SALTA AND TUCUMÁN
Mr. William Boyce, of the Chicago Saturday _Blade_, made a trip to
Tucumán and wrote a chapter about it in his book, _Illustrated South
America_. This book I read with pleasure and determined that I should
visit that city if ever an opportunity presented itself. One morning,
armed with credentials and letters of introduction to prominent
personages in the far provinces, I boarded the train for Tucumán. Two
railroads connect Buenos Aires with Tucumán, the Central of Córdoba
and the Central of Argentina. I traveled by a train that runs over the
rails of the latter.
Mariano Saavedra, 288 miles north of Buenos Aires is the town where the
River Plate scenery ends, and the vast, monotonous plains begin. Up to
here through the broad expanse of corn fields, whose limits are bounded
by the horizon; past funereal towns of unpointed red brick buildings,
the open doors and windows of which have the aspect of morgue entrances
and apertures; past mournful cemeteries of blackened crosses; and
past peasant houses embowered in groves of weeping willows, the dirty
tri-weekly express train sped us by in a cloud of stifling, blinding,
eye-smarting, ear-filling dust. At Mariano Saavedra we come to the
unbounded, limitless plain of coarse green grass on which myriads of
cattle graze. This, the province of Santa Fé, is the true plain of
Argentina. From history and from fiction we imagine the great plains
to be the central and the southern provinces, consisting of what is
geographically the western part of the province of Buenos Aires, the
Province of San Luis, and the territory of Pampa. This is not the
true fact. In all these geographical divisions are rolling hills, and
streams in deep-lying canyons. Here in Santa Fé, I doubt if there is a
single hill. A broad landscape, dry and dusty but by no means rainless,
and yet fruitful, meets the eye of the traveler. A dark cloud on the
horizon approaches, and when overhead breaks into a swarm of locusts,
which in many instances destroy in a single day the whole untiring
year's work of the farmers. They are not such a pest as they were in
former years, but yet a terrible scourge.
At 10:30 P.M. the town of Ceres is reached. This place, a railway
division point, is built at the corners of the provinces Santa Fé,
Córdoba, and Santiago del Estero, the last-named province being
that which the train now enters and which it takes all night to
cross. Do not imagine that this dusty, smoky town is named after the
Goddess of Agriculture. It is a synonym of all that is evil among
human inhabitants, namely overwhelming dust, locomotive smoke, and
locusts which dart through the empty windows of the coaches like hot
coals, and are pulled out of ones food, beer, hair, pockets, and even
underdrawers, of all sizes and shapes from three inches downwards,
never failing to expectorate a dark brown sputum, like tobacco juice
but purulent.
I sat in the dining car with a young dentist named Hallmann, of German
birth but who had an American diploma. He resides at Santiago del
Estero where he made twenty thousand dollars at his profession during
the last two years. There is only one other dentist in that city,
an American, but Hallmann says the latter has no trade because he is
drunken. He told me that in Santiago del Estero he was always obliged
to accept cash before he pulled a tooth on account of the swindling
tendency of the natives. Several months later, I accidentally met
Hallmann on the Avenida in Buenos Aires. He had made enough money in
Santiago del Estero and was on his way to Philadelphia, where he had
formerly practiced, to open up an office.
The Province of Santiago del Estero has an area of 39,764 square miles
and a population of 264,911. It is a plain varying from 450 to 550 feet
above sea level. Its climate is extremely hot. Most of the surface of
the soil is covered with a dense brush of mesquite and quebracho trees,
which are cut into cordwood and used as fuel on the locomotives. The
capital city is Santiago del Estero, frequently spoken of in Argentina
as Santiago. It is an antiquated city of seventeen thousand inhabitants
and is one of the oldest towns in the republic having been founded in
1553 by Francisco de Aguirre on the Dulce River. It is the seat of a
bishopric, which was created in 1908. The present incumbent is Dr. Juan
Martin de Yañiz y Paz. On account of its isolation, Santiago del Estero
has not prospered as it should have.
The inhabitants of the Province of Santiago del Estero are mostly
dependent for a livelihood on the sale of quebracho. This wood which
rarely attains a growth of thirty feet is of a deep red color and is
used as a dye wood. Its supply seems inexhaustible but its export is
now at a standstill on account of a slump in the market. It thrives
in dry climates for in this province where it frequently goes for
a stretch of seven months at a time without a rain, it attains its
perfection. The northern provinces of Argentina have it over its
southern neighbors in the fact that no matter how dry the country is,
if it lies within the proper altitudes it is forested.
I have heard the Province of Tucumán spoken of by Argentinos as having
a tropical climate. Such is not the truth, but it is, in climate,
the nearest approach to the tropics of any of the other Argentine
provinces, with the exception of the lowlands of Salta that lie
within the La Plata watershed. All nations are apt to exaggerate their
endowments of nature, therefore one should not too sharply criticize
the Argentinos when they speak of Tucumán as tropical. The Germans call
part of Saxony, "Sächische Schweiz," when it bears no more resemblance
to Switzerland than does a pot of ink to a bucket of milk. The
Uruguayans love to style their land "The Greenland of South America,"
and even the Paraguayans call their mountains the "Himalaya Mbaracayu."
The only similarity of Tucumán to the tropics is the excessive heat in
summer, and the prevalence of fevers, the most noteworthy being a form
of malaria, named _chuchu_ which is also in Santiago del Estero, Jujuy,
and Salta. A more fever-free country is hard to imagine from the lay
of the land, yet I am sorry to say that the Argentine Board of Health
statistics belie it. Malaria is one of the foremost death-causing
ailments in northwestern Argentina. I would, however, class these
provinces as being healthy, as there are no other epidemics excepting
an occasional sporadic outbreak of smallpox.
Entering Tucumán province from Santiago del Estero, the scenery
abruptly changes from the quebracho thicket to large open fields of
sugar cane. It was summer when I visited it and the cane was nowhere
near its growth. Compared with Cuba, the soil is poorer, the cane
sicklier, and the establishments smaller. It is a go-between Cuba and
the other islands of the West Indies.
From the city of Tucumán northward the scenery is beautiful. Seated
in the dining car of the narrow gauge Central Northern Railroad
with an overflowing glass of Rubia beer in front of me, and gazing
at the fleeting landscape, I was entranced by the works of God. An
endless forest of hardwood, with magnificent spreading tops, yet
too small to make saw timber, formed an excrescence on the reddish
clay thicker than bristles on Tamworth swine. The undergrowth is
thick like that of southern Chile, but here nature is like that of a
warmer clime. No towns and but few farmhouses are visible, yet this
is a populous country. The houses are hidden away in the forest, and
their owners make their living by stock raising, their herds roaming
at random in the woods. High green mountains grace the landscape,
their lower reaches wooded, while their tops uplifted above the tree
line are verdant with grasses. They are like the Paraguayan mountains
in contour, domed or serrated but never flat. The rainy season is
from December to April. Then the country looks its best. Under such
conditions I saw it. The seven months from May through November
constitute the dry season, and I was told that then the landscape has
a dreary appearance owing to its parched dryness. The cattle seem to
thrive even then. They are gaunt, rawboned creatures and even when fat,
a man can nearly hang his hat upon their haunches. They have great
endurance and are driven across the northern passes into Chile where
they sell for nineteen cents a pound live weight. Even with their great
shrinkage en route there is quite a profit to this. In the Province
of Salta where land cannot get irrigation, it is worthless except
for cattle raising owing to the seven months' drought, as water is
absolutely necessary for their crops.
To the stations, on the approach of the train, lean dogs and fat sows
come, and standing on the platform in front of the dining car, they
look longingly at the windows, and with barking and squealing let their
presence be known. These animals know exactly what time the trains
are scheduled to arrive and depart, where the dining car stops, and at
which end of the dining car the kitchen is. This sagacity comes from
intuition covering a long period. They are at every station and are
especially noticeable at the stop named Virgilio Tedin. The cook and
waiters never throw them anything, but instead occasionally douse them
with the contents of a bucket of dish water. The passengers are more
compassionate, and always throw a piece of biscuit or bone at these
animals who pounce upon the castings with squeals of delight. The
dogs are afraid of the sows, which although fat are of good fighting
material.
[Illustration: Güemes
A typical town of northern Argentina]
Güemes, a town of two thousand inhabitants is the junction for Salta
and for Jujuy. Although Salta is on a branch line and Jujuy is on
the main one, all through trains go to Salta for it is the largest
place. For Jujuy, you have to change. Jujuy, the capital of the
small province of the same name, is a miserable, squalid place of six
thousand inhabitants, in a hot but healthy valley. It used to have
twenty thousand people in the Colonial period, when it was the outpost
of Spanish civilization of the La Plata provinces; it then did a brisk
trade with Bolivia. The town has no future. Midway between Güemes and
Jujuy is the junction of Perico from which place a railroad extends
in a northeasterly direction to Oran, in the province of Salta. This
is also an old place with many houses in ruins. It has but twenty-five
hundred inhabitants and is a shell of its former opulence. It now has
a good future because a railroad is being built to connect it with
Formosa on the Paraguay River, and much timber and tropical products
will be brought in to be exported. Now Oran exports oranges and
bananas. Another old Colonial town of crumbling houses is Santiago del
Esteca near Metan, a station of the Central Northern Railroad south
of Güemes. Santiago del Esteca lies in the midst of a thick forest and
communication with the outside world is carried on over a rough wagon
road. The Central Northern Railroad ends at La Quiaca, the frontier
station at the Bolivian boundary line. From Jujuy northward it is
a gradual climb to Abrapampa, over thirteen thousand feet above sea
level and then a drop of about three thousand feet to the terminus.
The railroad is in some places rack and pinion but the trip for scenic
beauty affords but little interest to the tourist for it is over bleak
and barren mountains. The trip from Buenos Aires to La Paz, Bolivia,
can be made in one week, owing to the excellent stage-coach service of
a Bolivian company connecting La Quiaca with Uyuni on the Antofagasta
to Bolivia Railroad.
Live hogs in northern Argentina are shipped in the baggage cars of
passenger trains, although there seems to be plenty of empty swine
wagons. The animals are trussed up by a noose slipped over their
snouts, drawn tightly and slipped around their front feet which are
bound; the rope is then extended to their hind feet which are already
hobbled. I saw half a dozen of these creatures bound this way being
taken from the baggage car at Güemes and laid in the sun on the depot
platform, when the thermometer stood at 108° Fahrenheit in the shade.
On the spur to Salta the first stop is Campo Santo, meaning "holy
ground" or "cemetery." I am told that it is very appropriately named as
the fevers here are exceedingly common and are of great virulence.
He who has been to Argentina and has failed to see the Lerma Valley
is to be pitied. I have been told that the Cauca Valley in Colombia
is one of nature's rare masterpieces, and I would like to have it
compared with that of the Lerma by somebody who has seen both. Midway
between Güemes and Salta we reach the Lerma River, and the high wooded
hills narrow down to a defile, coming to the water's edge in some
places which necessitates the train in some places to pass through
tunnels. An occasional charcoal burner's hut is seen, but no other
habitations. Suddenly the defile ends, the river is crossed, and a
long valley several miles wide is entered, its whole floor in a high
state of cultivation and dotted with farmhouses. Near at hand are green
foothills, which afford pasture for stock. Behind are wooded mountains.
The whole panorama is beautified by the high Andes to the west and
north whose summits are capped with perpetual snow. The city of Salta
is approached; its many towers and Gothic spires, together with its
setting at the base of wooded mountains, brings to one's mind visions
of cities of Central Europe.
[Illustration: Cathedral and Bishop's Palace, Salta]
The Province of Salta has an area of 62,184 square miles and had
185,643 inhabitants according to the last census, that of 1914. It is
divided into twenty-one departments which are analogous to the counties
of our states. There is a great variation of soil and climate ranging
from barrenness and frigidity in the high Andes to exuberant vegetation
and torrid heats in the department of Oran. The principal industry
is the exportation of stock into Chile. A railroad to Chile seems to
be the want of the inhabitants. They say that if one were built to
Antofagasta, they would need no trade with the rest of Argentina for
then all their exports would be sent north by the Pacific boats, and
their imports from the United States would be brought in that way,
saving a great expense in freight. This is only too true. Argentina
is willing that such a railroad should be built, but the Chilean
Government has refused permission on the grounds that there would be
a great exodus of population from their barren northern provinces to
the fruitful country across the Andes, namely Salta and Jujuy. There
has always been more or less enmity between Argentina and Chile over
a national boundary dispute regarding the limits of the Province of
Salta, whose productive soil the first-mentioned country is jealous
of. The question once nearly precipitated a war and the statue of the
Cristo Redentor is a monument of the pact of peace.
Whenever nature bestows opulence on a country, it invariably endows it
with setbacks. This it did in Salta by giving it fevers and venomous
snakes. The chuchu fever is the commonest disease and although not
so prevalent as in the Province of Tucumán, it is here in a more
malignant form. It is conveyed by the bite of the mosquito and much
resembles ague, excepting that the body is racked by pains, each day in
a different place. It is supposed never to leave the system, quinine
availing but little. It weakens the heart and in this way death is
caused, but only after several or more years. Some people never have
it, and, by the healthy looks of the inhabitants and by the number of
aged people to be seen in Salta, I do not believe its effects are as
dangerous as is claimed. Among the snake family there are some venomous
species, notably the viper and the cascabel. The bite of the latter is
synonymous with sure death.
The city of Salta, whose population is estimated at twenty-eight
thousand exclusive of a garrison of two thousand soldiers, is one of
the best built cities and, for its size, one of the liveliest towns
in Argentina. Its streets are paved with creosote blocks as in Paris;
it has an electric car system and all the progressive improvements.
Its buildings are modern two-story structures, and old houses of the
Colonial period with ornate carved wood entrances. On February 20,
1813, General Arenales defeated the Spaniards on a plain north of the
town, and a few years ago at a Centennial to celebrate the event, a
handsome monument of stone with bronze martial bas-reliefs, surmounted
by a female statue of Liberty holding aloft a cross, was unveiled on
the battle ground and is regarded by the Saltenos as the pride of their
town. The principal plaza of the city is named in honor of the hero,
Arenales, and a monument is soon to be placed on the brick base in the
center of this square which formerly was graced by a squat obelisk. The
principal club of the city is likewise named after the victory, its
nomenclature being the 20th of February Club. This edifice faces the
plaza and is by far the most modern building in Salta; it is the only
building in the city that is three stories high. Many cities of half a
million inhabitants cannot boast of so fine a club regarding interior
furnishings. The wood carving, which is of Salta oak and cedar is of
native workmanship; the Saltenos are famous in that art and I doubt
if anywhere woodcarving by hand is done better. The parquet flooring
of the club ballroom makes the visitor gasp with amazement when he
is told that the work and the wood are all local. On the furniture of
this club, which is even equipped with a gymnasium, no expense has been
spared. The ballroom chairs of Marie Antoinette style are upholstered
with silk, and the massive candelabra are of the choicest Venetian
glass. The toilet room, I am pleased to relate, is one of the very few
that I visited in Argentina that is kept clean.
The buildings around the Plaza Arenales are all arcaded, but the only
one of architectural interest is the old Cabildo, or city hall, of
Spanish times. It is a low, squat, long structure of massive walls
and with rounded arches forming the arcades. A low, pointed tower
rises above the center. The lower floor of this building is now given
up entirely to stores while the upper ones are leased for dwelling
purposes.
[Illustration: Tomb in Cemetery, Salta]
The Hotel Plaza of Ramon Terres is a two-story building at the
northeast corner of the square and, although it is by no means a St.
Regis, it is good enough for Salta. Unfortunately most of the bedrooms
face a glass-roofed courtyard, which besides making them dark, does
not allow the entry of much fresh air. The pillows are so hard that
the guests are apt to wonder if they are stuffed with brickbats. One of
the curious figures that haunted the hotel café was a very old, tall,
and thin gentleman of a decidedly noble and dignified appearance. His
hair which was abundant, and his well-trimmed beard were silvery white.
His clean features, neat black clothes, and derby hat would deceive a
person into believing that this old man was a retired Scots professor
or German scientist. There was something uncanny about his appearance,
for I had never before seen so well-groomed and active a man of an age
that I imagined him to be; it was as if he had long ago passed the age
limit in which old men die, and yet decided that he would remain on
earth a good spell yet. He was always one of the last persons to leave
the cafés nights, and the first to enter them mornings; he made the
rounds with regularity, and always had a drink before him. I asked the
Spanish bartender who he was:
"He was once a very rich man who made his money by cattle dealing
in Chile. He spent most of it and now is on an allowance from his
relations. He has been in Chile over one hundred times trading stock,
and is thinking of going again soon. He is an expert horseman. He is
over one hundred years old, and," said the waiter in a confidential
undertone, "he is a devil with the women. He chases after all
the servant girls and has lewd designs on the chambermaid." This
chambermaid, by the way, was terribly good-looking, with dark brown
eyes, and rosy red cheeks. I admired the old man's choice.
Salta has some remarkable religious edifices. It is the see of a
bishop, who has a palace adjoining the cathedral. The diocese was
created in 1806 and comprises the provinces of Salta and Jujuy. The
present bishop, José Gregorio Romero, has been the incumbent only
since 1915. The inhabitants have the reputation of being very devout,
although I observed that all the Catholics with whom I was brought into
contact with in Salta, ate meat on Friday. This also applies to the
clergy. In the rich, cool, and lofty cathedral, there is a shrine with
an image of the crucified Savior, which has a most peculiar history.
Years ago there was found on a lonely beach in Chile, two boxes, which
had evidently been washed ashore from an unknown shipwreck. One was
labeled with the address of a person in Córdoba, and the other was
addressed to a Señor del Milagro in Salta. On being opened, the box
destined for Córdoba was found to contain an image of the Virgin, while
that for Salta contained the Christ. His halo is of wrought gold, and
the cross on which He is nailed is of iron. As there was no such person
in Salta as "del Milagro," the church appropriated the image which is
known as the Cristo del Milagro, and is shown by the sexton.
Two of the oldest churches are those of Merced and of San Bernardo.
The church of the Candelaria has the finest façade with a detached
campanile, but the most interesting of all is the church and monastery
of San Francisco. The cloister has massive walls, seven feet thick.
It houses fourteen brown-robed monks of the Franciscan order. Most of
them were an unwashed, unkempt lot; the quantity of empty wine and beer
bottles in the kitchen yard bore testimony to many libations on their
part. The whole monastery is a maze of halls, porches, passageways,
staircases, cupolas, belfries, cells, courtyards, and gardens. This
confusion arose because a new part was added each time the growth of
the monastery warranted it. Into the large garden is turned nightly
a large bloodhound, kept ugly by being constantly fed on raw meat.
This is to prevent the townspeople from scaling the walls to steal the
luscious fruit and grapes which the monks cultivate. In the daytime
the dog is kept chained up, but only two or three of the inmates are
on friendly enough terms with this modern Cerberus to approach it.
The tall campanile of San Francisco is the highest church tower in
Argentina.
[Illustration: Calle Mitre, Salta
This is the main street of the city]
I had a letter of introduction from Dr. Manuel de Iriondo, president
of the Bank of the Argentine Nation and one of the most prominent men
in the republic, to the manager of the Salta branch, Señor Francisco
Pereyra. I have never met a finer gentleman that Señor Pereyra. Not
only did he wine and dine me at his own residence, but he went at
great length to entertain me, introduce me to his friends, to the
mayor of the city, to the governor of the province, took me out for
automobile rides, and when I left Salta loaded me with literature, both
statistical and historical of the province and city. Señor Pereyra made
me a present of a hardwood cane, the tree from which it is made being
indigenous to the Province of Salta, and named San Antonio. Mariano
Posse is the name of Pereyra's eighteen-year-old brother-in-law who is
going to Buenos Aires in a year to study medicine. I tried to persuade
the young man to come to the United States to take a course in one
of our universities, which I think will eventually materialize. At
the time of this writing, Señor Pereyra has left Salta and is manager
of the Bank of the Argentine Nation at Catamarca, the capital of the
Andean province of the same name. He had recently, shortly before
leaving Salta, the misfortune to lose by death, his wife, an estimable
lady. I met Dr. Waldino Riarte, a friend of Señor Pereyra's. Both men
were originally from Tucumán. Dr. Riarte is one of the wealthiest and
highest standing men in the province, to which position he rose through
his own efforts. One of the Salteno's with whom I became acquainted
was Dr. Sola, a graduate of the Ohio State University, class of 1904.
He has not been in the United States since he graduated. He was sent
there to study, by the Argentine Government, and liked it so well that
he wants to go back to the United States. He was anxious to hear the
results of the collegiate football games for the past few years, as he
played on the 'varsity while attending Ohio State.
"Chopp" (pronounced _schop_) is a coined word supposed to be the
Spanish translation of the German word _schoppen_. Its nearest English
equivalent is our coined word "schuper." Under the arcades of the
old Cabildo, a German has established a saloon which he has named "El
Bueno Chopp," meaning "The Good Schuper." A native seeing the volume of
business which came to the thrifty German, thinking that it all came
from the name he gave his place, hung out a sign styling his liquid
refreshment emporium, "El Mejor Chopp," which means "The Best Schuper."
It happens that in this latter resort, it is impossible to get draught
beer in schupers, as the proprietor deals only in bottled goods. He
does a poor business compared to that of the German.
In the Bueno Chopp saloon where I would occasionally go for a libation,
I met a Dantziger named Holzmann. He inquired of me the names of
the North American magazines most widely read by the higher classes
of women, whereupon I told him the _Ladies' Home Journal_, Harper's
_Bazaar_, and others, giving him their addresses. He later confided
to me that the reason for his asking was that he wished through their
columns to make an announcement that he intended to get married and
he wanted a North American woman for his wife. He said he had taken a
passion for women of that nationality, and would accept no others. This
passion, I found, had developed from his having become enamored of the
photograph of one of our well-known society queens that is frequently
flaunted before our eyes in the newspaper columns of the Sunday
supplements. Holzmann told me that when he resided in East Africa, he
occasionally gave his former wife, when she was unruly, a beating with
a hippopotamus hide whip; so I see what sort of fate is in store for
his American bride.
Salta years ago had a brewery owned by a man named Glueck. Through
mismanagement it failed. The city has 120 automobiles which speaks well
for a town of its size and isolation in South America. The wine grown
there is supposed to be the best in Argentina, although there has been
little done towards putting it on the market.
While I was a guest of the Pereyras' I witnessed a novel sight. After
dinner a bat was turned loose in the dining room. This phyllostome
Señor Pereyra kept in a large cage and occasionally turned it loose to
eat the mosquitoes which are a curse to Salta.
Midway between Salta and Tucumán is the station of Rosario de la
Frontera near which are some famous mineral baths. It is quite a winter
resort and its waters are bottled and sold all over the republic. Palau
is the name of the most widely distributed brand. These waters are
naturally carbonated, but are not as strong as Apollinaris or White
Rock. One of the finest waters in Argentina is that of Ghino from
Tucumán province. It is somewhat like Vichy in taste but is slightly
medicated. Its sale, however, is unfortunately local.
The Province of Tucumán derives its name from a legendary Indian
cacique named Tucuma, who is supposed to have lived in the plain of
the Rio Monteros which flows through the province and which joins
the Rio Salí near the city of Tucumán. It is the smallest province of
Argentina, having an area of only 8926 square miles. Three-quarters
of its surface is level, the remaining quarter which is the western
part being hilly and mountainous. Tucumán is the most densely settled
portion of Argentina, its population being, according to the census of
1914, 373,073. On account of this density of population the Tucumános
like to call their province "The Europe of Argentina." In most of the
republic the railroads preceded the settlers; here and also in Salta
this is the reverse, for the settlers in these provinces came first. In
1560 the Viceroy of Peru, to whose dominions this part of the country
had belonged, declared Tucumán an independent state. It then comprised
what are now the geographical divisions of Santiago del Estero,
Tucumán, Catamarca, Salta, Jujuy, and Córdoba. In 1782 Salta, Jujuy,
and Córdoba were separated from it. In 1821 Catamarca and Santiago del
Estero followed suit.
The capital city, also named Tucumán, was founded September 29, 1565,
by Diego de Villarroel at the confluence of the Salí and Monteros
rivers. In 1585 it was moved to the site that it now occupies. It
is situated near the middle of the province, at an elevation of 1453
feet above sea level. The city itself has a population of about one
hundred thousand inhabitants, but it is a distributing point for a
much greater population for at no great distance from it are numerous
towns, large sugar factories with their colonies of workmen. In shape
the city is nearly square. It is eighteen blocks long from north to
south and fourteen blocks wide from east to west. The streets are wide,
and the newer ones, especially the boulevards which bound the limits,
are lined with trees, sycamores being in the majority. Four blocks
west of the eastern city limits is the Plaza Independencia, the center
of mercantile, religious, and diverting activity. On it stands the
cathedral, another church, the capitol, at least ten large cafés, and
a couple of moving picture shows, while in the neighborhood on a street
named Las Heras are the best shops.
Las Heras, an east and west intersector, is the main business street,
although the one which parallels it one block to the south, and
which is named Calle 24 de Setiembre, is the street which divides its
intersectors into different nomenclatures in the manner of the Calle
Rivadavia in Buenos Aires. South of Calle 24 de Setiembre, the streets
that cross it have different names than the elongations of them that
run north of it. On Calle Las Heras are the important banks. The next
business streets in order according to their commercial worth are
Mendoza, which parallels Las Heras one block north of it, Laprida, and
Maipu, the two last named being cross streets. Calle Maipu is devoted
to second class-shops; the third-class shops and the slums, which are
vile, although not so vile as the slums of Córdoba, are at the extreme
western end of Las Heras near the Central of Córdoba Railroad station.
The religious edifices, although their external appearances are
imposing and have double towers and domes of light blue porcelain tile,
are not worth visiting unless to pray in, as their interiors offer no
more artistic attractions than thousands of their kind elsewhere.
The capitol is by far the finest building in the city. It is
three stories high on the outside, and four on the inside (for the
courtyards are sunk one story below the street level), and occupies a
considerable area. It is by no means the finest capitol building that
I have visited, but as it is the newest, having been just completed,
it is probably the best equipped. Though it is built in the business
section of the city where it cannot show off to its best advantage, it
however, makes the capitol at Lansing, Michigan, look like 30 cents. In
Argentine, as it is almost impossible to get marble, all the provincial
capitols are built of brick, solidly, so as to stand forever. The
Argentine brick is not pleasing to the eyes, as it is rough. To
embellish the buildings of this material they are given a coating of
drab stucco cement.
[Illustration: Capitol, Tucumán]
I visited the Governor, Dr. Ernesto Padilla, a tall, handsome, affable
man about forty years old. He is quite an archeologist, and in a
room adjoining his private office in the capitol he has installed
his private collection of Indian antiquities of the province. It is
a most remarkable collection of pottery, ornaments, etc. Near Tafí
a large stone has been recently discovered with Indian scrolls,
hieroglyphics, and drawings. A North American photographer residing in
Tucumán went out to see this stone. With chalk, he outlined the rather
indistinct drawings and then took a photograph of it. This photograph
is reproduced on pages 635 and 637 of my previous work, _Illustrated,
Descriptive Argentina_.
Dr. Padilla introduced me to General O'Donnell, the military commander
of the province. A curious fact is that this general cannot speak the
English language, having been born in Argentina. I held a letter of
introduction to Señor S. A. Wyss, manager of the Hilaret y Cia sugar
mill at Santa Ana, the largest in South America, and also one to Mr.
Stewart Shipton, manager of the Corona mill at Concepción. Both mills
are several hours' distant from Tucumán, and in trying to catch the
train for Concepción, I went to the wrong depot. Dr. Padilla afterwards
told me that it would have been useless for me to have gone to either
of those places, because there were sugar mills much nearer to the
city. He wrote me a letter of introduction to Señor Alfredo Guzman,
the richest man in the province, who has a mill at a town also named
Concepción, which is only a twenty minutes' drive from the capital. He
likewise wrote me a letter to Dr. Juan C. Nougués, who has a mill at
San Pablo, which I visited. There are two kinds of sugar districts in
the Province of Tucumán, one on the plains like that of Señor Guzman's
estate, and one in the hills like the one at San Pablo.
Tucumán is a hot place, both climatically and morally. In the latter
line are the Crystal Palace and the Moulin Rouge, while in the former
line, the thermometer often rises above the comfortable point. The
night I arrived it registered 106° Fahrenheit in the shade. It was so
hot that I thought I would cool off by walking down the Calle Laprida.
The one-story houses are so constructed that in front of each window
an iron balcony extends to the sidewalk; the railings of these are
of wrought iron, or marble. Here sit the belles on hot summer nights
airing themselves. They certainly need to, for as I strolled down
the street the stench that was wafted from them to me was nearly
asphyxiating. It is the odor that is present in the summer when the
human body is unfriendly to soap, water, and the scrub brush. Some of
these beauties sat behind shutters in the darkness, but I was aware of
their presence, although I could not see them.
[Illustration: Calle Laprida, Tucumán
Behind the iron balconies, such as has the house on the left, the women
of Tucumán are seated on hot summer evenings airing themselves]
In 1914, there was founded in Tucumán a university, at the head of
which is Dr. Juan B. Teran. So far, the university is incomplete,
for of the five departments of instruction which it will have when
completed, only two are at present running. These are the pedagogical
department, and that of mechanics, agriculture, and chemistry. The
latter has an agricultural experimental station near the city, at
present in charge of a North American, Dr. William E. Cross. Its
chemical and bacteriological laboratory is the best in the republic.
The University of Tucumán to-day is more like a polytechnical institute
and agricultural combined than that which we generally think of by the
word "university."
As to hotels, Tucumán has one of the best in South America, the Savoy.
It, together with two separate buildings, one a roulette casino, and
the other a large theater, is the property of the Da Rossa Company,
a Portuguese syndicate. The Savoy is leased to a Frenchman, R.
Eluchand, and is managed by Señor Scheindl formerly of Vienna. It is
Mr. Scheindl's sister whose portrait appears on the Austrian twenty
crown note; she was supposed to be the most beautiful girl in Austria.
The Savoy is a large affair of 116 rooms, most of which have a bath
in connection. It is on the Boulevard Sarmiento in an excellent but
not central location. It is finely equipped, and is like a palace with
its large courtyard enclosed by pillared balconies. The hotel has been
a "white elephant" because it is too fine for the city. Mr. Scheindl
tells me that in the hotel line, the Tucumános always want something
for nothing, and when the inhabitants give their big balls at the
Savoy, he either runs behind or else only breaks even; otherwise, if
he insisted that they pay what he thought would be just, they would
boycott him in the future. The other hotels which are in the central
part of the city are the Europe, the Paris, and the Frascati, the
first mentioned being the best. The Frascati is owned by the Palladini
brothers, one of them, Attilio, having been former manager of the
Savoy. When I knew Attilio Palladini several years ago, he was the
courier of the Parque Hotel in Montevideo, and quit it to be head
portier of the Hotel Savoy in Buenos Aires.
In Tucumán itself, there is nothing of interest for the sightseer.
It is only a large commercial town in a fine agricultural district
dependent on the sugar industry. Contrary to the fabrications the
stranger will hear elsewhere in Argentina knocking it, saying that it
is a fever hotbed, it is a sanitary place for the person that has the
price to indulge in mineral waters as beverages, for its own water is
not potable, owing to the sediment and dust that it contains. Talking
with business men about investment of capital in Tucumán, there does
not seem to be much encouragement in the manufacturing line. A flour
mill would undoubtedly pay, and there is a splendid opportunity to
start a steam laundry, as there is a constant complaint about the
present one. It does its work poorly and charges exorbitant prices. It
is said that a small ice plant in one of the neighboring towns, which
would supply the wants of the inhabitants of the thickly inhabited
districts, would also pay. A brewery has started in Tucumán, named
the Cerveceria del Norte (Northern Brewery). It is controlled by
the Quilmes people and has a large enough capacity to supply entire
Argentina if necessary. Its brands of beer from light to dark are
Rubia, Tucma, and Oran. Rubia is very palatable.
I became acquainted with a photographer in Tucumán, Mr. Henry A. Kirwin
of New York. He came down here as a photographer eight years ago, and
wants to get back home. He says it is much easier for a man to get down
there than to get back. He seems to have a fair business, photographing
machinery at the different mills and at the railroad yards at Tafí
Viejo. Many of his photographs of family groups have yellow chemicals
smeared over the faces of the clients on the plates. I asked him why
this was.
"You see," said he, "most of the natives have Indian blood. It is
supposed to be much nicer if this origin would be unknown, therefore
I have to put this chemical on the plates so their faces will have a
decidedly European cast in the photograph."
It is customary for the relatives of dead persons to have photographs
taken of their once beloved. Mr. Kirwin had a choice collection of
these local corpses which he insisted on showing me; there were over
sixty. Among them were some "tasty" specimens, some being victims of
the bubonic plague in 1913. Some were unrecognizable, charred masses
of flesh that had been human before the subjects perished in a fire,
while others were the gruesome countenances of cadavers whose faces
were partially eaten away by cancer.
While in Mendoza, I thought the canine population was excessive. It is
small compared with that of Tucumán. In this city every criolla has
two or more Mexican hairless dogs, and the number of hybrids between
bulldog, Great Dane, whiffet, and old hound is appalling. Three hundred
thousand dogs is, I think, a low estimate of the canine inhabitants
of the city. None are muzzled; but few are fed; and all run after
bicycles, automobiles, and wagons. They make night hideous by howling,
and fighting about the possession of putrid bones, mule dung, and
garbage.
From Tucumán there is a trip that the visitor should not fail to
miss. This is the twenty-mile automobile ride to the settlement and
summer resort of Villa Nougués, 4225 feet above the plain on which
the city is built. Nougués is situated not far from the summit of the
wooded mountains southwest of Tucumán. The road leads due west, and
then swerves to the south past populous farming country and through
the village of Yerba Buena to the sugar mill and colony of San Pablo,
where Dr. Nougués has his palatial mansion, and private church. His
beautiful estate lies on gently sloping ground two miles east of the
wooded mountains. All provisions for the summer colony and hotel at
Villa Nougués must be taken up by wagon or by automobile from Tucumán.
Most of the heavy trucking is done by means of ox carts. Early in the
morning we met at San Pablo several of these oxcarts plodding slowly
up the country road, and at night on our return to the city we met
these same teams only halfway up the mountain, so hard is the pull on
the beasts. When the road reaches the mountains it makes a serpentine,
and then zigzags upward through the semi-tropical forest abounding
with orange and crimson cannas. Every so often through the umbrageous
trees and giant ferns, a panorama is to be had of the plain of Tucumán
with its rectangular fields of sugar cane and small towns with their
_usines_.
[Illustration: Residence of Dr. Juan C. Nougués, San Pablo
The gentleman in the foreground is Señor Scheindl, manager of the Hotel
Savoy in Tucumán]
[Illustration: Country House at Villa Nougués]
Arrived at the settlement of Villa Nougués is the hotel where parties
from the city come up on hot days to enjoy the cool invigorating air.
Seated on the porch of Dr. Teran's house, which is near the hotel, in
company of Dr. Teran, Governor Padilla, Señor Scheindl, and a rich
sugar planter named Rouges, we looked across the broad long plain,
styled the "Europe of Argentina," and I learned many interesting facts.
The valley of the Rio Salí which crosses the province from north to
south, is fed by twenty-five rivers which flow into it from the west
to the east. The Salí flows southward and is finally lost in a large
brackish lake, the Mar Chiquita in the Province of Córdoba. The great
industrial and agricultural plain, with its sugar mills among which are
the usines of San José, San Antonio, San Pablo, Paraiso, and countless
others and its railroad workshops at Tafí Viejo, has a cultivated area
of two hundred and fifty thousand acres. It was originally thickly
forested as can be testified by occasional uncleared patches. Here
civilization preceded the railroad, and only in the poorer part of
the province in the direction of Santiago del Estero did the railroad
come first. This valley is the cradle of Argentine liberty, for here
the Spaniards having gone through the country like a steam mower, were
finally decisively beaten in battle, and July 9, 1816, at Tucumán, the
Argentine Confederation was born.
Three kilometers west of Villa Nougués is the summit of the foothills.
Looking west from this summit, the vista of the San Javier Valley, with
its forested mountains, and with its wooded detached hills rising from
the midst of cultivated river bottoms, Alpine pastures, and numerous
streams, is like that of the Inn in Tirol, although it is here even
more beautiful. The Catamarca mountains, snow-capped domed Aconquija,
and the bleak Andes form the western background, behind which the sun
sinks in the aureate splendor of a fireball. This is one of the finest
views in the world and should be seen in the late afternoon.