine, Mr.
Osmond of Rosario. Mr. Osmond has lived many years in Argentina and
his business frequently takes him into the Campo, as the flat, endless
pampa is called. On one occasion he stopped at an inn no different from
the general run of inns found in all the small towns of Argentina. A
fat sow entered his room from the patio as he sat writing. He drove
her out. Several times during the afternoon he had to repeat the
performance as the sow was bound to occupy his room. As he lay asleep
that night he was awakened by a rumpus beneath his bed, and lighting
a candle to find out the cause of the nocturnal disturbance of his
slumbers, discovered that the sow had crawled under his bed and had
given birth to a litter of pigs.
[Illustration: Estancia near San Luis]
The country in the immediate neighborhood of San Luis is extremely
fertile, although sometimes it only rains once in a year. The Chorillos
River, which rises in the Sierra de San Luis, is dammed, and the water
is drawn off by conduits. The main dam is seven miles east of the
city and I drove out there to see it. The road passes by the barracks
and continues by fine fields of blue blossomed alfalfa in which fat
cattle and horses are grazing knee-high. There is a primitive park on
the left of the road in which is an artificial lake, on which swains
enjoy taking their innamoratas for rowboat rides. A crude attempt at
initiating a zoölogical garden is borne out by two pens, one of which
contains a three-footed hen, the other one being the prison of two
sabors, or Argentine lionesses from the Sierra de San Luis. A stranger
is surprised at the number of fine-looking saddle horses met on the
roads. Nearly everybody rides horseback, many with good grace and ease
of movements. The gentry use English saddles; the poorer classes use
those of Moorish type. The cab drivers as well as the horsemen gallop
their animals through the streets at a mad pace.
The air of San Luis is healthy and invigorating. I was surprised to
note the great number of old people to be seen in the city and its
environs. In this respect it is exactly the reverse of Buenos Aires.
The men and women are fine looking; the girls are beautiful with
their laughing black eyes, their faces brown from the sun and wind,
with a touch of rosiness to their cheeks; their figures are likewise
good. Argentinos and Spaniards alike call the native-born criollos
or criollas, according to sex, the word meaning Creoles. It is by no
means a word of contempt. There is quite a strain of Indian blood among
the inhabitants. Seeing some dark-skinned people by the roadside, I
asked my driver if they were Indians. He laughed as he answered: "Son
Criollos como yo. Son cristianos." ("They are natives like myself. They
are Christians.") The word Indio, meaning Indian, is one of contempt
and applies only to the members of the pagan and uncivilized tribes.
There is much natural wealth in the mountains of the province, gold,
silver, and sulphur, but nobody cares to take the initiative about
exploiting them. The unsettled country greatly resembles the unfertile
parts of California, it being a wilderness of mesquite, chaparral, wild
sage, and juniper. There is also much cactus, the varieties ranging
from the prickly pear to the Spanish bayonet. Everywhere that water
strikes the ground, wild flowers and vines spring up in rank confusion,
the wild cucumber being common. One of the native bushes has pods on
it like a bean, about the same size and shape, but rather oily. Of the
fruit trees, the apricot is cultivated; grape vines grow to a large
size, but their fruit is inferior to that of Mendoza.
Although the inhabitant of the central provinces of Argentina is
invariably of mixed blood, and is lacking in the culture of the
inhabitants of the cities, he is more of a gentleman than the majority
of those who belong to our select aristocracy. He is patient but by no
means humble. Expecting no money remuneration for extending a favor
or a courtesy to a stranger, he will willingly go out of his way to
do so, but spoken to gruffly, will have nothing more to do with him.
In San Luis I asked a cab driver where there was a good barber shop.
The one he pointed out was filled, so I went out in search of another
one. He saw me and driving down the street, overtook me, and offered
to drive me to another one. Arrived at my destination, he refused any
remuneration. The son of Pedro Nogera, the hotel proprietor, acted as
porter. Upon paying my bill, which was trivial when compared with the
services rendered, I offered the boy a small tip. He refused, saying
that I had paid for what I had received. Who is there in such stations
of life at home that would refuse a tip? Most would be angry if it was
not given, and if the sum was too small, would go off grumbling. One
of the peasants of San Luis that I consider a gentleman was my regular
cab driver. Born in San Luis, he had never been out of the province.
His name is Antonio L. Rójo. In appearance he is of large build,
somewhat coarse, and inclined to stoutness. For the sum of one and a
half pesos (61 c.) an hour, he agreed to drive me whenever and wherever
I wished to go. Although inclined to be loquacious, he showed none of
that grossness and vulgarity of character that our cab drivers are apt
to demonstrate. This man knew his position and was most attentive in
showing me the points of interest of the city and neighboring country.
He was also well read in politics but never knocked. Occasionally he
would stop and pick from the roadside fruit or flowers indigenous to
the country to show me what grew in the neighborhood of San Luis. Upon
leaving San Luis, I gave him a tip of five pesos ($2.14). This at first
he refused to accept and only took it finally by my literally forcing
it upon him. He was so delighted with the money that he took a railroad
trip to Balde, nine miles distant, to visit some relatives, and on the
way offered to spend some of it to treat me.
Shortly after leaving San Luis, westward on the railroad to Mendoza
there is seen to the south the large brackish Lake Bebedero; it keeps
in view a considerable distance. The short cut of the Buenos Aires
Pacific skirts its southern end. The second station west of San Luis
is Balde, a collection of straw and brushwood huts, the abodes of the
peasants. One well, which supplies the whole community, has been sunk,
water having been struck at a depth of 2119 feet. It is artesian.
Fifty-one miles west of San Luis, the Desaguadero River, muddy and
deep, lying in a chasm between high clay banks, is crossed. This river
forms the boundary line between the provinces of San Luis and Mendoza.
The country is a flat wilderness of mesquite which grows much larger
than in our southwestern States, probably on account of the superiority
of the soil, which here is a light clay. There is a considerable amount
of alkali, but not in so marked a degree as in the western plains of
North America. The mesquite, which grows to a great size, some of the
trees having veritable trunks, is chopped and is used as cord wood and
also as fuel on the freight and passenger trains.
La Paz, not to be confounded with the Bolivian metropolis, nor with
the Entrerieno town of the Paraná River, is reached shortly before
one o'clock in the afternoon on the daily passenger from San Luis to
Mendoza. It has two thousand inhabitants and is seventy-four miles west
of San Luis and eighty-eight miles east of Mendoza. It is important
for here begins the cultivated zone which extends as far as the Andes
and which is known as the Zona del Riego. The estancia limits and
the country roads are all bordered by Lombardy poplar trees, planted
closely together. Our North American farmer who plants his fence trees
a rod apart would be astonished to here behold them a yard apart.
Notwithstanding their proximity to one another, they here attain a
goodly height. Some pest seemed to have attacked many of these trees.
Many of the leaves were turning brown and the trees dying. It is
a curious fact that where this species of tree abounds, goiter is
prevalent among the inhabitants. In northern Italy, parts of Hungary
and Croatia, and in certain sections of the United States where there
are many Lombardy poplars, people are seen with this affliction.