CHAPTER VIII

TUPIZA TO COTAGAITA

We found that the Bolivian government had recently subsidized a weekly stage line from Tupiza to Uyuni on the Antofagasta railway and another from Tupiza to Potosí, our next objective point. The fare to Potosí is twenty-two dollars, and the journey takes only four days. But we had enough of being shaken to pieces in a stage-coach, and decided we could see the country better and be more independent if we used saddle mules.

Two weeks before our arrival a couple of bandits, one of whom had been hunted out of Arizona by Pinkerton detectives, had held up a cart containing twenty thousand dollars, on its way to pay off the laborers in a large mine. The owners, wealthy Bolivians, immediately offered a large reward for the capture of the bandits, dead or alive, notwithstanding that the robbers and their friends, of whom there seemed to be a score or more, let it be carefully understood that they would take a definite revenge for any lives that might be lost in pursuit of the highwaymen. This did not deter the mine owners, however, and a party of fifty Bolivian soldiers went on the trail of the robbers, who were found lunching in an Indian hut. They had carelessly left their mules and rifles several yards away from the door of the hut and were unable to escape. After a fight, in which three or four of the soldiers were killed and as many more wounded, the thatch roof of the hut was set on fire and the bandits forced out into the open where they finally fell, each with half a dozen bullets in his body. Their mules were captured and sold to Don Santiago who let me have one of them for my journey. He turned out to be a wonderfully fine saddle mule. When his former owner had had the benefit of his fleet legs and his splendid lungs, there was no question of his being caught by the Bolivian soldiery.

In that part of the Andes where one is following the usual trade-routes, there are four modes of travelling. One may purchase one’s own animals, employ servants to attend to them, and sell them for a song at the end of the journey. This is the most expensive, the most satisfactory, and the surest method of travel, provided always that one succeeds in getting a reliable, well-recommended _arriero_. A careless _arriero_ will soon drive you to despair and allow your mules to get into a state of semi-starvation and sore back that will speedily destroy their usefulness. The second method is to hire a professional carrier who, for a stipulated sum of money, will provide you with animals, go along with them, feed and care for them, and get you to your destination as speedily as possible. If your sole object is speed, this method is even surer than the first, for owing to the high price of fodder in the post-houses, the contractor may be relied upon to push the caravan forward as speedily as possible. The third method is by far the least expensive, the most troublesome, and the least certain. This is to depend on the mules that are supposed to be in readiness for travellers at the post-houses. We frequently amused ourselves on our journey by imagining what we could possibly have done had we attempted to rely on this last method. Repeatedly we reached post-houses where there was not a mule to be seen, or where the two or three that were there, were drearily hanging their melancholy heads in the corral, so worn out and broken down as to convince us of their inability to carry even an ordinary load at anything faster than a slow walk. The traveller who trusts to post-house mules rarely remembers much of the scenery or the nature of the country. His chief impression is that of unfortunate mules continually being beaten in order to reach the next post before dark. The fourth method, and the one we decided to adopt, is to hire from a reputable contractor a number of his best mules and one of his most trusted _arrieros_ at so much per day. In this way, you are not hurried faster than you want to go, the mules are sure to be well cared for, and the discomforts of mountain travel are reduced to a minimum. Except on a long journey, it is not as expensive as buying one’s own animals and is less risky.

Thanks to the energy of Don Santiago, the necessary mules and provisions were ready in two days. On his suggestion, we took with us as _arriero_, one Mac, a wandering Scotchman who had seen service in the Boer War, had drifted thence to Argentina, and was now trying his luck in southern Bolivia. He seemed just the sort of person to make a good orderly,

and we thought we were quite fortunate in securing his services. Relying on his past experience, we told him to purchase such provisions as were necessary for the next five days. He proceeded to purchase four dozen hard-boiled eggs and three roast fowls. These he packed carelessly in my leather saddle-bags, together with a bottle of Eno’s fruit salts of which he was very fond. The expected happened. The eggs were reduced to an unrecognizable mass, the bottle of fruit salts was broken and the contents well rubbed into the chicken, so that our fare for the next two or three days was not much above the ordinary.

We left Tupiza on a bright, clear morning and rode northward through a semi-arid region where we were continually reminded of Utah and southern Colorado. For two leagues we saw no house and met no one. The floor of the valley was broad and flat, covered with sand and pebbles, and occasionally intersected by small irrigating ditches. Almost the only green things were cactus and mimosa trees. Barren hills that appear to be crumbling rapidly away rose abruptly on each side. In some places, the eroded hillside took the form of chimneys, ruined factories, or even forts. In others erosion had produced fantastic pinnacles, and often the buttressed hills looked very much like cathedrals.

About nine o’clock we met a Quichua family, the wife carrying the baby and spinning, the man carrying his wooden plough on his shoulder and driving his oxen to an irrigated field where he proposed to do his spring ploughing. His wife had on as many gaudy-colored petticoats as she could afford. Such is the fashion of the country.

Near one of the irrigating ditches under the shadow of the buttressed walls of the cañon, we came upon a hundred mules. Some of them were carrying huge packing-cases, large enough to hold the entire body of the patient mule, provided of course that it were properly cut up and the extremities shortened. In general the pack-mules were fine, large animals, well able to carry their three-hundred-pound loads. With such a caravan as this go a dozen _arrieros_ who rise each day three hours before dawn and commence the everlasting task of saddling and loading. When this is done, the men eat a hearty breakfast, prepared in the meantime by one of their number, and then start out for an eight-hour march. About five o’clock in the afternoon, or earlier, if they have by that time reached a suitable camping-place, the caravan stops and unloading begins, which is finished barely in time to give the men a few hours of slumber before the whole process has to be repeated.

Fortunately, most of these cases of merchandise were packed in Germany where they know how to meet the exigencies of South American mountain travel, and although the great wooden boxes were banged against projecting rocks by the roadside and often allowed to fall with a crash when the saddle-ropes were untied at the end of the day, the contents were practically sure to reach their destination in good condition.

At noon we came to a group of freshly white-washed adobe farm buildings, the property of an absentee landlord. Here we were able to purchase green fodder for the mules, and luncheon, in the shape of very hot soup and tea, for ourselves. In one of the buildings was a district school with six or eight pupils, the scholars evincing their studiousness by learning their lessons out loud. The resultant noise would considerably jar on the ear of a highly strung New England “schoolmarm,” but the good-natured Bolivian teacher did not know that he had any nerves, and only wanted to be sure that all his pupils were busy.

After lunch our road continued up the same arid valley past flocks of goats that strove to get a living from the low-hanging branches of the mimosa trees. Some of the more adventurous had even gone up into the trees to secure a meal.

In the middle of the afternoon, we climbed out of one valley and looked down into another. From the pass we had a fine view of the valley through which we had come. The prevailing color was brown with here and there a touch of dusty green. All around there was a confusion of barren hills and arid mountains without a single evidence of human habitation. The only sign of life was the long line of the mule caravan which we had passed earlier in the day. The country is so unfitted for the habitation of man that the general effect of this and of most of the scenery in southern Bolivia is oppressive and dispiriting.

Shortly before sunset, however, we came to a beautiful spring called the “Eye of the Water,” which bubbled up by the roadside and flowed off into carefully guarded irrigating ditches. As was to be expected, there was a small Indian village in the vicinity. The villagers were Quichuas, wearing small felt hats, scanty shirts, and short loose pantaloons made of what seemed to be homespun cloth. It was rather attractive in appearance, and as it had the romantic flavor of being made here by the Indians, we were inclined to purchase some until we discovered that it was only “imitation” and was made in great quantities in Manchester, England. These Quichuas are a humble folk, excessively polite to each other, doffing their hats whenever they meet. Both men and women wore their hair in long braids down their backs.

The little village sprawled up the side of the cañon just out of reach of the floods which occasionally pour through this valley in the rainy season. In one of the huts a kind of spring carnival was being celebrated with a reasonable amount of drinking. Solemn singing and a monotonous tom-tomming of a primitive drum were the only signs of gaiety except a few bright flowers which they had gathered somewhere and put in their hair. As no rain was to be expected and the village had the usual component of filth and insects, we set up our folding cots in the dry bed of the stream. The elevation was about ten thousand feet. The stars were very brilliant. The night was cool, the minimum temperature being 47°F., a drop of forty degrees from the afternoon’s maximum.

The next morning, after a breakfast of cold chicken and Eno’s fruit salts, all that our Boer War veteran could provide for our comfort, we pushed up the valley, and before long reached Totora, a typical Bolivian _poste_ or _tambo_. It consisted of a small inclosure surrounded by half a dozen low mud-huts without windows. In one of these was kept alfalfa fodder to be sold to passing travellers. In another lived the keeper of the _poste_ and his family. Here also was a fire from which one had the right to demand hot water, the only thing furnished for the comfort of humans. In another, two or three well-baked mounds of earth, flattened on top, were intended for beds. A roof, an earth floor, and a wooden door were the only other conveniences at the disposition of travellers.

These _postes_, more or less dirty and uncomfortable, may usually be found on the well-travelled roads in southern Bolivia at a distance varying from fifteen to twenty-five miles from each other. They are not picturesque, but after some little experience in travelling in that desolate region, one learns to welcome the little collection of mud-huts, with possibly a green spot or two of alfalfa, as a perfect haven of rest. To be sure, the only thing to eat is the food you bring with you, but you may be always certain of having hot water, and your _arriero_ (unless he happens to be a veteran of the Boer War) will bring you a cup of excellent tea within twenty minutes after your arrival.

The road from Totora continued to be the rocky floor of a valley in which from time to time little streams of water or irrigation ditches appeared, only to lose themselves in fields of alfalfa or quinoa. During the dry season carts attempt to use this road, and we overtook a dozen of them on their way north. Each cart was drawn by six mules driven three abreast by a driver who rode postillion on the nigh mule nearest the cart. Before noon we climbed out of this valley and descended into a rocky, sandy plain through which flowed the river Cotagaita on its way eastward to join the great Pilcomayo. At this time of the year, the latter part of November, the river is a broad, shallow stream, easily fordable. On sandy bars left dry by the receding waters were camped caravans of pack-mules and carts. Beyond them lay the little town of Cotagaita, where the Argentine patriots were badly defeated in 1816. This place is, in a sense, the crossroads of southern Bolivia and is one of the main stations of Don Santiago’s stage-lines. Uyuni, on the Antofagasta railway, is one hundred and fifteen miles west of here, three or four days by stage. The mines of Potosí are nearly the same distance north. Camargo, the capital of the province of Cinti, is a few days due east, while Tupiza is fifty-four miles due south. There are several routes from Tupiza to Uyuni but the most important and the only one practicable for coaches is by way of Cotagaita. The road is new and said to be very uncomfortable. There is not much to interest the traveller, except a few mines. Not far away is Chorolque, a famous silver mine, at an altitude of over seventeen thousand feet.

The town of Cotagaita is an old Spanish settlement with the customary plaza, a few trees, a fountain in the centre and a church on one side; one story white-washed houses built of baked mud, the usual narrow streets crossing each other at right angles, their stone paving sloping toward the centre where a ditch does duty as a sewer; a few Indians and a few shops to minister to their wants. There are said to be twelve hundred inhabitants but I doubt it. The elevation is slightly lower than Tupiza.

We left Cotagaita after lunch, hoping to make the _tambo_ at Escara before dark, but we were destined to disappointment. Mac, our Scotch _arriero_, had decided that the pack-mules, which Don Santiago selected for us at Tupiza, were not good enough to stand the march to Potosí, so he requested the coach agent here to give us two better animals. The latter allowed our veteran to go into the corral and take any mules he pleased. Rich in knowledge of the Boer War, but poor in experience with Bolivian mules, he picked out two strong-looking beasts that had been driven in the stage-coach but had never carried a pack in their lives. After being blindfolded they were saddled, with some difficulty, and we were about to start when it was discovered that one of them lacked a shoe on its nigh hind-foot. The blacksmith, a half-drunk, strongly built Indian, was summoned. He brought a new shoe, a few nails, and a hammer out into the street. The blindfolded mule was held by Mac while an Indian tied the foot that was to be shod securely to the mule’s tail. Then the blacksmith went to work. No attempt was made to fit the shoe, and when the second nail was driven, the mule kicked and struggled so violently as to throw itself and all three men in a heap in the middle of the road. Finally, after much tribulation, the shoe was securely fastened, and amid the cheers of the populace, we started briskly off for Potosí.

The new pack-mules, lacking all road sense and missing the bridle, promptly ran away. One of them was secured without much difficulty, but the other one went up the hillside through a grove of young mimosa trees which attempted to detain the load with their thorny branches. They only succeeded in partly dislodging it, however, and the mule continued his headlong career until his load turned completely under him, tripped him up, and ended by rolling him down-hill. Fortunately the dunnage bags were new and no great harm was done. Mac insisted that he could drive this mule as well as any other--which may have been true--so the poor coach-mule was reloaded. Then four of us tried for over an hour to make the two wretched animals carry their packs properly and stick to the road as pack-animals should. But they declined to enter our service, and we were obliged to send them back to Cotagaita, minus their loads. Meanwhile the two mules which Mac had so thoughtfully discarded at lunch time were reengaged. The exhibition was useful, for it showed us that Mac knew even less about saddling pack-animals than we did and was perfectly useless in an emergency. Fortunately, an excellent fellow, a brother of Don Santiago, became our _deus ex machina_, helped us out of our difficulty, and promised to join us the next morning with a new _arriero_. By hard riding we arrived at the little _tambo_ of Escara an hour after dark and had some difficulty in securing admittance. No one has any business to travel at night in this country, unless bent on mischief.