BOLIVIAN BAIRNS
Bolivia, the Hermit Republic of South America, is hidden away behind
the mighty Andes. It is the fourth country in the continent in point of
size, and a vast treasure house of silver and tin.
More than half the inhabitants are pure-blooded Indians, degenerate
descendants of the valiant Inca race.
The most interesting and useful animal to the Indian is the llama. He
will travel for miles without food or drink, over precipitous mountains
and rocky paths, carry his 100-lb. load, and not an ounce more; for if
you should happen to impose upon him he simply lies down on the path
and refuses to budge an inch. They are splendid “passive resisters,”
these llamas, and will have no nonsense from anyone, though, of
course, their Indian owners know better than to overburden their llamas
with superfluous luggage.
The llama, known as “the Bolivian Railway,” can travel fifteen miles a
day. When he dies his flesh is eaten, but the Indian loves his animal
too well to kill him for food.
“In many places the Indians are ill-treated, deceived, and robbed by
the white Spanish-speaking people. They are looked upon as mere brutes,
fit for nothing but work, instead of human beings with immortal souls.
They sometimes live together in villages, sometimes in isolated, quiet
nooks, or it may be in clusters of huts where there are two or three
families.”
Each Indian has a few patches of ground for himself, and in exchange
for this cultivates a few acres of crops for his owner. He also has a
certain number of animals to care for, but this is mostly the work of
his wife and family. Little children of from four to five years of age
are supposed to be capable of driving a flock, and when a few years
older they are away on the hills all day alone with their flocks.
One scarcely sees an Indian, either man or woman, altogether idle. If
they have no other occupation, they spin away at wool for the clothing
of their families.
Though this is an open and very healthy climate there is much sickness
among the people, chiefly because they do not know how to take care
of themselves. It is very amusing to see what remedies they use for
inward and outward complaints. Dirt, feathers, and anything horrible
is the common ointment for sores or wounds. At a little ordinary warm
water they laugh. Through the ignorance of their mothers, children,
when sick, have a hard time. Some care very much, and would do anything
to save their children; but others, rather than have the trouble of
watching them, prefer that they should die, as a good many do.
“It is the condition of the little children that calls forth most
sympathy and pity, and makes us long for the day when the True Light
shall shine into the hearts of the people. The majority, unloved and
uncared for, surrounded by dirt and disease, know nothing of the joys
of childhood, nor of the blessing of home life.
“Mothers are continually seen carrying their babies, full of disease,
about the streets, and, what is worse, sitting in the market-places
selling meat and bread with their sick babies in their laps. Passing
along one day, a child was seen without a shred of clothing, yet with
its little body literally covered with smallpox.”
Mr Will Payne, a pioneer missionary of Bolivia, says it is quite a
common thing to buy and sell children in this country. He tells of
three little girls who were purchased for £2 each, “and are held by
their owner until they reach the age of twenty-one, during which time
they are compelled to work in the house, receiving their food and
clothing in exchange.
“If they fall into the hands of a kind master or mistress they have
an easy, happy time, and in a few cases are taught to read and write.
Should they, however, find a cruel owner, there is nothing to prevent
their suffering very much like the slaves of other days.
“These children are sold by their parents when young, and sometimes
never know their father or mother. How often has blood been seen
flowing from the head of one of these girls, the result of a cruel blow
with a strap, because she did not move quickly enough.”
A very sad story is told by one of the missionaries of the Bolivian
Indian Mission, of a little Indian boy. “His left forearm, and half
of left leg, are one mass of partially-healed ulcers. He tells us
how, over a year ago, he was caught and deliberately thrown into the
fire. His father had sold him to a neighbour, and one day, whilst
shepherding, he allowed some goats to fall over a cliff: then his
owner, in a fit of rage committed this inhuman act.
“After a year of intense suffering, he was brought by his apathetic
father for treatment. But perhaps we ought not to blame the father too
much, as he is totally blind. However, the man who burned the boy was
compelled to pay the father a sum of 28s., and to release the boy.
After this the boy’s father sold him again, but the boy escaped, and is
now under treatment.”
Such incidents happen daily, showing how inhuman and ignorant the
majority of the Indians are. The Roman Catholic religion has not
converted their hearts, the only change that has taken place has been
that of the religion and the idols. The hearts and lives that were dark
before, without the knowledge of Christ, have been plunged into deeper
gloom through the blighting influence of the Roman priesthood.
Some of the Romish masses celebrated by the people are called the
“Little Masses for the Child Jesus.” These take place from Christmas
to the time of Carnival. Everybody who has an image of Christ as a
child is supposed to provide a feast during this time. A band of music
is procured, and the little image is decked out with pearls and gay
flowers, and carried to the Roman Catholic church, in front of a crowd
of neighbours. A mass is said, and then the figure is taken home amid
great rejoicing. Drinking, feasting, and dancing follow, and are kept
up until a late hour.
On January 31st and February 1st the people prepare for Candlemas,
which takes place on the 2nd. They are taught by the priest that on
this day the children who have died without baptism can get a little
light. It is the feast of the mothers, and the priests tell the people
how necessary it is to come to church with their candles.
“Do not be like so many pieces of stick; come and bring your candles,
and think of your poor dead children awaiting your candles to get some
light!”
“So the next day the poor mothers come with their candles of all sorts
and sizes. Long candles, short candles, thin candles, thick candles.
What a mine of wealth for the priests the sale of this holy (!) grease
must be!
“May God light the candle of each life in order that some day someone
who reads this may be able to show the Bolivian Bairns the way to
Heaven. Only the light that Christ gives is of any service to Him, and
to those who ‘sit in darkness and in the shadow of death.’”
The Bolivian Indians do not have many children, as the poor mites,
through neglect and ill-treatment, die in hundreds every year, most of
them under two years of age.
Another reason why Indians have such small families is that when the
children grow up to be twelve or thirteen years of age they marry and
have homes of their own.
Mr and Mrs Will Payne did some splendid pioneer work amongst these
people before the liberty of preaching the Gospel was proclaimed in
the Republic. They suffered much persecution at the hands of the Roman
Catholics, but now missionary work can go forward without hindrance,
and to-day the South American Missionary Society is at work in Southern
Bolivia, while the Bolivian Indian Mission is ministering to the
Quechua-speaking remnant of the bygone Inca race.
In writing of the children, one of the missionaries in San Pedro says
of the school work:--
“The school is open to all, and boys and girls of the white and
half-caste classes attend. (The Indians do not live in the town.) The
school opens every morning with the singing of a hymn, a Scripture
lesson and prayer, in all of which great interest is taken. Mother
earth constitutes the floor. The walls are of mud, and the ceiling
is of a rough thatching of rushes. For years the room served as a
cook-house, and knew neither chimney nor window, nor any other means of
exit for the smoke.
“Nowadays two large holes in the wall, one shuttered, the other not,
admit light which reveals a blackness that water cannot cleanse. Two or
three geography maps gravely endeavour to hide the sooty walls, and,
aided by three mud seats that traverse the room, humbly announce that
this is Ch’iquipampa School-house.”
Outside, mounted upon a pole which stands in the centre of the
“estancia” courtyard, is the school bell. For nearly a century it hung
in the belfry of a Roman Catholic chapel away out among the Bolivian
mountains. But it, too, has felt the impulse of modernism, and now
follows a reformed calling.
The sun is the only time-keeper known in the “campo.” The only definite
hours are those of his rising and setting; therefore the bell sounds
the assemble at sunrise, and soon two or three groups of children,
enveloped in gay-coloured and picturesque ponchos, are seen leisurely
sauntering to obey the summons--perhaps. In they come at the open door,
doffing their “sombreros” (hats) respectfully enough, with a “Buenos
dias, Señor!” (“Good day, Sir”).
Now we have before us seven or eight black heads, whose owners range
in age from five to fifteen years. There are really as many grades as
there are individuals.
Modestly, seated farthest back is Haquin, a bright Indian lad. He came
to school early, and has already been a full half-hour hard at his
reading-book, for he must soon leave in order to take his father’s
cattle afield to pasture. Three months ago, he did not know a single
letter. Now he reads and writes fairly large words.
Now slates, books, and pencils are served out, and for three long hours
our young Bolivians are under restraint. Lazy little Antonio raises
his slate high in air with both hands and yawns audibly. A tap on the
big, black head, and a quiet word, recall him to his task. During a
full half-hour he has written only one word, but Government forbids the
rod.
The time has arrived for reading-lessons, and a whisper of appreciation
is heard, for reading from the “Spanish Reader” involves a lesson in
Spanish; and Indian and “Cholo” (half-caste) alike learn eagerly and
quickly the tongue of the ruling class. Confronted by Bolivia’s map,
a barely suppressed giggle ripples through the school. They think the
names of towns, rivers, and mountains are so foreign and funny!
Arithmetic is useful, however, and all work diligently at this. Little
Manuel is the pride and joy of the school in this department. Three
months previously he could not write a single figure. Now, he adds and
subtracts and multiplies with great exactness.
Now, at the words, “Slates down,” these articles reach the hard floor
with a rattle. Little Nieva draws her naked feet up on to the seat,
and arranges her “manta” with the air of a Turkish princess. Word goes
round, “The Jesus Book”; and a respectful silence prevails. Thank God,
for these wonderful stories of the Saviour. The children’s verdict
is: “Beautiful.” Thanks to Him for at least this small portion of the
Gospel of St John translated into Quechua.
Now comes time for dismissal--with a respectful “Hasta mañana, Señor!”
(“Until to-morrow, Sir!”), or the Quechua “Ce’aya cama,” they file out,
soon to break forth into whistle and shout, just like the little folks
in the homeland.
Our head is somewhat muddled with this two-language task of teaching
Quechua-speaking children from Spanish text-books. Some attend for
a week or two, and then come no more. The parents desire that they
should be educated, but confess to being powerless to persuade the
young folks to attend.
Mr Grocott, of the Bolivian Indian Mission, having given such an
interesting account of the day-school work, Mrs Grocott now tells about
the Sunday-school. She says:--
“Could you visit our little school-room some Sunday morning, between
seven and eight o’clock, you would find a little gathering of from
twelve to twenty-five men, women, and children, representing the
whites, the half-castes, and the pure Indians. These are gathered to
learn about Jesus. They do not come because it is God’s Day, for Sunday
to them is as other days. No, they come because they like to come.
“They have dirty faces, uncombed hair, and clothing which has not
been washed for many weeks. Not an attractive audience, is it? But
a missionary may not be critical. She has come to teach them to do
better, and one must always begin at the beginning.
“The day-school children come to these meetings, as do some of the
parents. The Indians are rather shy at entering, and often prefer
listening at the window. Those who do come in look round for an
out-of-the-way corner, and, despising a seat, squat on the floor. One
day a young Indian came in and immediately knelt down bareheaded before
the blackboard, in an attitude of prayer.
“At the time of his entering, the attention of those present was
centred upon the words written on the blackboard and he evidently
thought of worship. Being accustomed to kneel in the Roman Catholic
church before shrines and images, he was quite prepared to kneel to
anything that appeared to him to be the object of worship for the day.
“Very few Indians can sing, but some of the half-castes do fairly well.
Several hymns have already been translated into Quechua.”
Christ’s command to “heal the sick,” as well as to “teach” and “preach
the Gospel,” is being faithfully carried out as far as possible by the
missionaries to these benighted people. The healing of the body opens
the door to the healing of the soul.
A Spanish doctor will not touch an Indian; and for this great work of
healing, the power of God is needed.
There are very many villages in this hermit republic without a
missionary of any kind whatever. Come with me, and see for yourselves.
Here on a mud bed in a corner sits a poor woman amidst her rags.
A wound which she has had a long, long time has reduced her to a
skeleton. Beside her is a sickly-looking baby. Between her sobs she
tells us she has neither a home nor a husband.
The tiny room, which serves as a living-room, bedroom, and cobbler’s
shop, is full from floor to ceiling. The floor is covered with
cooking-pots, ten altogether, “stones for grinding corn into meal,
great earthenware pots for making chicha (the native drink), old boots,
piles of potatoes and maize, bones, rags, and dirt--plenty of dirt.
From under the bed run guinea-pigs, whilst keeping the woman company in
bed are a dog and a pigeon!
“Amidst old tins and bottles on the shelves we see San Antonio and the
Virgin. On the wall hangs a picture of what looks something like a
woman, the Virgin. A rope full of clothes stretches across the room,
and a few other odds and ends leave but little space, which is filled
up with smell.”
This is what the missionary has to contend with, and as we emerge
into the sunshine, and breathe God’s air once more, we long to see a
large, airy building where the sick ones can be tended and nursed back
to health. Shall we not begin to pray: “Lord send out some of Thy
messengers, and some day, if it is Thy will, I will go and help them.”
Coming, coming, yes they are,
Coming, coming from afar;
From beyond the Andine mountains,
From Bolivia’s mighty plains,
As they hear the Gospel story,
And are loosed from Satan’s chains.