NORTHWARD TO ANTOFAGASTA BY RAIL. COPIAPÓ, ANTOFAGASTA, AND IQUIQUE
I remained a couple of months in Santiago after returning from Chillán
which I put in profitably by making excursions and foot tours to the
nearby mountain canyons, visiting the small towns in the neighborhood
and studying the business possibilities of the future as applied to the
Chilean capital.
One night as I sat having my shoes shined in a bootblack stand
underneath the Portal Fernans on the south side of the Plaza de Armas,
I noticed passing by an Englishman named Greenberg, an old acquaintance
whom I last saw in Arequipa, Peru, in 1913. Greenberg was a salesman
for the Browning Arms Company, originally hailing from Liverpool but
had been quite a few years on the West Coast. In Arequipa we were
introduced to a wealthy family named Larramendi and were frequent
guests at their house. They had three charming daughters. One night
while Greenberg and I were calling on the Larramendi girls, I overheard
him proposing marriage to the oldest one, Felipa. I was considerably
annoyed at this because Greenberg had already a wife and children in
the old country. I upbraided him for his actions but was surprised when
he answered me that he was sincere in his proposal and that since he
and his wife did not get along very well together, he intended marrying
Felipa and settling down in Arequipa. I knew that sooner or later he
would be found out and as I did not care to be a witness of such an
act towards a family that had shown me so much consideration, I quietly
left Arequipa saying nothing to Greenberg about my departure.
[Illustration: Church in San Felipe]
Now after an elapse of three years without having heard anything about
the outcome, curiosity got the best of me so I hailed Greenberg. I
invited him to a quiet café and heard his story.
[Illustration: City Hall, San Felipe]
Greenberg married Felipa and shortly after the marriage, old Larramendi
sent him with his bride to live on an upland estancia about fifty
miles east of Arequipa in the high Andes, which estancia Greenberg
became the manager of. He had lived there for two years rarely coming
to Arequipa and had become the father of a child by this new union. He
made considerable money for his father-in-law, who in turn gave him no
salary nor wages, and this latter fact coupled with the life of ennui
that he was leading caused him to have a talk with the old man about
his future. He demanded a salary but this Larramendi refused to give
him saying that he himself was an old man and would not live for more
than fifteen years more, and that when he died Greenberg would inherit
the bulk of his fortune on account of his business ability, so what
more could he ask for?
Greenberg than told Larramendi that if a change did not immediately
forthcome, he would quit the managership of the estancia and would
leave there with his wife to resume his old calling of salesman which
paid him well.
"If you do," said Larramendi, "I shall have you arrested for bigamy."
"What is that you said?" yelled Greenberg, scarcely believing his own
ears.
Larramendi then went on and told him that he had carefully looked
him up before inviting him to his house and had found out that he
was married and had a wife and children in Liverpool whose address he
had. He said that he did not care a rap for that part of the business
for he wanted to see his daughters married to Anglo-Saxon stock. "It
will improve the race," he said, "especially that of my own immediate
family." He told Greenberg that for this reason and also for the fact
that he knew him to be a good business man he had urged the marriage
and was willing to keep his mouth shut provided Greenberg would keep
on living as he had the past two years, but that if he attempted to
run away he would have him arrested for bigamy. Greenberg returned
home to the bleak mountain estancia and confessed the whole thing to
Felipa. She stood by him and both thought out a scheme to get away. A
year afterwards their plan matured when Larramendi was on a business
trip to Lima. They went to Bolivia and thence to Chile where Greenberg
obtained a position as manager of a mercantile house in Valparaiso.
Fortunately for him, his first wife not having heard from him in over
three years had divorced him on grounds of desertion and had married
another man. Greenberg communicated this news by letter to Larramendi
who was now inducing him by offers of a most lucrative salary to return
to Arequipa. This Greenberg had so far refused to consider because he
did not know what new trick Larramendi had in store for him.
"You were lucky, Stephens," he said, "to have left Arequipa when you
did. Larramendi was planning to catch you for his youngest daughter,
and likewise had you looked up. He thought you would have made a good
match for her and has many times deplored that you went away. He was
very fond of you and I honestly believe Anastasia loved you and still
hopes you will return. However if you married her, you would be in the
same mess that I was in. Larramendi is not so old as he likes to make
out and I doubt if he will cash in his checks for twenty-five years
yet. That is a long time waiting for dead men's shoes. I am satisfied
where I am and when I reached Chile I knew that I was safe for even if
my first wife hadn't obtained a divorce the Peruvian extradition laws
are a joke and the Chilean government would never have given me up to
be sent back to Peru to stand trial for bigamy there."
[Illustration: Street in San Felipe]
The time was approaching when I had to return to the United States;
Prat was just as anxious to return to Barcelona, and Gumprecht
was getting restless in Santiago and wanted to see more of Chile,
especially the northern part. We accordingly made arrangements to go
north by rail taking our time to the trip stopping off at different
places. Prat and I had a great impedimenta of baggage constituting
curiosities that we had collected on our travels besides live parrots,
toads, turtles, etc. indigenous to South America not to mention a
couple of trunks full of bulbs and seeds which I intended to experiment
with by planting at home. We also had baskets, pottery, and Indian
blankets. We did not care to be encumbered with them and as we met a
roustabout in Santiago who was recommended to us for his honesty, and
who was anxious to get to Lima to accept a position that was offered
him there, but could not make the grade through lack of funds, we
told him we would pay his passage to that port if he would take our
baggage with him. This proposition he jumped at so we made arrangements
for him to sail on a boat that was to leave Valparaiso the following
month. That would make him reach Lima about the same time Prat and I
would arrive. This roustabout's name was Angel Larrain. He was a tough
looking customer about thirty-eight years old, was broad shouldered,
and wore a full beard which he seldom kept trimmed. His facial
appearance was adorned by an ugly scar on his right temple which he
received in a saloon brawl some years previously in one of Valparaiso's
waterfront dives.
Not far out of our route northward are the Springs of Jahuel which are
so well known that we determined to take them in. To reach them it is
first necessary to take the train to San Felipe, three hours distant
from either Santiago or Valparaiso, and then drive twelve and a half
miles.
[Illustration: Street in Almendraz]
San Felipe, with a population of 14,426 inhabitants, is the capital and
largest city of the Province of Aconcagua which lies directly north of
the Province of Santiago. This large province is Andine in character
although it extends to the ocean and in its confines are the highest
mountains in Chile. It is semi-arid although in its narrow valleys the
largest vineyards in the republic are located. It is famous for its
wines and its chicha. This last is a sort of grape cider, muddy brown
in color, sweet and heavy and is apt to give the partaker indigestion.
It should not be confused with the chicha of Peru. Peruvian chicha is
an alcoholic beverage made from cereals and is akin to moonshine or
corn whiskey.
San Felipe is a dull, old-fashioned town with a good hotel, the Europa.
A couple of hours is sufficient to see all the attractions of the city
unless the visitor is religiously bent for the city boasts of several
large churches. The original city was square, its sides being about
three-quarters of a mile long and was bounded by an alameda with a
double drive on each side of a pedestrian promenade in the center. The
trees between the roads and the walk are giant elms and maples. The
city has outgrown its original boundary and extends some distance on
the outward sides of the alameda; this growth has not been recent as
can be testified by the crumbling appearance of the houses which are
of adobe and have a height of but a single story. The appearance of the
place is that of stagnation; a small brewery is the only manufacturing
interest but like that of Julius Jenson in Chillán, its product does
not meet the wants of the local trade.
The plaza is lovely and cool which is a great contrast to the alameda
where the dust is insupportable. In it are statues of mythological
goddesses which are of Carrara marble. In its center is a fountain
surrounded by a large round pool while in the plots of earth grows a
profusion of calla lilies. There are also some fine palms and a great
trumpet vine. Situated on the plaza is a big church. It is adobe and
has a frame top and steeple. It is painted pink, and on its façade
cracks caused by an earthquake are in evidence. The interior is poor
and on its walls hang cheap paintings. When any prominent citizen dies
a marble slab is mounted in the church for his memory. At the eastern
end of the city is a papier maché imitation Grotto of Lourdes, the alms
box at its gates being the most visible of its sights.
The drive to Jahuel is devoid of interest. For a couple of miles the
road runs eastward along a turnpike bordered by mud walls so high
that it is impossible to see over them. The dust is terrible. Soon
the village of Almendraz is reached with its narrow streets, ancient
yellow church with a clock tower surmounted by a dome, and a Calvary
on a high rock at the end of the main street. The turnpike has swung
to the north and continues in this direction all the way to Jahuel. A
large village named Santa Marta is traversed and the dry bed of a river
is followed. Although there are plenty of small farms and the land is
thickly settled, it is nevertheless a much poorer country than in the
Central Valley. The mountains are devoid of all vegetation excepting
a few sage bushes here and there. In the valley cactuses are abundant,
but everything has a dry, parched look.
Jahuel, which is the name given to the hotel, bathing establishment,
and water is the property of Delano and Weinstein of Valparaiso.
The place is sadly overrated. The hotel building is good and modern
although the food at the meals is scarcely enough for a mouse; the
rooms are small and plain, but clean. I remarked about the scantiness
of the meals to the manager. "We can't have such luxuries as chicken
every meal," he replied. "Nobody said anything about chicken," I
retaliated; "anyhow who considers that a luxury in Chile when it is
the commonest of meat? What I was kicking about is why you don't serve
a square meal." A splendid vista of the Aconcagua Valley at one's feet
can be had from the terrace and the verandas.
The altitude of Jahuel is 3835 feet above sea level, but strange to say
the nights are not cool. The water comes from the near by Los Pajaritos
Springs and its bottled carbonated adulteration is shipped all over
Chile. There is a swimming tank and a sun bath at the establishment. A
South American sun bath is a boarded-in yard with some wooden benches
on which people recline in the Garden of Eden garb. A partition divides
the sun bath into spaces for both sexes, the men being on one side of
the wall and the women on the other. Some young Actæons had placed a
ladder against the partition on the men's side at Jahuel in order to
gaze upon the contours of female figures on the women's side.
[Illustration: Jahuel]
At the present time there is nothing to see at Jahuel. In ten years'
time it may develop into a lovely park. The trees are too young yet to
afford shade. The lawn and flower beds are well arranged but they are
now in the transition stage between a desert and a garden spot. Many
of the famous California health and society spots to which thousands
of tourists make their invernal hegira were worse twenty years ago
than Jahuel is to-day. The establishment savors of Teutonic cliques.
The majority of guests are of German extraction and pair off into
groups. Some of the maidens that nightly promenade the terrace are such
past mistresses in the art of cigarette smoking that their bodies and
clothes reek with the odor of nicotine. This does not appear to have
the effect of depreciating their charms for on several occasions in the
_bosque_ I inadvertently caught amorous swains clandestinely exchanging
kisses with these foul-breathed virgins.
One of the great advertised sights is the bosque. The word bosque
means jungle of small trees. Trees are so scarce in that part of the
country that when there is a similacrum of one it becomes famous and is
advertised. This bosque is no better than a brush heap but it attracts
visitors by a well-kept trail and painted signs. It is distant from
the hotel by a seven and a half minutes' walk; nonagenarians walk it in
fifteen minutes. The signs, therefore, read "To the Bosque of Quillayé,
15 minutes." Nonagenarians leave more money at Jahuel than young people
because the former are so old that they spend at least two weeks there,
while the latter, driven to distraction by ennui rarely remain more
than a day, unless to enjoy the attractions of the cigarette-smoking
German maidens.
It is possible to make the trip from Santiago to Pisagua, one of the
northernmost ports of Chile by rail. Through trains run only as far
as Iquique. It takes four days this way from Santiago to Iquique which
includes a stop of one and a half hours at Illapel, a half hour's stop
at La Serena, two and a half hours at Vallenar, one and a half hours at
Copiapó, nine hours at Catalina, and four hours at Baquedano. Nineteen
and a half hours are wasted at these stations yet the travel consumes
less time than that by ocean steamer from Valparaiso to Iquique. I
think that I am the first North American not officially connected with
the railroad that made the trip as far as Antofagasta. The through
train runs every Friday, and after the first day out the journey is
most tedious and enervating, hot and dusty with vistas of the most
desolate desert imaginable. I broke the journey at Copiapó, continuing
thence by local trains.
The Northern Longitudinal Railway begins at the town of La Calera
which is on the Santiago-Valparaiso Railroad. As far as Copiapó it is
a narrow gauge but after leaving that town it has three rails for some
distance in order to carry both broad gauge and narrow gauge traffic.
The original railroads of Chile which ran from the interior to the
coast towns were all broad gauge and as it is cheaper to lay another
rail inside the already existing two rails to accommodate narrow
gauge traffic than to lay a new roadbed this triple rail phenomenon
is met with in many places in Northern Chile. The train composed of
two sleepers and other coaches leaves La Calera upon the arrival of
the Santiago-Valparaiso express. To reach La Calera from San Felipe
I was obliged to change cars at Llai-Llai midway between Santiago and
Valparaiso. The first day's ride is interesting, although the country
is sparsely populated and semi-arid. It is a continuous slowly winding
up the canyons, passing through tunnels at the Coast Range summits,
and a mad race around curves down other canyons. The first summit
is reached an hour after leaving La Calera; the train goes through a
tunnel under the pass of Palos Quemados and enters the Valley of La
Ligua. This is followed upward to Cabildo where the river is crossed.
Then by means of sharp zigzags another summit is reached and we descend
into the fertile but narrow Valley of Petorca. The small city of
Petorca lies about fifteen miles up the river of the same name beyond
where we turn up the Estero de las Palmas (Palm Creek). This brook
gets its name from the great abundance of palms which grow wild all
over the sides of the mountains at its source. There are several of
these palmares in Chile, which are botanical freaks for this particular
mountain specie is found in their natural state nowhere else in South
America. The largest of these palmares is that of Ocoa near La Calera;
another one is at Concon, at the mouth of the Aconcagua River. They
are valuable for their honey. A hole is drilled into the tree near its
base, a tube is inserted and the sap is extracted which is made into
honey.
[Illustration: Ocoa]
Across the mountains north of the Estero de las Palmas is the mournful
desolate mountain pocket of Tilama, the headwaters of the Quilimari
River. The Indians hereabouts weave rugs, blankets, and table-cloths
of a fine durable texture which are in great demand. They are red with
white flower designs. The Tilama ridge is crossed and finally two more,
one to the Pupio River and one to the Choapa River before darkness sets
in.
The Choapa is a fertile valley and the river of the same name forms
the boundary line between the provinces of Aconcagua and Choapa. The
Province of Choapa was created by an Act of Congress in December 1915,
and to define it a large area of land was taken from the southern part
of the Province of Coquimbo. Up to the time of this writing (1918)
the limits of its various departments have not been defined. Illapel,
the new capital, on a river of the same name was reached about 8 P.M.
It has a population of about five thousand inhabitants and is filled
with life owing to its sudden acquisition of importance. Salamanca
and Combarbalá are the only other towns worthy of mention in the new
province. Los Vilos in the Province of Aconcagua is the seaport of
Illapel with which it is connected by railroad. I took a walk up the
main street of Illapel. It is an old-fashioned town, very long and
narrow. Its houses, mostly one story in height, are painted white. The
streets were crowded and a band was playing.
I awoke the next morning at Ovalle, a growing stock town in the
southern part of the Province of Coquimbo. It had by the census
of 1907, 6998 inhabitants but I understand that it has increased
considerably in population since then. It lies on the Limari River
just below the junctions of the Grande and the Hurtado rivers which
uniting form the Limari. For its port it has Tongoi on the bay of the
same name to which place it is connected by rail, but now much of the
freight goes to Coquimbo. At Coquimbo, which was reached a couple of
hours later, I obtained my first unhindered view of the Pacific Ocean
on this South American trip. From Ancud on the Island of Chiloé, I
could look across the great expanse of bay to the headlands which
formed the promontories beyond which the ocean was, but owing to the
rain the ocean proper there was invisible. Coquimbo is a busy and dirty
port of 12,106 inhabitants and has no attractions such as possesses the
eight miles distant city of La Serena, the capital of the Province of
Coquimbo.
La Serena is named in honor of the last viceroy of Peru. His name
means serene. The city is also serene. It is one of the oldest towns
in Chile, has 15,966 inhabitants and is admirably situated on a
height of land overlooking the Pacific Ocean to the west and the Elqui
River to the north. It is a quiet town of handsome buildings and is
the residence of many retired men of wealth and of intellectuals. In
this respect it can be compared with Paraná in Argentina and Graz in
Austria. Its population has decreased slightly in recent years yet
the city is stable and will always remain so. Its only industry is
the Floto Brewery. To any Michiganders reading this book, I wish to
call attention to the fact that it was visited in 1906 by Hon. Chase
S. Osborn. The level country about La Serena and Coquimbo and the
neighboring valleys are fertile and well-watered. Fields are given
up to the cultivation of grain and vineyards abound. A native fruit
named the pepina, akin to the papaya is grown and from it a soft
drink is made which although palatable is rather insipid. About twenty
miles south of the city among the foothills is the mineral spring of
Andacollo famed locally, while thirty miles north of La Serena are the
newly opened iron mines of La Higuera, controlled by North American
capital.
After leaving La Serena, the all-day ride northward to Vallenar is
for the main part uninteresting although it has a recompense in the
wild mountain scenery when the train winds up the canyon known as the
Quebrada del Potrerillos. At nine o'clock at night, Vallenar the second
city of the Province of Atacama was arrived at. The train was scheduled
to remain here for two and a half hours but there was some trouble
with the locomotive which kept us here all night and part of the next
morning. It happened that a telegram had to be sent to Coquimbo for an
extra locomotive to be sent up to Vallenar.
[Illustration: Street in Vallenar]
Vallenar is the original home of the patio process for the extraction
of silver from the ore by means of crushing. Mercury is added forming
an amalgam and the silver is obtained by heating the amalgam, which
evaporates the mercury leaving as a residue the crude silver. It is
no longer a mining-town but is the center of the fruit growing Huasco
district. Figs of Huasco are famous. Quite a trade is carried on by
the exportation of raisins, here named _tapas_. Vallenar has 5561
inhabitants. It is on the Huasco River and is connected by rail with
Freirina and the seaport, Huasco. It was pleasant to again see trees.
It seldom rains in this region. When I alighted from the train at the
railroad station there was such a heavy mist it resembled rain. It
accumulated into drops where it had fallen on the leaves and as such
fell onto the sidewalks. Near the depot is a large finca surrounded
by gum and poplar trees, and the sound of running water in the
irrigation ditches behind the high adobe walls was refreshing. It takes
thirty-five minutes to walk the length of the main street, but the city
is only six blocks wide. A half mile up this street is a plaza with a
stagnant pool in its center where are gold fishes. A miniature Eiffel
Tower whose top is crowned by an illuminated clock that does not keep
time soars above a stand where an infantry band was playing. When a
crowd had collected to listen to the music the band moved off up the
street until it came to a moving picture show, whose proprietor had
hired it for the evening as an advertisement. Nowhere in my travels
have I seen so many bands both military and private as in Chile.
[Illustration: Alameda in Copiapó]
[Illustration: Monument Erected in Honor of Atacama's Illustrious Dead,
Copiapó]
The streets of Vallenar are narrow, and although lighted with
electricity, they are dark. The city is ancient in appearance and as
one passes by the gloomy structures in the misty night, a feeling is
present that one of the doors leading into the adobe hovels might open
and that the pedestrian will be yanked by unknown hands inside, where
he will be robbed and murdered by disembowelment which is the favorite
trick among Chileno thugs. Vallenar has not the street life of Illapel,
yet I must say in its favor that never elsewhere in a town of its size
have I seen so much beauty among women.
[Illustration: Main Street of Copiapó
The building at the left is the city hall. It is also used for
moving-picture shows]
At Copiapó I stayed four days. It is the capital of the Province
of Atacama and has a population of 10,287 inhabitants although it
looks considerably larger. Fifty years ago it had fourteen thousand
inhabitants. At that time it was a mining center, and much of the
wealth among the leading families of Santiago to-day has its origin
from mines formerly located here. The railroad to the fifty-two miles
distant seaport of Caldera was opened to traffic in 1850 and is one of
the oldest in South America. The original locomotive used is now to be
seen in the National Museum at Santiago.
The city is situated in an oasis in the desert; this oasis is
twenty-five miles long by two miles broad and is cultivated to an
amazing degree. It is traversed by the turbulent muddy and narrow
Copiapó River which furnishes irrigation to the many _quintas_.
Peaches, figs, grapes, and apricots grow in profusion as do also
loquats and other local fruits whose names are unfamiliar to me. A
specie of willow is indigenous to the valley which in form is not
unlike a Lombardy poplar and from a distance is often mistaken for one
of them.
The environs of the city have a decidedly oriental appearance due to
the high mud garden walls which shut off from the passer-by the rich
verdure of the enclosed terrain, making the only objects visible to
him the dusty windowless backs of sheds with an occasional tree rising
above an adobe wall.
[Illustration: Main Street of Copiapó]
Copiapó is retrogressant and will become even more so. Work has
long since stopped at the mines and the only thing that keeps the
place alive is that it is the capital of a province. If asked for a
description of the city, I would say that it is an old adobe town in
an oasis surrounded by barren mountains, with a broad alameda bordered
with giant pepper trees. This brief description is accurate. The pepper
trees are the largest I have ever seen and some of them are nearly
eight feet in diameter. The alameda has an abundance of statues to
Atacama heroes with a soldiers' monument to the illustrious Atacama
dead. The house roofs rise to a slight gable and nearly all are of
adobe. This mode of construction could not be possible in a country
where rain falls frequently, because in 1915 when there was a hard
rainfall in Copiapó, the first time that it had rained in eight years,
many of the roofs became mud puddles and were washed in.
[Illustration: Outskirts of Copiapó
Note the Oriental setting]
There are only two hotels in the Atacama metropolis, the Atacama and
the Ingles. I stopped at the former which is the best. It is owned by
a Boer named Bosman who married a native woman. Since the proprietor
finds mining more profitable than hotel business, he leaves the
management of his inn in the charge of his younger son. The hotel
is fair as well as the meals, although it has none of the modern
conveniences. The primitive privy is reached by crossing a barnyard
and is a favorite place for poultry which roost here. I discovered a
tarantula on the seat. To reach this place one has to run the gauntlet
of semi wild swine some of which were ugly. The Ingles is owned by
a native who is the son of a once famous Spanish opera singer. This
man thinks well of himself although his only claim for distinction is
evidenced by a disgusting ringworm on his right cheek which is larger
than a dollar. In his emporium coarse obscene jests and loud words are
the order of the day. There are only two bars in Copiapó and these are
in each of the hotels. It is needless to say that the proprietor of the
Ingles does the most business in that line because he consumes half of
his sales. Copiapó is a poor saloon town because the natives make their
own wine and chicha. They often repair to a section of the oasis named
the Chimba, where they roast a lamb, hog or an ox and there amidst a
copious supply of fermented beverages indulge in an orgy that baffles
description.
[Illustration: Hovels on the Outskirts of Copiapó]
Some of the hovels near the river bank are the extremity of poverty.
Any self-respecting sow in the United States would shun these shanties
of mud, straw, and tin cans which here house Atacama's humblest
natives. The open space in front of these hovels are littered with
bones, garbage, dead rats, and excrement.
[Illustration: Cemetery, Copiapó]
The cemetery is lugubrious, and in many a grave there is a cavity
beneath the tombstone where can be seen the grinning skull of its
occupant. It was founded in 1848 and a motto over the entrance denotes
it as a place of peace. I cannot realize how this motto is appropriate
because visitors are constantly perturbing the bones with their canes.
The hook and ladder and fire engine date from 1868 but the Matriz or
large church on the Plaza Arturo Prat antedates it fifty years. It is a
large edifice with a square tower of New England colonial architecture.
The church of San Francisco is after the style of the French Cathedral
at New Orleans. Although the city has but a population of slightly
over ten thousand inhabitants, it nevertheless boasts of five daily
newspapers, none of which by the way are worth reading as their columns
deal solely with local events such as a man stumbling on a toad and
spraining his ankle, etc.
Taking a walk with Gumprecht down the railroad track we saw behind a
wall a large tree laden with luscious purple figs. We climbed upon the
wall to reach some when I noticed a girl driving some sheep across a
trestle. I called Gumprecht's attention. He was startled thinking the
owner of the quinta was coming and fell from the wall into the garden.
In falling he accidentally tripped me up and I took a header in the
opposite direction landing me into a bush which had prickly burrs
which littered my clothing, clinging tenaciously to them. In extracting
them I got my hands full of the barbed nettles which these burrs were
composed of. As I fell I heard a yell from the other side of the wall
and upon climbing it again saw that Gumprecht was having a lively
fight with an enraged bull dog which had bitten him a couple of times.
I came to his rescue with my revolver. In the meantime Gumprecht had
drawn his revolver and between us we made short work with the bull dog.
The shooting aroused the neighborhood and we could see farm laborers
running to the scene with pitchforks. We took to our heels and finally
hid by lying down in a dry irrigation ditch where we remained half an
hour. When the hunt had somewhat subsided we struck out for the town by
a detour but lost ourselves at a river which we forded. We started up
a trail between some Kaffir corn when we suddenly came to another fig
tree. When we were devouring this fruit we were caught by the owner of
this quinta which was a full mile from the one where the bull dog was.
We offered to pay him for it, but in excellent English he told us to
help ourselves.
This man was Professor Platner, president of the Chile College of Mines
whose three-story yellow institution we could see through the trees.
He was a German, had lost a fortune in mining, owned a fine quinta,
had lived in Copiapó for twenty-five years and was anxious to sell out
and get away on account of being tired of the place. He showed us his
quinta, gave us all the fruit we could eat, and revealed to us much
information about the mining past and present in the province. He had
installed an ore crusher on his place which he rented to miners on
the percentage system. It was the Chilean process of gold extracting
originated at Copiapó. There were several stone bottom tubs each
holding a wheel perpendicular to the base and which is revolved by
means of a large horizontal wheel which fits into grooves. The large
wheel is set into motion by water power from the river. The tubs are
filled with a layer of ore and the crushing begins; mercury and water
are then added. The mercury and the gold form an amalgam which is
carried off by a pipe into another tub along with the water. After
straining, the amalgam is put into a retort which is heated at its
base. The mercury escapes through a tube and is caught in a pail of
water to be used again. Platner said that either gold or copper was
mined according to the value of copper. When copper falls below fifty
pesos a ton, gold is mined. At the time of my visit, copper was worth
112 pesos a ton.
During the colonial times the silver mines in the neighborhood of
Copiapó were worked by the Spaniards, and it is said that more than
twenty thousand Indians were exterminated through overwork in these
mines. About four generations ago these mines became the properties of
about a dozen individuals, most of whom lived in Santiago. They were
worked successfully until they died. The mineral property was then
divided among their heirs and when these heirs died, there were other
divisions among new heirs. On account of these divisions work soon
ceased. Now in order for a man to get a clean title to any of this
mineral property all the heirs have to agree to the sale and there
are a multitude scattered all over the world which makes getting a
deed nearly impossible. There have been instances when nearly all the
heirs were found and agreed to a sale only to have it held up at the
last minute by one or more parties backing out. A bill is before the
Chilean senate for the state to take over all mineral lands that have
not been worked for fifty years; if it passes these mines will again be
in operation.
Copiapó boasts of one millionaire. He lives in a ramshackle
salmon-colored house of stuccoed adobe which has been cracked by
an earthquake. The city is also the birthplace of Martin Rivas, the
hero of Blest-Gana's novel _Martin Rivas_ which is considered to be a
classic of Spanish literature.
From Copiapó northward the longitudinal railroad to Iquique runs over
a great arid desert winding its way across sandy plateaus hemmed in
by barren mountains. The southern part of this desolation is named the
Atacama Desert and here on the high mountainsides are seen the shafts
and settlements of the gold and copper mines. Dulcinea is the first
large mine reached. San Pedro is reached in the afternoon and later
on Pueblo Hundido, the junction for Chañaral, and the headquarters
of the Andes Copper Company. The next morning the train arrives at
Catalina, the junction for Taltal and now enters the nitrate country.
The same day it stops at Aguas Blancas, the junction for Antofagasta,
Chuquicamata, the newly opened copper mining town of the Guggenheim
interests, and Bolivia. The railroad from Catalina northward goes
through the center of the nitrate country and has several branches
running down to the seaports such as that from Toco to Tocopilla. Toco
is passed in the middle of the night as well as Quillagua, the last
mentioned place being an oasis in the Desert of Tararugal. Pintados
which is reached forty-eight hours after leaving Copiapó is the
terminus of the longitudinal railway and here trains must be changed
for Iquique and Pisagua, the northernmost nitrate port.
Although my ticket was bought for Iquique, I was obliged to leave
the train at Aguas Blancas and go direct to Antofagasta. I had the
misfortune to break a blood vessel in my right foot in Copiapó shortly
before boarding the train, which dolorous accident was due to the
injury I received when a rock hit my foot as I was trying to escape
from the catapult of stones that were shot from the crater of Volcano
Chillán. I consider that my quickness in reaching Antofagasta was what
saved me from crossing the River Lethe. I was flat on my back in that
prosperous seaport for three weeks.
Antofagasta, the commercial metropolis of Northern Chile has a
population of 60,297 inhabitants although it does not look nearly so
large. It is the fourth city of Chile and has in recent years taken
away much of Iquique's trade, although the latter place does not appear
to be dull. The downtown business streets of Antofagasta are paved
with asphalt and work is now under way to pave the whole city. Sewers
have been extended and the mule power street cars have been discarded
for autobuses; a man named Yankovich having obtained the concession
for this means of passenger traffic. The old buildings of adobe,
wood, corrugated iron, and stuccoed cane are fast being replaced with
metropolitan structures of brick and cement. Among these new edifices
can be mentioned the city hall, the fire department, the Mercantile
Bank of Bolivia, the Victoria Theater, and Luksic's Hotel Belmont.
The city from being a pestilential port in the past is now scrupulously
clean, although in its suburbs improvements can be made. The
municipality has waged war against the butchers and vegetable dealers
compelling them to screen their goods from the flies. Protesting mass
meetings were of no avail. A new railroad station has been built on
the heights above the city and the old ramshackle wooden structure
which is an eyesore to the city will be torn down to make way for the
opening of a new street. Antofagasta is proud of its cemetery. To me
it is a nightmare. Most of the graves are marked with wooden crosses
painted white, many of them being enclosed by picket fences. The bodies
of the poor are thrown naked into a pit and covered with quicklime.
The stench emanating from this spot is appalling and the litters for
the transportation of the cadavers which are much in evidence in this
neighborhood do not add any attraction to the scene.
[Illustration: Plaza Colon, Antofagasta]
In 1910 a mania struck each resident foreign colony to donate to the
city a reminder of themselves. The British colony erected an ornate and
useful clock tower in the Plaza Colon; in the same park the Spaniards
built a bronze monument signifying the Union of the Waters; the Slavs
built a bandstand. In the Plaza Sotomayor the Germans erected a column
to Germania, and the Greeks gave a statue of a couple of wrestlers. The
Chinamen donated the expensive entrance to the cemetery while the Turks
gave the city the benches which are in the parks. The North Americans
are not represented in these donations, because at that time the city
had only one of our countrymen as a resident, Mr. William Stevenson,
and it could not be expected that he himself would pay out of his own
pocket a sum of money equivalent to what a whole colony did out of
theirs.
[Illustration: Provincial Capitol Building, Antofagasta]
The best hotel in Antofagasta is that named the Francia y Inglaterra
of Nowick and Dutrey; the Grand and the Belmont are also good. On
Sunday Antofagasta is drier than a powder horn; at least it is supposed
to be. But like in most towns where unwelcome laws are imposed on
the people, they are made to be broken. I judged this to be the case
here from the number of Sunday "drunks" that I saw being led off to
jail, or else encumbering the sidewalks of the suburbs by reclining
on them in a horizontal position. The lid goes on promptly at five
o'clock Saturday afternoon and the clamp is not taken off until eight
o'clock Monday morning. For violations of the liquor law the names of
those men arrested for being drunk during this period of drought are
published in the Monday newspapers and stiff fines are imposed upon the
vendors of liquid refreshments that contain an alcoholic percentage. On
Sunday, April 30, 1916, 120 saloon proprietors were fined for selling
drinks. The Quinta Casale proprietor was fined 1000 pesos (about
$200.00), the proprietor of the Hotel Maury was fined 500 pesos and
another saloon-keeper the same amount. One Saturday night during this
enforcement while I was a guest at the Hotel Francia y Inglaterra,
the three _mozos_ of the second floor of the hotel got hold of a case
of Guinness' stout to which they proceeded to make short shift of. In
their inebriated condition they started a fight which at first was as
near to the Marquis of Queensbury rules as a triangular affair of its
kind could be. It soon developed into a rough and tumble and all the
participants were put _hors de combat_. This occurred during the dinner
hour and the unedifying expletives used which generally accompany such
a fracas were audible to the diners much to the mortification of Nowick
and Dutrey. One of the combatants repaired home where he attempted
to assail his better half with his fist; she retaliated by seizing a
chair and breaking his head. I related this affair to a North American,
a Mr. Rowe, a resident of Antofagasta. Rowe then told me that a year
previous in La Paz, Bolivia, he was stopping at the Hotel Guibert. Mr.
Guibert did him a trick that angered him, so he in turn filled up all
the servants of Guibert's hotel to get even. For a whole day there was
no service at the Hotel Guibert for all the domestics from the manager
to the cook were roaring drunk and all the guests were forced to seek
other quarters.
One of the famous characters of Northern Chile and Bolivia was a brutal
bully named McAdoo who was continuously quarreling with everybody. He
died in 1915, and on his tombstone in Antofagasta his acquaintances had
the inscription carved: "May he rest in peace."
[Illustration: Street in Antofagasta]
In 1916 the Antofagasta public was indignant at the way some of its
indigent dead were handled. When an unknown man or a pauper died, he
was dumped into a sack and a carter was hired to carry the bundle to
the cemetery. These carts are two-wheeled open affairs. If the cemetery
happened to be closed, the carter was apt to drop his unwholesome
burden anywhere. Two or three of these lichs were found tied up in
sacks in different parts of the city during my sojourn in Antofagasta,
which perpetration was severely excoriated by the newspapers. Speaking
of it to Captain Rowlands of the Pacific Steam Navigation Company's
steamship _Guatemala_, he related to me an incident which happened on
his ship.
A man died of bubonic plague in one of the nitrate ports but before
dying he told a relative that he wished to be buried in Santiago.
This relative was returning to that city so he tied the corpse in a
sack and carried it on shipboard. As the lower-class Chilenos all
carry their possessions in burlap sacks slung across their backs
while traveling, he managed to get his burden on board unnoticed. He
stowed it underneath his berth, but the odor was such that he could
not sleep so he made friends with the bartender and hired him to hide
it until the ship reached Valparaiso. The bartender placed the cadaver
underneath the sink in the service bar. The next day Captain Rowlands
smelt a stench while he was making the inspection, and opening the door
of the sink discovered the body, which he had thrown overboard. The
frightened bartender owned up to his part of the transaction but the
passenger, the relative of the defunct when taken to task retaliated
by threatening the captain with arrest upon the ship's arrival at
Valparaiso. Rowlands told him that he could start anything he wanted
to, but if any arresting was to be done, it would be the passenger who
would be arrested for breaking Chile's sanitary law.
The harbor of Antofagasta is never quiet owing to a heavy swell and a
project is now on hand to build a breakwater. I boarded the _Guatemala_
at that port with a ticket for Iquique. It had been over three years
since I was a passenger on that boat and the great improvement on
it was marvelous. In 1913 the food, service, and filth on it were so
abominable, combined with the slipshod actions of the officers, that I
made up my mind never to embark upon it again. Since Captain Rowlands
has been its skipper everything has changed, and it is now one of the
cleanest and most comfortable steamers on the coast. The food cannot
be beaten. One of the passengers on board I found to be Angel Larrain,
the efficient but villainous looking bearded roustabout whom Prat and
I had delegated to bring our baggage to Lima upon consideration of his
passage.
The morning after leaving Antofagasta we arrived at Gatico, a copper
port, where the mountains came down to the ocean. About a league south
of it was seen the small village of Copoapa on a narrow sandy plain
at the foot of the barren cliffs. Gatico and Tocopilla are the only
towns on the Pacific Coast of South America where copper is found near
to the ocean. There is a smelter at Gatico and it is up a canyon here
that run the wires of the electrical power plant at Tocopilla to the
Chuquicamata mines.
Tocopilla is a two hours' run north of Gatico. We reached it in the
early afternoon and remained there all night taking on cargo. According
to the last census it had 5366 inhabitants, although it does not appear
to have half that number of people. Next to Salaverry and Mollendo it
is the vilest hole that I have ever stepped foot into, although I am
told that it is a paradise compared to Pisagua. It is a long, narrow
place, built on a sandy fringe between the mountains and the sea. Its
houses are mostly one-story frame shacks, the majority unpainted.
A point juts into the ocean off which are two small guano islands.
Near the end of the point is the large electrical power plant of the
Chuquicamata mines. It gets its power from the ocean, a tunnel having
been dug out under the water and thence upwards so as to cause great
pressure. There has been much trouble on account of the tunnel getting
clogged with seaweed. The Siemens-Schukert Company of Germany installed
the machinery, which has given such poor satisfaction that I understand
the Chuquicamata Mining Company (Guggenheim interests) have taken it
over under protest.
Tocopilla has a comparatively large German element, most of the male
members being employees of the Sloman Copper Smelter. This plant is on
the side of a mountain and some of its mines are visible from the port.
[Illustration: Street in Tocopilla]
The town is not only exceedingly wretched in appearance but also has
the reputation of being pestilential. The captain of the Chilean
vessel _Condor_ landed here in 1912 sick with the yellow fever.
He recovered but this pestilence nearly wiped out the whole town.
There is no verdure of any description hereabouts with the exception
of a few plants in front of the houses, the country being a sandy
and a stony waste; the same is true about Antofagasta, yet in both
places mosquitoes thrive. This yellow fever epidemic was singular
because south of Lima the West Coast of South America has always been
absolutely free from it. In 1915 Tocopilla was a closed port for four
months on account of bubonic plague, which is ever present in the
seaport towns from La Serena northward to Panama.
In company with Mr. B. Brice of Valparaiso, accountant for the Pacific
Steam Navigation Company, I took a walk to the cemetery. The two gates
were locked so we started to walk around it to see if there was another
entrance. Since walking was obnoxious in its neighborhood on account
of tin cans and nondescript rubbish, we made a detour by going out
onto the plain. Suddenly our nostrils were assailed by a disgusting
odor which caused us to hold our breath. "Look here," said Mr. Brice,
pointing to a myriad of mounds which we had previously taken to be
rubbish piles; we found that they were graves for at the head of some
were wooden crosses and desiccated bouquets.
"I believe that we are in the yellow fever burial ground," I said.
"Possibly," answered Mr. Brice. "Let us ask that individual,"
indicating a man in the distance who was scraping with a stick among
the mounds and whose actions savored of those of a ghoul.
Upon asking the "individual," whose appearance was that of a
degenerate, we were informed that we were in the bubonic plague
graveyard.
"The yellow fever cemetery is there," he exclaimed, pointing with
evident pride to a large square enclosure bristling with white crosses.
The degenerate creature was carrying a burlap sack which he dragged
on the ground. Through a large hole in it, we saw red meat and the
knee-cap of some animal.
"What have you got there?" I asked.
The degenerate pointed to the distant carcasses of mules rotting in the
sun and above which soared carrion. Said he:
"I have just cut off a hock of mule."
"What for?"
"To eat. One must live, of course."
This disgusting habit of feeding on the carcasses of animals that
have died a natural death or through disease is prevalent among
the inhabitants of the arid zones of Peru and Northern Chile; where
probably nowhere else on earth is the human race so degraded.
[Illustration: Cemeteries at Tocopilla
The mounds in the foreground are the graves of the victims of bubonic
plague. The white wall in the distance encloses the burial ground of
the people who died of yellow fever in the epidemic of 1912. These
gruesome cemeteries are the pride of the natives of the wretched town
of Tocopilla.]
Shortly after leaving Tocopilla, I chancing to be on the starboard
deck of the _Guatemala_ ran into the bearded ruffian Angel in deep
conversation with an English divine. He was gesticulating during his
conversation and would occasionally point towards land in the direction
of the cemeteries fast vanishing in the distance. I walked up to the
pair, and after turning the topic of conversation to things commonplace
when I approached, Angel made some excuse and disappeared.
"A real brilliant man that," said the Anglican, turning to me. "It is
curious how often a rough exterior reveals great brains."
"How do you mean?" I inquired.
"You noticed that uncouth bearded man in conversation with me when you
approached. A person unacquainted with him would imagine him to be one
of the great number of vagabonds that abound on this coast. He belies
his appearance for he is a distinguished professor of the University of
Buenos Aires. He is making a tour of the West Coast towns studying the
causes of bubonic plague. He is a member of the Argentine Commission
on Bubonic Plague and many interesting things he has told me about this
malady that I have never heard of before."
I did not spoil Angel's story by revealing to the Anglican his real
nature. The roustabout had been listening to a conversation the
previous evening between Captain Rowlands, Mr. Brice, an English
army officer, and myself about bubonic plague and had remembered
everything he heard. Owing to this knowledge he was able to carry on a
fairly intellectual exchange of words on the subject with the English
minister.
The so-called harbor of Iquique is no more than a roadstead with a
barrier of rocks jutting into the ocean, which breaks in two places
forming narrow entrances to a natural basin. The waves beat with
violence against the rocks so the _fleteros_, as the boatmen are
called, are obliged to wait until a wave has broken and then by quick
rowing speed past the entrances before another wave has the chance to
dash against the barrier.
Iquique's population numbers 46,216. In 1907 its population was 40,171,
which shows that although Antofagasta has taken away a great deal of
its trade, yet the city has had a slight increase. There is a great
rivalry between the two cities which is soon bound to cease on account
of Antofagasta having a good commercial future ahead of it. The nitrate
industry of Iquique is on the wane, and is now confined to the Iquique
and the Pisagua pampas while that of Antofagasta is in its prime.
As a residential place most people prefer Iquique; there is a large
British colony here and the foreigners are of a better class; among the
foreigners in Antofagasta the Slavs (mostly from Croatia and Dalmatia)
predominate and these were originally the scum of their countries. In
Iquique's favor also are better residences, pretty plazas, and a fine
_malecon_ or sea boulevard with a nice beach. Nevertheless I prefer
Antofagasta because it is cleaner, its streets are paved, its buildings
are more substantial, and it does not seem so remote, having better
railroad facilities.
[Illustration: Street in Iquique]
Iquique is built in the form of a square on a sandy point of land.
All of its buildings are frame, many of them being painted brown or
dark red. Quite a few have ornamental balconies, some being of Moorish
design. The streets, on some of which run horse cars, are narrow and
straight. Many have irregularities for some buildings are set farther
back than others and the curbs in these places likewise recede. The
main street is named Tarapacá from the province of which Iquique is
the capital, while the next important commercial street is that named
Anibal Pinto. Ordinarily the dust on these thoroughfares would be
insupportable, but the municipality has inaugurated the sprinkling of
the streets with sea water. This causes much dampness in places where
the sun does not reach.
[Illustration: Street in Iquique]
Like most of the West Coast towns of the arid zone, Iquique is devoid
of edificial interest. It has, however, an imposing opera house, a good
city hall, a Moorish tower in the center of the plaza, and a rather
pretty cemetery, besides some good residences, that of the governor
with broad verandas and large plate glass windows being the finest.
The Hotel Phœnix, owned by an Italian, Sorbini, is not at all bad. Here
and in Tacna no fruit is served with the meals provided by the hotel,
but native women perambulate between the tables carrying baskets from
which they sell fruit to the diners. Sometimes these greasy hags become
insulting when a guest refuses to buy from them.
[Illustration: Cemetery, Iquique]
Late at night of the evening after leaving Iquique the lights of
two towns close together were visible on shore. These were Junin and
Pisagua, the last mentioned being a few miles north of its neighbor.
Pisagua is a nitrate port with 4089 inhabitants. Bubonic plague was
formerly so bad there that the town had to be burned down twice.