CHAPTER XX

THE CACTUS FORESTS OF CENTRAL BOLIVIA--COCHABAMBA TO SAMAIPATA

The journey from Cochabamba to Sucre presents difficulties, no matter which of the two available routes is selected. It is possible to take a pack-train to the beginning of the railroad at Cala Cala and proceed by train to Potosi, thence by cart or pack-train (or by motor-car in the dry season) to Sucre; but we preferred to go the whole way by pack-train, following the roundabout Santa Cruz trail, as this would enable us to see the country and also to stop at any time we chose to investigate the fauna of a promising region.

It is an easy matter to rent mules and _arrieros_ in Cochabamba, either by the trip or month, and the latter way is the more satisfactory if one does not expect to spend too much time en route. We had been told, however, that it was better to secure the animals at Tarata, a small town southeast of Cochabamba, so we decided to make that the expedition’s starting-point.

A narrow-gauge railroad connects Cochabamba with Arani, almost due east; Tarata is about half-way between the two. We took the train and sent our own mules overland, in charge of one of the men. It required but two hours to make the trip. The entire region is naturally of a barren, desolate nature; nevertheless it is densely populated with Quechua Indians. The low, earthen huts cover the desert-like plain and are so like it in color that it is at first impossible to distinguish them. During the short rainy season crops of wheat and other grain are sown, and their growth is later promoted by means of irrigation. They also cultivate grape-vines, and their small clumps of peach and apricot trees were in full bloom.

The train stopped at numerous little stations, and at each of them gayly dressed Quechua squaws sold fried eggs, boiled corn, and bread. Occasionally they also had stew or meat pies, but these were always to be regarded with suspicion. Our boy told us that cavies are ordinarily used in preparing the meat foods; but a woman tried substituting toads on one occasion, with the result that those who partook of the delicacy became violently ill.

Crowds of Indians boarded and left the train at each station. The accommodations at their disposal resemble cattle-cars from the outside, but have two long benches running through the centre. The fare is very low, and the Indians are fond of travelling, so the cars were invariably crowded to suffocation. In addition to the mass of humanity each person carried a huge parcel, pail, or basket, that filled the few interstices. The Quechuas and Cholos are a good-natured lot among themselves, and do not in the least mind being placed in such close proximity with one another.

We reached Tarata in two hours. It is a town of considerable size; the elevation is nine thousand eight hundred feet, and it is desolate beyond description. The inhabitants are largely Indians of an independent temperament, though living in abject poverty. We found it almost impossible to secure lodging, or to find help to carry our luggage up from the station, so appealed to the chief of police, who rounded up a number of men and placed them at our disposal. Perhaps our difficulty was due partly to the fact that the Indians were celebrating a religious holiday. They had taken an image of a saint from the church and were carrying it back and forth through the streets. A group of them preceded the procession and set off pinwheels and cannon crackers, while those following also employed explosives of various kinds with which to add to the din. The people are so fond of this sort of pastime that it is difficult to persuade them to desist long enough to perform any service, no matter how slight; and the guise of religious fervor gives them license to indulge in acts that would not be tolerated at other times.

Padre Fulgencio, with whom we had become acquainted at the mission on the Chimoré, had told me a great deal about the monastery of San José, located at Tarata, and had given us a letter of introduction to the abbot. We therefore called upon that personage at the first available moment.

The huge building stands on an eminence overlooking the town and surrounding country, and is said to be the largest of its kind in Bolivia. We were ushered through long, gloomy corridors, past rows of small, cell-like rooms, and finally into the quarters of the abbot. This good man received us in his cell, and cordially offered to assist us in any way possible. He also invited us to make the monastery our home during our stay in Tarata. A group of monks added their invitation to their superior’s, but the edifice, with walls eight or ten feet thick, small, narrow windows, bare, gloomy rooms, and the chill damp as of a dungeon was not very inviting, and we preferred to return to the Quechua hut that seemed to belong more to the every-day world. One of the priests, however, secured an _arriero_ and mules to take us the first stage of the journey.

Our man arrived about noon on Sunday, September 18. Much to our surprise we saw that he had but one arm, but this did not prevent him from being one of the best mule-men we ever employed. He had evolved a clever system of loading the packs that was admirably suited to his needs. Instead of the long ropes or thongs ordinarily used to tie on the cargoes he had strong nets that fitted over the packs, with loops that could be hooked over pegs in the pack-saddle. He lifted the trunks, each weighing one hundred and twenty-five pounds with his one arm, slipped them into place, and then tied them securely to prevent them from bouncing up and down as the animals trotted along.

The first afternoon’s ride was short and ended at the _arriero’s_ house in a village called Uaiculi. There, as at Tarata, scores of yellow finches lived about the houses; they were fully as plentiful as English sparrows are in the United States, and acted not unlike them. The soil in this entire region is so arid and rocky that even cacti grow in limited numbers only. There are no streams, so water of a poor quality is obtained from deep wells. Nevertheless the whole country is thickly settled. The Indians are adepts at conserving the scanty water-supply, and at irrigating. They grow fruit and also cultivate small, isolated fields of grain, but the greater part of their subsistence is derived from the flocks of sheep and goats that seem to thrive in the desert-like country.

The climate is very cold and during the winter months there is a high wind. We could see funnel-shaped masses of dust moving across the plain all day long; occasionally a dozen or more, resembling small cyclones, were visible at the same time.

After leaving Uaiculi the way lay along the edge of the barren plain for some miles. A ridge of high peaks, some of them covered with snow, rises on each side. Then the trail ascended the slope to the east, rising gradually in a series of terraces, four to six hundred feet high. Sometimes low hills flanked the trail, and often we passed along the top of flat plateaus.

The slopes of the highest peaks were littered with fields of broken sandstone that resembled a quarry-dump for shattered rocks of large size; groves of gnarled trees, not over twenty-five feet high, grew in these rock-strewn areas, and we found them nowhere else. Where there were no rocks thick clumps of tall grass stood. When we reached the elevation of thirteen thousand four hundred and fifty feet we found a very peculiar plant belonging to the bromelias (_Puya_); the smooth, trunk-like stem was about eighteen inches through; this served as a pedestal for the dense clump of slender, bayonet-like leaves; a tall spike of small yellow flowers rose from the centre of the plant. Numbers of giant humming-birds (_Patagona gigas_) came to sip nectar from these flowers.

The mountains seem formed of solid sandstone. Here and there a ledge, worn and rounded by the elements, projects conspicuously and resembles an impregnable fort or castle of majestic though fantastic design. We reached a lone Indian hut late at night, and, while the _arriero_ was loath to halt, the mules were too tired to go much farther. The neighborhood was in bad repute on account of a number of robberies and murders that had recently taken place there, and not long after our arrival we saw mysterious signal-fires spring up on the surrounding slopes. We therefore camped in a corral, the enclosing stone walls serving as a barricade, and alternately did sentry duty throughout the night. I believe one of the reasons for our being left severely alone was that each member of the expedition was advised to display casually his pistol to the inhabitants of the hut, and to acquaint them with its possibilities. This same ruse has prevented serious trouble in a number of instances. I have found that by far in the greater part of South America there is not the slightest necessity of carrying a weapon of any kind; but there are isolated regions where the moral effect on the natives produced by wearing a revolver of generous size in a conspicuous place is so great that one may tread with impunity what would otherwise be dangerous ground.

The next night was spent on the banks of a narrow creek called Usiamayo, the elevation being only seven thousand nine hundred feet. Many Indians live on both sides of the stream. They own numerous flocks of sheep and goats and cultivate extensive areas of maize and wheat. Their huts are low, primitive affairs, and of such small size that they resemble overcrowded rabbit-hutches. Freshly cut grain was piled in neat heaps that were surrounded by fences of thorny brush to keep the sheep and cattle away. Corn fodder was stored in the tops of low trees. From a distance these aerial storage-places looked as if they might be the nests of some giant bird. Invariably a little shelter or wigwam stood in the centre of each field, or in several instances it had been built in the branches of a stunted tree. These are the Quechuas’ guard-houses; they are occupied by a watchman day and night so long as crops are in the field, and thieves have but slight chance, indeed, of escaping his vigilant eyes.

It was less than half a day’s ride from the Usiamayo to Mizque, a town of small size, the capital of the Province of Mizque. The cactus-forest belt of central Bolivia has its beginning in this region, although it does not reach its maximum development until some distance farther south. A part of the surrounding country, however, is fertile and provides pasturage for horses and cattle, and areas of some extent are also cultivated; this is particularly true of the land near the small stream bearing the same name as the town and province. A great deal of the acreage is planted in peppers, for which there is a good demand throughout the country, and which fetch a high price. The seeds are sown in small, sunken squares or “pans,” where the plants remain until several inches high. They are then transplanted to the fields. I saw numbers of Indians weeding in the plantations, and when they neglected their work or accidentally pulled up a few of the precious plants together with the grass, their employers did not hesitate to cuff or kick them. When the peppers are ripe they are dried and done up into bales of about fifty pounds each; the natives are very fond of them and eat quantities just as we eat an apple or other fruit.

The fauna of the Mizque region is typical of the arid highlands; but many species of birds belonging to a different zone were met with for the first time in Bolivia. I immediately recognized the white anis (_guiras_) that were so common near Asuncion, and there was also a species of puff-bird, or bucco, and a little finch of a deep-red color (_Coryphospingus_). The number of doves in the open fields was astonishing; they fed on weed-seeds, and when disturbed flew to the nearest bush or low tree which they covered much in the same manner that passenger pigeons are said to have done in this country not so many years ago. One could easily have secured thirty or forty with a single charge of number ten shot.

Near Mizque lies a narrow valley enclosed on both sides by ridges of low mountains. We repaired to this space and camped in a decaying structure that formerly served as a sawmill; for, strange to relate, this little valley was originally wooded. Most of the trees had been cut down and converted into lumber, and while a large part of the land was under cultivation, there were also extensive patches of brush and second growth. Tujma, as the place is called, deserved more time than we could give it. In addition to the birds found at Mizque were many species unknown to us; among them a blue-fronted and a red-fronted parrakeet, and a gorgeous Amazon parrot. There was also a kind of macaw (_Ara_) that we saw in that region only, and even there it was rare; the forehead and shoulders are of a blazing crimson, and the underparts of a pale-yellow color, the rest of the bird being green. Most members of the parrot family were feeding on cactus fruits that were ripening in great abundance.

A hummer of rather modest attire, being of a grayish color, but larger than our own ruby-throat, had a dainty little nest, containing two white, bean-like eggs, suspended from the ceiling of our hut. At first the bird was greatly distressed at our appearance and darted out each time we came in; but finally it became more confident and returned, frequently hovering overhead to inspect us several minutes at a time, and then slipping quietly into the nest where it sat unconcernedly, its long tongue playing in and out of the bill, like a snake’s.

Our next station was the large Indian town of Totora. We covered the entire distance of more than thirty miles in a day. The country is rough and the trail runs up and down over numerous mountain-tops, varying between seven thousand one hundred and ten thousand feet in height. There are a number of deep ravines filled with low, dry woods; they form the connecting-links with the lowland forest, and it is up these avenues that the new fauna we were constantly observing finds an easy means of invading the uplands. Before reaching Totora we had seen guans, and jays of a dark-blue color.

There were many Indians on the trail; most of them were driving burros laden with fire-wood, peppers, or sundry articles. When the tired animals stopped for a moment’s breathing-spell, their owners beat them unmercifully with stones and clubs so that some of them dropped senseless in their tracks. The drivers also used sticks with sections of cactus stuck on the end as prods to urge on the worn-out creatures.

Totora is to me the most desolate and unattractive place in all Bolivia, and the inhabitants are quite in keeping with their town. It is frequently spoken of as the miniature La Paz because, like that city, it is built in a crevice in the mountains, and one does not see it until on the very brink of the precipice above. The inhabitants are practically all Quechuas, or Cholos of a low type who spend most of their time drinking, swearing, and fighting; then they unburden their souls of guilt by celebrating a religious fiesta. We witnessed one such performance the day after our arrival. Indians and Cholos formed the inevitable procession, headed by members of the clergy; they halted at each corner and sang a hymn to the tune of a few blaring brass horns. The _gente decente_ stood on the upper balconies of their mud huts and showered home-made confetti and firecrackers on the heads of the sacred statue and the marchers.

The Indians of Totora make some of the loveliest blankets found in all Bolivia and--since the introduction of cheap German dyes--some of the most atrocious. They are woven of coarse yarn, are thick and heavy and of large size, being about seven or eight feet square. Usually there are wide stripes of two colors merging gradually into one another, and when some harmonious combination is used, such as dark green and yellow, the effect is very pleasing. The price of a blanket, requiring months to make and containing six or eight pounds of wool, was about three dollars.

Continuing our journey by way of Duraznillos and Lajma, we reached Chilón at the end of three days. A more tiresome trip is hard to imagine; the country is so uneven that one is constantly going either up hill or down, and the altitude varies from that of Totora, nine thousand eight hundred feet to ten thousand five hundred feet. The broken, arid landscape becomes monotonous, and the climate is trying owing to the heat at midday and the freezing temperature at night. The Indians scattered along the way are not of a particularly friendly nature, and are only indifferent at best.

At Chilón we entered the heart of the giant-cactus forest--and it can be properly known by no other name. The country, far as the eye can see, is covered with the thorny plants; some of the giant club-cacti rear their fluted columns to a height of sixty to seventy-five feet, and are of majestic appearance. There are also immense clumps of prickly-pear and several other varieties, while low, trailing kinds hug the rocky earth; the latter are rather unpleasant as one frequently strikes against them in walking, and the sharp spines penetrate shoe-leather and are extracted from the foot with difficulty; mules frequently get them into their noses while nibbling on leaves or the few blades of coarse grass, and are driven almost frantic with the pain. Many of the club-cactus plants bore an abundance of round fruit about two inches in diameter and covered with long, velvety down; when the outer covering was brushed off a smooth, red berry was revealed; it is very sweet and the flavor reminds one of strawberries.

Chilón is a settlement of twenty-five or thirty huts; its elevation above sea-level is five thousand six hundred feet, but the climate is very hot. We put up in one of the hovels where there was also a corral for the mules, and proceeded to work along the banks of the Rio Chilón, which is a small tributary of the Rio Mizque. The stream is rapid and shallow, and flows over a rock-strewn bed. Numbers of fish, including rays, were plainly visible through the clear water. The majority of the birds inhabiting the thorny jungle that grows on both sides of the watercourse, were still of the arid upland type; but there was a further encroachment of a foreign fauna, and the brown-shouldered orioles, coral-billed tinamou, and red-tailed parrakeets left no doubts in our minds of the origin of their distribution. They were the advance ranks of a stream of bird-life flowing up the valley of the Rio Grande and its tributaries, where conditions are at least somewhat similar to those obtaining in the chaco country to the east, which is their normal habitat.

Apparently the red-tailed parrakeets were mating. Large groups sat on the branches of some stunted tree, preening one another’s plumage, and emitting queer ani-like wails. If one observed closely, however, it could be seen that the flocks were always broken up into pairs that were snuggled up as closely together as possible.

Comarapa, the next station, is very similar to Chilón, but somewhat larger. The town is built near the base of a high range that towers to the east. A stream of small size flows past the settlement; it is known as the Rio Comarapa, and is thought to be the headwater of the Ichilo and Mamoré. The Indians said that the river flows through a deep cleft in the mountains, impossible to follow or navigate; also that an exploration-party of Germans once crossed the range with the object of locating the Ichilo on the other side, but after spending several months in the wilderness they returned without having found the river. There was at one time a well-known trail across the mountains, over which war-parties of Yuracaré Indians crossed to attack the settlers, and later they came to work in the pepper-fields; but the location of this passageway doubtless leading to the Ichilo or some other navigable stream, has been forgotten.

A few of the older families of Comarapa possess wonderful collections of ancient silverware made by the Spaniards centuries ago. One finds it difficult to refrain from openly admiring the massive ladles, bowls, plates, and cups that are unostentatiously placed on the table before the guest, but such a procedure would be considered unpardonable, as any comment on such possessions is looked upon with suspicion. To attempt to purchase an article of this kind is regarded as a very grave breach of etiquette; but not infrequently the owners of these treasures experience the need of ready money and will offer them for a fraction of their value.

The elevation of Comarapa is six thousand six hundred feet. But a short distance away rises the first outlier of the Andean Range, eight thousand three hundred feet high; from its summit we could see two other ridges, both of greater height, that must be crossed before reaching the forested slopes on the eastern side; and there may be more. We descended one thousand seven hundred feet into a small valley called California, settled by a few Quechua families. These people were squalid beyond description. Their dilapidated huts swarmed with fleas, and vermin of many kinds was so numerous that during the three days and nights we spent in the valley, no member of the party found it possible to get an hour’s sleep altogether. We left sooner than we had expected, as the insect plague drove us to the verge of exhaustion. Practically all the Indians we saw were suffering from consumption. Many of them had lost the sight of one eye, and I was told that in fighting among themselves they invariably try to gouge out one another’s eyes with their thumbs.

From a short distance the valley and the slopes above California appear to be heavily forested, but a close inspection showed that there was but a dense growth of low, dry woods, the trees not exceeding forty feet in height; the interlocking branches were draped with long streamers of grayish moss. The ground was perfectly clean and one could see a long distance ahead in the greenish-gray light. The surroundings were almost weird; subconsciously one expected to find strange sacrificial altars, and bearded Druids officiating at some gruesome rite of a mythical religion. Beautiful little deer walked timidly among the column-like trunks of the garlanded sanctuary, sniffing the air, and nibbling daintily at a leaf or twig, and made the hunter feel like an intruder in a consecrated place.

Upon our return to Comarapa we met a gentleman representing a mercantile establishment in Cochabamba. He was making his semiannual tour of the region, taking orders for merchandise, and collecting for goods sold on the previous trip. Most of his customers paid with silver and nickel coins, so that he had several mule-loads of money in his possession. One night our Indian boy came to us in a state of great excitement. He had been drinking _chicha_ in an Indian liquor-store together with the _peons_ belonging to the merchant, and one of them, while under the influence of drink, boasted that he expected to murder and rob his _patrón_. A plan had been carefully formed to suddenly attack the man from behind, while riding along a lonely and precipitous part of the trail. The body was then to be thrown over the precipice into the river below, where no one would ever discover it, and the money taken by the highwayman and his accomplice. Naturally, we lost no time in imparting this information to the traveller, and he at once interviewed the would-be assassin. He first of all questioned the man carefully, and when he had succeeded in obtaining a partial confession, he mauled him back and forth across the room until he was tired out. Thereafter we all travelled together, and the plotter, as further punishment, was deprived of his horse and compelled to walk in advance of the party day after day. He had been in the merchant’s employ six years, and the latter did not care to turn him over to the police, but was certain that the punishment inflicted was sufficient to inspire proper respect in the future.

A brisk canter of eighteen miles took us from Comarapa to Pulcina, also known as San Isidro. A tame condor was standing dolefully in the centre of the open square about which the houses were built; it was a friendly bird and liked to be petted and to romp, but was pretty rough at times, and picked off pieces of skin during the course of its rather too affectionate caresses.

As we unloaded the mules the bells in the tiny box-like church began to tinkle, and all the people rushed out of their houses, bearing lighted candles in their hands. They hurried to one of the huts where a youth lay dying, and crowded into the one dingy room, filling it to overflowing, and raising their voices in wails and lamentations; this continued for half an hour. No priest or physician was present; only the noisy mob of half-wild people, to whom death comes as a divertisement from the daily humdrum of half-lived lives, to speed the parting soul to the great beyond.

Pulcina was swarming with dogs. It seemed as if each family owned at least half a dozen. They were a hungry mongrel lot, that roamed at large, snarling at passers-by and rending the night with howls and fighting. It was impossible to keep them out of the houses, and no matter how often they were driven away they always returned to rummage among the luggage and attempt to tear open the provision-sacks. Toward morning, when the dogs had departed, pigs came to take their place. Each of them wore a long, forked stick over the neck, like an inverted Y; another stick was lashed across the bottom so that the pig’s neck was enclosed in a complete wooden triangle. This arrangement would have kept the pigs from crawling through fences, had there been any. Some of the contrivances were so large that they had apparently been made in the hope that the animals would eventually grow to fit them; but as it was, they touched the ground and made the wearers think they were constantly about to step over something, so they walked along raising their front feet like well-trained circus horses.

A ride of thirty miles next day brought us to Pampa Grande. The town was anything but what the name led us to expect. Instead of a vast, grass-covered pampa, there was but a semiarid plain; near by extended the wide, rocky bed of a river that contained not a drop of water. The inhabitants had dug deep down into the gravel and scooped up the small quantity of thin mud that had collected; it is a place about the size of Mizque but wretched-looking and forsaken. Formerly it had a population of sixty thousand and was noted for the brilliancy and gayety of its annual fairs, that drew crowds even from the Argentine. Epidemics of fever, it is said, killed off many of the people, and others fled from the threatening shadow of the pestilence, until to-day the once thriving city has all but ceased to exist.

At Pampa Grande we had a very good illustration of two extreme types of Bolivian character. When we entered the town, our travelling companion met an acquaintance who owned practically the only house of any size. The Bolivian greeted him in the friendliest and most polite manner possible, and insisted that all of us spend the night at his home; he directed us to the house and then excused himself, saying that he would return presently. We found the place without difficulty, but the wife refused to admit us and told us we might wait--in the street--until the return of her husband. The school-teacher, seeing our predicament, ventured to offer us the use of the classroom; he apologized because it was so small and the roof leaked; and the next day he refused to accept a single _centavo_ for the accommodation. The first man had not returned home when we were leaving the following morning; from my experience with the same type of person, I am certain that had he returned and admitted us to his home, he would have made an exorbitant charge that courtesy demanded our paying.

There now remained but one day’s ride to Samaipata, where the trail divides--one branch leading toward Sucre, and the other to Santa Cruz de la Sierra. The farther eastward one goes the greener the country becomes. Between the five-thousand-foot elevation of Pampa Grande and Samaipata, which is six thousand feet above sea-level, there are two peaks to be crossed, one seven thousand three hundred and twenty-five feet, and the other six thousand seven hundred feet high. The top of the former is known as the Alto de Mairana; it is a cold, dreary little plateau where half a dozen wretched Indians live. The town of Mairana is on the lower plain between the two peaks. Patches of low brush replace the cacti and thorny, arid-region type of vegetation; there is a sufficient water-supply; and the whole country seems to present a transition zone of reviving life between the alternately hot and frigid upland deserts and the green slopes stretching toward Santa Cruz.