CHAPTER XIII

ARICA TO ILO OVERLAND, VIA TACNA, TARATA, AND MOQUEGUA

Arica is seven hours north of Pisagua. Its population is 4886. It is the pleasantest port on the rainless coast for in its neighborhood is verdure due to irrigation from the Lluta River. It looks nice from the steamer's deck, which appearance is not belied by a visit to the lower town. The upper town, which extends to the desert, is a compactly built place of low buildings, but is far superior to the other coast towns of its size. In the lower town are the banks, shipping offices, and government buildings. Its streets are bordered with pepper trees and it has two cool and pleasant plazas in one of which the Italian residents have erected a bust to Columbus. Arica is the port of the provincial capital, Tacna, but its present importance is due to the opening in 1913 of a railroad to La Paz, Bolivia, of which city it is also a port. A traveler is carried to the Bolivian metropolis in twenty-four hours over a pass thirteen thousand feet high.

One of the first things that I did when I arrived in Arica was to go to the steamship office to find out about the sailings of the ships on the Chilean Line and of the Pacific Steam Navigation Company. The agent for both these lines was the American consul, a man whose name I believe was Smith. As I was waiting for information, Smith himself appeared and he was in an ugly mood. He was a thin blonde man about fifty years old, bespectacled, and had red blotches on his face which showed that he was a heavy drinker. In fact he stunk of liquor. He was an Englishman and was acting as representative for the United States.

"Can't you read the schedule?" he inquired, indicating a time card which hung on the wall of the outer office.

"Yes, but owing to the ships being overcrowded, I want to make reservations."

"Wait until the ship arrives, then we will sell you a ticket," he answered hastily and then left the room. This was a nice fix because if I returned to Arica a few hours before sailing, it might happen that there would be so much loading and unloading of merchandise that it would be too late for me to buy my ticket after getting my passports viséd. There was no use of arguing with such self-important and gin-soaked individuals as Smith so I went away trusting to chance. It turned out that I did not return to Arica to catch the steamer because I traveled overland to Ilo, the port of Moquegua in Peru. A half hour after leaving the shipping office I saw Smith coming out of a _cantina_ or saloon in the lower town and after walking for about a block he entered another one. Later on in the afternoon, happening to be in the barroom of the Hotel Francia, I arrived in time to see him gulp down a tumbler of gin and follow it up with a brandy chaser. I stepped up to him and offered to treat him, mainly to see what mood he would be in, and was surprised to hear him acquiesce by ordering a half pint of Guinness' stout. This performance he kept up all day and I was told by the brother of the hotel proprietress that it was a daily trick of his.

When the _Guatemala_ anchored at Arica a French Calvinist minister, Dr. Petit, came on board to visit one of the passengers, the Reverend McLaughlin, a Methodist Episcopal minister from Buenos Aires. McLaughlin introduced me to Petit and during the following days at both Arica and Tacna I became fairly well acquainted with him. Petit had a degree as a physician but changed his profession to that of minister of the gospel. He had done considerable missionary work in South America and had a church in Arica where he preached. He did not believe in war but was a strong advocate for divorce; in fact he was contemplating divorcing his wife whom he claimed was unfaithful. He was at the present prevented from doing so because there is no divorce law in South America excepting Uruguay, and he did not have enough money to go to Montevideo to start proceedings. He also informed me that if the husband of the proprietress of the Hotel Francia was onto his job he would divorce her because that woman had driven him to distraction by her amours and her extravagances, so that to avoid domestic scenes the poor fellow had returned to France, hoping to be killed in battle to relieve him of his mental anguish. The husband I understand is an officer. Petit was a truly conscientious man and was wrapped in his work as missionary; he did not practice religion as a cloak to cover his sins. In build he was an athlete.

None of Arica's hotels are highly recommendable although the Hotel de France, or Francia as the natives call it, is the best. It is run by an accommodating peroxide or lemon juice blonde Frenchwoman about forty years old who is heartily sick of Arica and is anxious to sell out. This is the woman whom Dr. Petit had no respect for. The real manager of the hotel is her brother, a good-for-nothing, powerfully built creature about her age whose chief pleasure is to emulate Smith's example by overindulgence in alcoholic refreshments and to argue and quarrel with the guests.

A landmark for miles around is the solitary rock named the Morro de Arica which towers above the town. It is a duplicate of Gibraltar, and was one of Peru's last strongholds during the Pacific War. It was defended in 1880 by a regiment of Bolognesi's troops under Colonel Uguarte. In the face of a violent storm of rifle bullets, the Chilenos took the Morro by landing a short distance down the coast and climbing it from behind. When Uguarte saw that he had lost he spurred his horse to the brink of the precipice and jumped to his death several hundred feet below. Many of his followers did likewise because the Chilenos had the reputation of taking no captives. The Morro is now strongly fortified. People are forbidden to make its ascent and the day before I arrived two men were thrown into jail for attempting it. In front of the Morro is a small, low guano island. It is used as a fort and is honeycombed so that it can hold a force of five hundred men.

The day after we arrived a northbound Chilean steamer put into the harbor of Arica. On it was Kermit Roosevelt returning to the United States after having spent some time in the employ of the National City Bank at Buenos Aires. We did not know he was on the ship until walking down one of the streets a man breathlessly hurried towards us and asked us if either one of us were Señor Roosevelt. Thinking that some wag had told the gentleman one of us was Teddy, Prat answered saying that he was Colonel Roosevelt. Now Prat is a slender, medium-sized man about thirty years old and clean shaven and I cannot understand what kind of an ass that Arica gentleman was when he accepted Prat's statement and believed him. He stated that there was a delegation already to meet him and that he himself would accompany him to the _cabildo_ where a banquet was being arranged. A crowd gathered around Prat and would have carried him off by force if an Italian blacksmith had not appeared on the scene who had seen Colonel Roosevelt and told the natives that a joke was being played on them.

The province of Tacna, the most northern in Chile, formerly belonged to Peru. At the close of the Pacific War in 1880, Chile, the victor over Peru and Bolivia, annexed to her already long seacoast the Bolivian province Antofagasta and the Peruvian province Tarapaca; Tacna it was only supposed to annex temporarily. Chile was to occupy it for twenty years; a vote of the inhabitants was then to be taken to determine which country it should go to. Thirty-eight years have passed by and still no vote has been taken. The chances are that it will always remain Chilean. To keep it so, Chile has seven regiments in the province, five of which are stationed at Tacna, the capital city. The present government has tried to Chilenize the province by planting within its confines men from the south of the republic so that even in the event of a vote, which is doubtful, the majority will be in favor of the present ownership. It is another Alsace and Lorraine question because Peru is always thinking of the day when it will get it back and its inhabitants are Peruvian sympathizers. Peru even goes through the sham of having Tacna and Arica represented in its congress at Lima.

Tacna is thirty-eight miles north of Arica. The connecting railroad is the oldest in South America having been completed in 1844. The railroad at first skirts a fertile fringe near the seashore and then crosses a sandy desert until within a few kilometers of Tacna when it enters an oasis caused by irrigation from the Caplina River, all of whose water is drawn off for the gardens so that none of it empties into the ocean.

Tacna lies at an altitude of 2820 feet above sea level but so imperceptible is the rise that one can imagine it to be on the same level plain as Arica. The population is 14,176, including five thousand soldiers. The city appears much larger. The ordinary transient would carry the impression that it is a town of twenty-five thousand people. It is a healthy place yet the death rate exceeds the birth rate, which state of affairs is true in many old settled towns all over the world.

Tacna is a beautiful place and is well worth a visit. It is the best built city in Chile and is the only one where the buildings are of stone. It is opulent,--a rarity in Chile,--its inhabitants are refined, educated, and wealthy. There are handsome public buildings, large stores, and spacious houses. In many respects Tacna has a European appearance. The most noticeable object that strikes one's vision in the city is a large stone shell of an incompleted cathedral with two massive stone towers. The square trimming stones are of a pinkish hue while the ordinary ones are the dun-colored ones of the country. This huge shell will never be completed. It was built from the plans of the French architect, Charles Pitaud, when Tacna was a Peruvian city. Then came the Pacific War and the money for its completion was turned into other channels. Monsieur Pitaud returned to France; Chile took Tacna, and used much of the iron for the framework of the cathedral for military purposes. When everything again became normal, the people wished again to complete the cathedral. Pitaud in the meantime had died and his drawings were never found so it was impossible to complete the building. In design it was to be much like the Duomo in Florence.

Another of Pitaud's works of art is the bronze fountain in the Plaza Colon. It was cast in 1868 and is the finest in the Western Hemisphere. There are more expensive ones, elaborate sculptures of marble, but none its equal artistically.

The streets of Tacna are paved, most of them with round polished stones, and many are bordered with trees planted along the curbs. There is much verdure and the city has several shady plazas with statues. There is a marble one to Columbus in the plaza of the same name. The Alameda Anibal Pinto is a garden spot. It is a well-kept-up lovely parkway. A peculiarity of Tacna is the architecture of many of its residences. These are gabled, but by far the most have "sawed off" gables. In these the sides slope upwards as if to form a gable, but about a yard or more below the imaginary peak, they terminate in a flat roof. This style is supposed to make them earthquake resisting.

Of the six Courts of Appeals in the republic, one is at Tacna. Both Antofagasta and Iquique for a long time have been trying to get it away for themselves, but so far have been unsuccessful. Of the five regiments stationed at Tacna, two are artillery, two are infantry, and one is cavalry. There was an engineer corps but it has been moved to Copiapó.

Tacna has a good hotel, the Raiteri, owned by an Italian of the same name. His business, which has somewhat fallen off since the Arica-La Paz railroad has been completed, is large enough, however, for him to keep two annexes running. His hotel is one of the best in rural Chile. The coffee is the best I have had served to me in South America. There is another hotel named the Tibios Baños (Warm Baths). It is of the free and easy sort where when you engage a room the landlord asks you, "With or without?" and governs the price accordingly. It has a cool grape arbor where it is pleasant to repair hot Sunday afternoons for a schuper of beer.

In an obscure corner of the province not far from the Peruvian line lies the high, broad mountain valley of the Ticalco River, hemmed in on all sides by snow-capped mountains, the lowest of which is higher than the highest mountains of North America save McKinley, St. Elias, and Popocatepetl. The Ticalco is joined by numerous freshets from the melting snow and like a silver thread flows through this valley and by great jumps cuts its way through a gorge before it finally joins with the Salado at Talapalco to form the Sama, the national boundary with Peru. Although very high, of all the valleys of the Province of Tacna, the Ticalco is the most fertile. It is cold; no fruit excepting the apple thrives, but as a recompense it is rich in oats and in alfalfa. In this valley and on a small stream about a mile above where it flows into the Ticalco River lies the town of Tarata, 9919 feet above sea level. Its population probably numbers five hundred souls. It is the third town in size in the Province of Tacna. It is the capital of a department, newly created, has a court house and a barracks.

To Tarata I went. Don Santiago Carmona, a rich _haciendero_ of Tarata, was in Tacna with a caravan of thirty-one mules and six horses. Accompanying him were five muleteers. One of the horses he himself rode. Several times a year he made these trips. He would drive a herd of cattle the two days' trip into Tacna, sell them, and return with his mules laden with flour, oil stoves, kerosene, beans, onions, beds, and blankets. On the narrow streets of Tacna his caravan made a picturesque sight. I expressed a desire to see Tarata, and the man to whom I expressed it, a resident of Tacna but a stranger to me whom I stopped in front of his residence to inquire into the history of the unfinished cathedral and with whom I entered into a general conversation, said that he would speak to Señor Carmona asking his permission for me to accompany him on his return trip. He would let me know the result later at my hotel. True to his word, late in the afternoon he appeared at the hotel bar (the place where most business is transacted in Chilean small towns) bringing with him a tall, wind-tanned, thin man of about fifty-five years of age who wore a straggling grayish beard and a moustache of the Don Quixote type. This man was Don Santiago Carmona. He said that he was returning home the next morning and with great politeness and dignity invited me to accompany him as his guest. This invitation I gladly accepted and for their kindness I treated both gentlemen to as much Fernet Branca and vermouth as they could handle, and then some.

I made arrangements with Signor Raiteri for three horses, a mozo, provisions, and blankets. It is certain that Señor Carmona would have shared blankets with Prat and myself, but since I did not care to impose upon him we brought our own equipment which in reality belonged to Raiteri. As it was Carmona refused to allow me to use any of the provisions I brought along, but made me eat from his larder, his mozos doing the cooking.

At eight o'clock in the morning we started from a courtyard across the street from the market. Now the direct way out of the city was to follow the Alameda, but Carmona evidently wishing to inspire the inhabitants with a reverence for his own importance had his caravan of mules cross the Alameda and turn up the main street, which indeed created a general diversion for all the clerks ran to the sidewalk and the pedestrians halted to view this extraordinary cavalcade. At the parochial church we again turned into the Alameda and followed that avenue the length of the extremely long town.

The valley of the Caplina is narrow, fertile, and is a veritable garden. One thing I noticed as we left the city behind. We would come to fields in the height of production with irrigation ditches full of water. Adjoining them we would see parched fields of bushes trying to eke out a meager existence. The flow of water from the Caplina is not sufficient to supply all the arable land in the valley. A farmer will raise crops for several years in one field; then when the soil has run out he will cultivate an adjoining field, neglecting the first one, and will deviate the water to the new one. After a few years he will give up the new field and return to the first one which in the meantime has been fertilized by nitrate. Since there are but few cattle on the coastal plain, no manure is used to bring up the land, but nitrates are easily imported from Pisagua. On account of nitrates washing away they are put on the uncultivated land during the period that the fields are not in use. The road follows the right bank of the stony river bed whose water has been turned aside to water the quintas as the small gardens are called. In some spots there is an intermission of the cultivation where the sandy desert comes down to the river bed, but the trees and green gardens always begin again. From this valley Iquique receives most of its fruits and vegetables.

Calientes which we reached after six hours' travel but which can be reached in one and a half hours by automobile and in two and a half by carriage, is the place where we left the road. On our way there we passed through three hamlets--Calana, La Vilca, and Pachia. Each has a cantina and thither Don Santiago, Prat, and myself repaired to moisten our dusty throats with native red wine while the mules took a breathing spell. The thirsty mozos stood humbly at one end of the cantina drinking their wine in silence while we stood at the counter which served as a bar. Calientes is so named from some hot springs which here gush forth from the sides of a barren mountain. They are sulphurous and when the rivulet which springs from them enters the Caplina, the water is turned black caused by the precipitate the sulphur of the rivulet makes with the copper properties of the Caplina. There are at Calientes but a few huts. Here we unsaddled the beasts and in the hour's rest the mozos cooked a stew which served as a midday repast.

An hour after leaving Calientes we arrived at a couple of huts which are called Tacuco and two hours later in the dim light of the waning day reached the end of the first day's ride at the hamlet of Challata deep down in the valley at the foot of Mount Pallagua. The night was cool and the bountiful meal of cazuela, stew, and vegetables eaten before a roaring camp-fire with the murmuring of the rapidly flowing stream at our feet made me rejoice that I was far away from the sham and inane conventions of modern city life. A peon offered us his only bed in his hut but Don Santiago and myself spread our blankets on some straw pallets in an open shed with the starlit sky for a canopy, and there we slept until awakened by the sonorous grunting of sows at dawn.

"We have a hard day ahead of us," remarked Señor Carmona after we forded the Caplina and started the steep ascent up the sandy side of Pallagua. A high mountain range to the right had shut off a vista of the snow peaks of the Cordillera, but upon reaching a stony plateau, suddenly the high dome of the extinct volcano Tacora, 19,338 feet high reared its lofty summit above the whole eastern mountain chain. To the northeast appeared Uchusuma, 18,023 feet high, while near at hand were the ice fields of the Cordillera del Baroso. These high mountains are visible from Arica, at which port the Andes come nearer the ocean than at any other place on the South American continent except Puerto Montt. After two hours' climb up the barren ridge we reached a spine and then descended by zigzags to the canyon formed by the Quebracho de Chero in which grew a few mountain shrubs not unlike chaparral. In Indian file we followed the narrow trail between the mountains Pallagua (altitude 13,065 feet) on the right and Palquilla (altitude 12,415 feet) on the left and arrived at midday at the Pass of Caquilluca about 12,000 feet above the sea level where we rested a couple of hours and had our dinner.

Behind us all was desert and as we looked westward past the numerous creases of the earth's surface which were arid canyons and valleys we could see the limitless expanse of the blue Pacific Ocean. At our feet to the north and west lay a valley as green as an emerald traversed by silvery streams, and dotted with light blue farmhouses. In the distance was a cluster of buildings which I was told was Tarata. Hemming in the whole valley were the mountains whose snowy bulwarks formed a circle leaving only one gap that in the northwest through which the Ticalco flowed. These mountains from west to east were Cumaile (altitude 17,095 feet), Vivini (altitude 17,733 feet), Chilicolpa (altitude 18,303 feet), Chiliculco (altitude, 16,835 feet), Barroso, and Uchusuma.

It was six o'clock in the evening when the caravan, having clattered over the narrow pebbly streets of Tarata, pulled up at the Casa de Huespedes (Guests' House) where I was to spend the night. Señor Carmona made me acquainted with the fat mixed-breed Vargas who owns the tambo, and after admonishing him to take good care of me, he galloped off to his three-league-distant ranch saying that he would look me up the next afternoon.

Tarata does not lie on level ground as it appears from the mountains above the town. The streets slope steeply down to the Ticalco which is no more than a creek. Near its banks is a narrow level stretch of land where the plaza, town hall, and church stand. This stream not only serves for irrigating purposes but it is likewise the sole supply for potable water and for washing purposes. Every morning its banks are cluttered with half-breed and Indian women who lay their laundry on the stony slopes of the stream to dry. On the plaza which is bordered by Lombardy poplars is a bandstand where twice a week a six-piece band plays. Beneath these trees is a fringe of alfalfa where the village cows graze. Like in Tacna the houses have the same sawed-off gables, and like in that city they are painted tones of salmon and blue. The town hall is the only two-story building in the place and with the exception of the church belfry it is the tallest. The church is a cream-colored affair with a domed steeple rising from the center of its façade. On it painted in red is the inscription "Anno 1808," the date of its founding.

Strolling about the village I was surprised to see, through the windows of the residences, pianos, and one saloon had a billiard table. It required much labor to bring them here for all transportation of merchandise is done by mule back. In the fields were many llamas. They are never used in carrying burdens to the low altitudes because they sicken while at work below six thousand feet elevation. In the high altitudes both llamas and mules are used for beasts of burden. Horses are employed only for pleasure riding as they cannot stand the lightness of the atmosphere to work in. Llamas refuse to carry more than one hundred pounds burden, and no matter how much beating they receive, are persistent in their refusal to be laden with more. They are not so docile as they look. Their method of fighting is to run up and strike one with their forefeet; they also spit a nauseating substance at a stranger if he approaches too close to one of them. One of them did this trick on me and when I assailed it with my riding crop it struck at me with its forefeet. A kick from me in its belly only gave me the satisfaction of making it grunt. Its disgusting saliva nearly ruined a suit of my clothes.

In the afternoon on the day after my arrival in Tarata, Señor Carmona came to the Casa de Huespedes and asked me to call on the priest with him. The latter, Padre Albarracin lived in an adobe house which had a broad verandah adjoining the cream-colored church. When we entered he was sitting in the patio behind a morning-glory vine talking with two officers of the Chilean army, Captain Frias and Lieutenant Guzman. They had evidently been "hitting it up" as was evidenced by several empty quart bottles of chicha (grape cider) lying about, and also for the fact that each of the trio held a glass half-filled. We were invited to join with them in the libation and I discovered that this drink, ordinarily a temperance beverage, had fermented to such an extent as to make the imbiber feel as if he were walking on wires. Shortly after we arrived the two officers left and the priest invited us to remain for dinner.

He clapped his hands to which a chola girl appeared.

"Kill the two game cocks that got whipped last week, and throw them in the kettle," he commanded.

Our conversation turned to hidden treasure and antiquities which the neighboring mountains are said to be full of if we can believe legend. Tarata is in the heart of what once was the great Inca Empire. Upon the advent of the Spaniards the Incas hid from them the greater part of their ornaments of silver and gold where they remain undiscovered to this day. The Spaniards worked the mines of Peru, Chile, and Bolivia, but they in turn for three centuries were a prey to the pirates which ravaged the coast and many of the inhabitants were obliged to bury their wealth to keep it from them. The Catholic Church in South America was always wealthy in its amount of gold ornaments, so when the Inquisition was overthrown, it was in vogue for the citizens to loot the churches. In order to save its wealth from rapinous hands, the clergy sequestered much of its treasure in the mountains. Priests were murdered by pillaging bands of Indians and with their death was lost the cue to the hiding-places. Enough treasure has been found, practically stumbled upon, to give authenticity that vast amounts have been hidden, but the only person in modern times that made a fabulously rich haul was Valverde in Ecuador, who was wise enough when he found his treasure to return to Spain and die in opulence.

Padre Albarracin excused himself and soon returned bringing with him two images several inches long which he said were Inca idols of silver. He also stated that they were in good hands because the pagans could not get them as long as they were in his possession; the drunker he got the oftener he would repeat this and utter quotations from the Scripture such as this: "Their idols are of silver and gold, the work of men's hands. Eyes have they, but they see not," etc. When he finished he would ask me: "It applies, does it not? These idols are of silver."

Then with a sweep he would send them flying from the table. Once I ran to pick them up. "Do they please you?" he asked. I answered in the affirmative. "Then you may have them," he said. He then expounded on the great sacrifice he was making saying that these two manikins were the identical ones Holy Writ referred to and that they were priceless on account of it.

After supper when I was examining one he grabbed it away from me, climbed on a chair, and placed it on top of a wardrobe. When I asked him why he did that he replied that he was hiding it because he feared that I would worship it. I told him that there was little chance, which made him quote more Scripture such as: "Let the heathen rage, and the people imagine a vain thing."

When he went to get another bottle of chicha, I removed the idol from the wardrobe. The other one was lying on the mantlepiece and I took them both because he gave them to me. I have shown these idols to many people and although I have had them stolen several times by acquaintances, I have always got them back. Regarding antiquities Señor Carmona made me a present of a plate of solid silver hand wrought in Cuzco in the end of the sixteenth century. On its face are the portraits of Pizarro and of Atahulapa carved in silver. Although it was of no value to Carmona, who would have been unable to sell it for more than its intrinsic value of metal, I have been offered three thousand dollars for it which I refused to consider.

Padre Albarracin was getting so drunk that both Don Santiago and myself excused ourselves soon after supper. Coming out of the house, Prat stumbled over something lying in the garden. It was Lieutenant Guzman in full dress uniform, soused and dead to the world. Things were just as bad at the Casa de Huespedes. Captain Frias was asleep with his head on the dining room table, and Vargas fell down the stairs trying to show Carmona his room. The cause of the debauch was due to the fact that Don Santiago brought up much wine, gin, vermouth, and grape chicha with his mule caravan. The shaking the chicha got en route augmented its fermentation which made it as bad as hard cider. The night before when we arrived he had left six cases to be distributed to the priest, the alcalde, the intendente, Captain Frias, Vargas, and the notary.

The next day I rode to Carmona's hacienda which is located about nine miles up the Ticalco River on a level expanse of land which stretches northward to the stony slopes of the barren mountain Cumaile. The house itself is a long, low, rambling affair of adobe which was once whitewashed, but that so long ago that but little of the white color is left on its sides. It rains in this region and the broad tiles of the roof are the only things, I take it, which prevented the building from being melted by the rains. A compound originally enclosed the whole building, flower garden, and adjacent peon and work sheds, but at the present time only pieces of wall of this compound remain. It was destroyed in 1881 by the Chilean soldiers who here besieged the Peruvian landlord who had fortified himself and held out behind the walls. Everywhere on the landscape steers grazed in tall alfalfa, fattening themselves for the butcher shops of the coast towns.

Most of the civil inhabitants of Tacna and Tarata are of Peruvian origin having either been born there when the Chilean Province of Tacna formed part of the Peruvian Province of Moquegua, or are descendants of people born before the Pacific War. Tacna is an old town of stone buildings, not at all Chilean in character, but very much like the larger towns of south central Peru. The natives have strong Peruvian sympathies and are always living in hope that some day or other Tacna and Arica will be returned to Peru. Now this is ridiculous because Chile has no intention of giving these places up, although the resources of the Province of Tacna are small. The most important feature is that Arica is the seaport of La Paz, Bolivia, and it is well for Chile to retain possession of it. Tacna was a poor town when it was Peruvian; the majority of its inhabitants lived in poverty. Since it has become Chilean, it has prospered and is to-day very wealthy. This is largely due to live regiments which are stationed there and which bring money into the town. For the past thirty years Peru has passed through many changes of governments, and revolutions have been frequent; it has been misgoverned and unprogressive. Chile, although it cannot be called progressive has aims that way but has been handicapped from the want of money and immigration. It has only had one revolution; that a small civil war started by Balmaceda, but in government, progress, and in everything else is so far ahead of Peru that it seems incredible that the natives of the Province of Tacna are desirous of again returning to Peru's revolutionary and mediæval yoke.

Don Santiago Carmona was an exceptional haciendero in so far that he is a native Chileno. He left his birthplace, La Serena, forty years ago and never once has he returned. His military service was spent not far from Temuco where his regiment was quartered as a protection to the settlers against the Araucanian invasions. For this reason he took no part in the Pacific War. His father died when he was in the service and he was left with a small fortune. With this money he bought from the Chilean Government the hacienda that he now resides upon. The latter had originally confiscated it from the Peruvian landlord who had fortified himself there against him. Carmona married a Peruvian girl from Tacna who had long since died after having borne two sons. One of these sons is a haciendero in Ovalle and the other is a priest in Spain. The latter is figuring on returning shortly to Chile because he has been offered a sacerdotal office in Santiago. Carmona has become wealthy and is thinking of making a a trip for a half-year's duration to his birthplace, thence to Ovalle, Santiago, and Araucania. He also has a desire to see Punta Arenas.

Prat suggested that since we had come thus far towards Peru by land that it would be as well to continue it this way. He had a mortal fear of seasickness to which malady he was a prey every time he put foot upon a ship no matter how calm the water was. Now I had no maps with me and did not know how to get to Peru, although I knew that Tacna was the northernmost province of Chile and the boundary line was no great distance away. To get information on the subject I went to Don Santiago who told me that Moquegua was the nearest Peruvian city, but that it was a week distant over a hot, sandy desert, and that the best way would be for me to return to Arica and go up the coast by steamer. He said that in Tarata there were people who had made the horseback ride to Moquegua and that it would be possible for me to hire a _cholo_ to accompany us. I had heard about bandits in the interior and asked him about it. He answered that highwaymen existed only in the high mountains near the Bolivian frontier, and that I would find the few inhabitants in the country I was contemplating traveling through very docile. Beyond the Sama River which was Peru, he knew nothing about the inhabitants but imagined them to be much the same as on the Chilean side of it. The Peruvian boundary was not fifteen miles away, yet the hacienderos of the neighborhood seldom crossed it, and it was as much of a _tierra incognita_ with them as is the interior of Chihuahua to the ordinary citizen of El Paso, Texas.

At Tarata, through the services of the notary who was an intimate of Don Santiago, we procured an overgrown boy of the cholo variety who, after considerable haggling, proposed to take us to Moquegua for the sum of one hundred pesos Chileno (less than $20.00). He was to fetch back the beasts that we were to procure as a loan from Don Santiago. Having shipped my valise to Lima from Tacna, I was unencumbered save for the blankets and a few edibles which I carried. Prat was attired in a Palm Beach suit and wore a straw sailor hat which looked as much out of place in this part of the country, where everybody rode in spurred boots, were clad in ponchos, and wore as head gear broad-brimmed pointed felt hats, as a snowball in hell.

We descended the valley formed by the Ticalco, and after riding for over an hour came to a place where a stream from the north, named the Ticaco, joined the Ticalco and formed the Pistala River. The valley narrowed in and presently the mountains came down to the stream so closely that one could with ease throw a stone across the canyon. A rocky promontory on the left was rounded and the green, fertile pocket in which Tarata nestles was shut from view. A half-score of adobe huts with red-tile roofs were arrived at. These constitute the hamlet of Pistala, all of whose inhabitants are Indians. The horse trail, instead of descending with the river, keeps on an even altitude so that it is soon a sheer height of several hundred feet about it, its way having been dug out of the shaly rock that constitutes the side of the mountains. Around a bend is a narrow canyon and down this it zigzags for half a mile and finally crosses a tiny stream named the Jaruma, which a mile farther down, jumps into the Pistala forming a new river--the Tala. At the ford of the Jaruma is a primitive mill with a huge water wheel. From here on to the Sama River is a very steep descent by a narrow bridle path and very dangerous on account of the precipices which form a gorge through which the waters of the Tala rush from shelf to shelf with a roar. On the narrow mountain path we met a troop of llamas laden with sugar cane and tubers in charge of three _arrieros_. At our approach they leaped onto the rocks above as nimbly as goats. The arrieros and ourselves had to dismount; they backed their horses to a ledge and we led ours past them before mounting again. Where the Tala joins the Sama it must be two thousand feet lower than Tarata. This is in a broad valley well cultivated to corn, potatoes, and alfalfa in which are many mud huts of the natives and an occasional chapel. The river bed is wide but the stream itself is narrow and forks out in many channels which every little way unite again. The Chilean or south side slopes gently down to the stream in some places leaving a plain of a mile wide at the water's edge, while the Peruvian side is mountainous, precipitous, and uncultivated. The mountains are absolutely destitute of any cultivation. We continued all day down this river, following the Chilean side, and camped at night beside a ruined stone wall across the stream from the Peruvian hamlet of Sambalai Grande, at an altitude of 3025 feet. During the afternoon the mountains had receded and their places were taken by high sandy hills the essence of lonesome desolation. The water in the river had much diminished having been used largely for irrigation. I was told that what little there is left is used for the cane-fields which are plenty about twenty-five miles farther down. This cane is not made into sugar but into rum; also much of the cane is cut and is sent up on mule back to the high country where the natives themselves ferment it, using the pulp as fodder. Estevan, the cholo guide, although polite and humble, would never talk unless spoken to and then he would answer in monosyllables. Prat and I had no idea how far Moquegua was for we had no map; Carmona said it would take a week, but he had never been there. I knew it could not be that far because Ilo, its port, is only a half-day's steam north of Arica, and we were now considerably north of that last-mentioned place. I several times asked Estevan how far Moquegua was, but to each query he would answer the highly unintelligent reply of "muy lejo," which translated into English means "very far," but fails to designate whether the distance is two kilometers or two thousand miles. This is an example of a conversation between Estevan and myself.

"How far is Moquegua?" I asked him.

"Muy lejo" (very far), he answered.

"How far?"

"Lejo" (far), was his brilliant answer.

"Is it a week's journey?"

"Quien sabe" (who knows).

"Is it three days away?"

"Dios sabe" (God knows).

"Can we make it in one day?"

"No, señor."

"Can we make it in two days?"

"I do not know, señor."

"Can we make it in three days?"

"I do not know, señor."

"You have made the trip to Moquegua before?"

"Si, si, señor" (yes, yes, sir).

"And yet you don't remember how long it took you to make it?"

"I have forgotten, señor."

The country across the river did not look very inviting to us and it was decidedly exasperating to be met with answers of such unintelligence especially as we had to cross what appeared to be a duplicate of the Mohave Desert. We forded the shallow Sama to some mud huts in a field of alfalfa, from one of which waved the washed-out and dirty cloth which once was the red, white, and red flag of Peru. No sooner had we reached high ground than a fat, dirty half-breed, barefooted and wearing filthy linen trousers beneath a faded blue military coat on the shoulders of which were red epaulettes, planted himself in our way and assuming a grandiose air of mock dignity inquired our business.

"We are travelers for Moquegua," I told him.

"What is your business there?" he asked insolently.

"To visit the town."

This reply took some time to penetrate his thick skull. He pondered over it and then a gleam of intelligence spread over his fat countenance which, by the way, was smeared yellow with the yoke of an egg he had just been eating, as he replied in an interrogative kind of a way:

"Ah, Ustedes son Judios!" (Ah, you are Jews!)

This fat guardian of the frontier had taken Prat and myself for itinerant Jews. This gentry as well as Turks and Armenians occasionally make the rounds of the remote towns peddling their wares, such as cheap finery, pencils, looking-glasses, buttons, and so forth. To be called a Jew without an inflection of the voice is, in Catholic South America, the height of insult, because it is considered the vilest reproach one man can give another in the heat of an argument. The manner in which this officer put the question to us was meant in the form of a query. Prat, however, being a Spaniard and a none too amiable one at that when dealing with the cholos and other mixed breeds, went into a towering rage and upbraided the official in the purest and most blasphemous Castillian that he ever before heard and which caused his overbearing, insolent, and stupid countenance to change to one of servility.

"A thousand pardons, señor," he cringingly broke in, "but you must understand that I have received my commands to interrogate strangers entering Peru. Not that I am in the least interested myself, but the government, alas----"

"We will pardon you this time but not the next," interposed Prat, curtly starting to ride off.

"Señor, señor," pleaded the official calling to him. Prat paid no attention. I swung around in my saddle asking him what he wanted.

"Your papers," answered the official. "I would lose my position if I let you pass without seeing them. The pay is very small and it is my sole income; the illustrious señores would not be so ungracious as to wish to see me lose that?" he entreated.

I showed him my passport which he looked at, then turned upside down, frowningly trying to figure out what it was.

"What nationality are you?" he inquired.

"North American."

"What language is this paper written in?"

"English," I replied.

A puzzled look spread over the stupid face of my interlocutor.

"How is it then that you have an English passport since you are a North American?"

"English is the language of North America."

The official was astounded. "Pardon, señor, but I thought Spanish was the language of entire America."

"You are mistaken," I replied.

"How is it then that you gentlemen speak such good Castillian. You speak it much better than I do."

"I learned it in Spain," I answered. "The señor with me is a Spaniard."

"Ah, I understand," answered the official. I could see by his amazed and ignorant look that he did not understand but was unwilling to have us know the extent of his ignorance.

"We are in a hurry to be on our journey to Moquegua; you had better return the passport," I said as I tendered him two silver pieces of the one sol denomination, the standard monetary unit of Peru. A sol is worth fifty cents.

"Mil gracias, señor, mil gracias," answered the official thanking me profoundly. Prat, who had ridden on, now turned back and wanted to know what was delaying me. He was on the point of letting off steam anew at the cholo, but upon seeing me give him a tip, he threw a piece of silver on the ground at the fat official's feet. It was comical to see the latter grovel in the dust to pick it up.

"Adios, señores," he yelled after us as we spurred our horses into a gallop and were soon lost to sight.

Upon our reaching the top of a high, barren hill, a vista of a parched and sandy, barren imitation of the Sahara unveiled itself before us. Everywhere lay the bones of oxen and mules. This was the horrible desert of Pampa Zorra about twenty miles wide, which it took us over four hours to cross, in a hot, desiccating, blazing sun. The thermometer must have been in excess of 120 degrees Fahrenheit. With our eyes smarting with dust and our throats parched (we partook sparingly of the water from our canteens), we arrived shortly after midday at a dry ravine named the Coari. Following this downwards between high hills of shale rock we came in half an hour to the Curibaya River at the cluster of mud huts and ranch house of Coari. Here were some green fields of alfalfa surrounded by eucalyptus trees.

The Curibaya River is much like the Sama, only its river bed is narrower. It also has more water, there being plenty to wet one's feet in. The reason for this is that cultivation does not extend as high in its bottom as in the Sama so less is drawn off for irrigation. About twenty miles below Coari it widens out into a broad valley of great fertility; most of its water is used at that point to supply the large vineyards in that neighborhood. The small remainder loses itself in the sand and never reaches the ocean excepting during times of cloudbursts in the mountains. In the fertile valley is the small city of Locumba, which is famous for its grapes and wines said to be the best in Peru. We forded Curibaya before we reached Coari and then turned eastward again, ascending the valley. This soon forked the Ilabaya joining it from the north. The latter is a swiftly rushing and jumping rivulet; our trail lay up its defile and we must have crossed it two dozen times in the eight miles that it took us to reach the town of the same name which is situated in a high open valley, surrounded on all sides with hills not entirely devoid of vegetation. The landscape instead of being sandy was rocky and abounded with gray boulders. There were several varieties of cactus and a plant not unlike the yucca.

Ilabaya is a typical town of the coastal region of Peru, differing greatly from Andean cities in so far that the houses were all built of adobe. The roofs instead of being of mud, were tiled, because it rains several times a year in the summer months and the mud roofs would be washed away. In Copiapó, where it rains only once in a decade, and in Tacna where it never rains, the roofs are of mud, but in Tarata and here, tiles were in evidence. Ilabaya is a larger place than Tarata, but is a dirtier, and more poverty-stricken place. It is also a terribly hot place, and swarmed with flies and vermin; mangy curs abounded and the odor of the streets abounding with house slops and garbage was disgusting. There were numerous street stands in front of which Indian women sat offering for sale melons, oranges, and pears, but not once during the part of the afternoon that I was there, did I see any purchaser.

Arrived at Ilabaya, Estevan said that we had better spend the night there because he thought there would be no water the next stage. We dismounted at a primitive blacksmith shop where the cholo boy was apparently known, and carried our grips inside. Our arrival excited considerable curiosity because much of the male populace soon arrived on the scene, and at a respective distance looked us over, and then began to become interested in our grips and saddlebags. One urchin tried to undo the straps of my suit case but a threatening blow with my stick made him desist and seek shelter behind one of the grownup half-breeds. The usual questions were asked to which Prat and myself deigned to reply, but strange to say Estevan found his tongue among those of his own breed and there was let loose a volume of Babel in the Quichua language which was surprising to me since I did not realize that language had such a large vocabulary. I had forgotten temporarily that the early padres had translated the Bible in Quichua and had them printed in that language. I saw one of these books among the church relics in Cuzco.

I interrupted Estevan's garrulity with a prod of my stick, and asked him where we were to find lodging.

"Quien sabe" (who knows), he whiningly replied in the singsong tones used by all cholos in their conversation with their superiors. If a stupid cholo or Indian does not know what answer to give he invariably says "quien sabe" and lets it go at that. I expostulated with him telling him that he must procure for us lodging. This he translated into his native language to the crowd of spectators. A small boy in the group said that he thought that a certain old woman who lived at the end of the town would take in lodgers and offered to direct us there and carry our grips. We set out down the long straggling street of adobe hovels and arriving at our destination found the door was shut. The boy knocked but no response came. I then banged on the door with my stick. Presently the head of a withered hag appeared at a shutter and asked what we wanted.

"We want lodging for the night," I answered.

"Ah, señores, but I am too old," she said. "At the next street to the right in the second house lives Carmen Vargas. She is young and makes a business of it!" The old woman was on the point of closing the shutters when I called to her again.

"You do not understand. We are travelers on our way to Moquegua and wanted to pay for a room to sleep in to-night." I then held up a couple of silver soles.

"I see. A thousand pardons, señores. I thought that you were looking for some pleasure with the _muchachas_. How much will you pay for a room?

"One sol apiece."

"It is not enough."

"We will make it two, if it includes meals."

"Ah, señores, but I am a poor woman and must live. For three soles I can accommodate you."

"We agree, but it is expensive."

"Look at your room," she said, as she opened the door. "It is fit for a king." She ushered us into a chamber which was semi-storeroom and sleeping quarters. Boxes and dusty bottles littered one side of the floorless apartment, and spider webs hung from the rafters. There was an iron cot in the corner on which was a straw pallet but there were no sheets nor blankets. I spoke to her about getting another cot and she said she would procure one. As for blankets, she had none, but since the señores must have their own, having come from some distance, we could naturally spread ours on the cots. In the meantime if we would return about seven she would have for us an excellent _comida_.

The comida turned out to be a thin soup whose ingredients were unknown to us and in which floated chicken feathers. This was followed by a disgusting stew and some meat of an unknown quality, highly seasoned, which might have been a camouflage for one of the mangy curs that abounded in the village.

There were plenty of cantinas in the small town and I assume that they were well patronized from the number of intoxicated Indians that I counted. Bottled beer from the Cerveceria Alemana at Arequipa here sold for fifty centavos (25 cents) a bottle and was drunk warm. Strong liquor was much cheaper than beer and was likewise more favored. There were quite a few young dudes in the village and at evening they appeared togged up to what they considered perfection, wearing carefully polished patent leather shoes, high stiff collars, flowing black ties; all carried canes. This stylish dressing among the males is in vogue all over South America. It is a sign of caste or class distinction. It is the ambition of all young men to be dressed in the height of fashion no matter how remote their village is from the beaten road of civilization. I have seen this same class of dudes everywhere south of Panama, from the isolated mountain towns of Colombia to the mosquito-infested hamlets of Paraguay. There is also a class distinction in traveling. A man who rides on horseback is superior to one who rides on a mule; he who rides on a mule is superior to the one who travels on the back of a donkey. But beware not to travel on foot in the Andean countries, even though it be a pleasure jaunt for a short distance in the country. The pedestrian is looked down upon by the lowliest peons and is held by them in greater odium than the hobo is held by us at home. Good clothes and high collars cease to show caste when applied to the person who makes a foot tour. He will invariably be turned down when asking for lodging or meals en route. It is also wise not to travel on foot on account of the ferocious dogs to be met with, which never run out and bark at the equestrian.

About nine o'clock that night while walking down the only thoroughfare that could go by the name of street, I met Prat at a corner conversing with a dandy, who like Prat wore a straw hat and sported a slender cane. "This is my compatriot," said he; "allow me to introduce you to my friend, Señor Güell." The dude bowed and Prat went on to explain that his new acquaintance was a Catalonian from Gerona and had been in Peru for four years, the last two of which he had spent in the employ of a wine merchant of Locumba. Güell said that Moquegua was but a short day's ride which was not at all tiresome. He had made the trip dozens of times for his firm and was thinking of doing so again in a few days. He was at present in Ilabaya collecting some debts for his employer. I left the Spaniards on the corner conversing and strode off to the hut where I was rooming. I went into the room assigned to us, and although there was another cot there, there were no blankets. The cholo, Estevan, had evidently forgotten to bring them although at six o'clock he had promised faithfully to do so in "un momentito, señor." I walked back to the blacksmith shop where we had unsaddled but found that like all the other buildings closed for the night. As it would have been impossible to find Estevan, I returned to the dingy hut and throwing my coat on the cot in the place of a pillow I lay down on the iron springs and tried to sleep. This was impossible. At midnight Prat had not returned nor had he come back by five o'clock in the morning. There was no need worrying about him because he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, but I was at the same time at a loss to conjecture where he was. At six o'clock, finding that any attempt to slumber would be futile, I went out into the street and walked about.

I went to the blacksmith shop which was about to open for the day to inquire about the horses. The blacksmith was already there and when questioned about Estevan merely answered, "Quien sabe," and then went on about his work. Presently the same boy that had conducted me to the house where I obtained lodging appeared and asked me if I was looking for my arriero. I replied that I was, whereupon the urchin said in his patois, "Se scapo," which in Castillian would be "e scapado," meaning "he has escaped."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"He has run away."

"He has run away? What do you mean by that?"

"He sold the horses and has run away."

At that encouraging piece of intelligence, several other boys appeared and from their conversation I gathered that Estevan the previous night had sold the horses with blankets to a mountaineer and that he had then taken French leave. You may imagine my anger, especially since the horses were but a loan to us from Don Santiago Carmona and were worth at least seventy-five dollars apiece in North American money. When I asked if anybody knew where Prat was, they volunteered the information that he and a friend of his were visiting some young ladies. This was a new one on me since Prat was absolutely unknown in Ilabaya and no young ladies that I knew of would entertain two guests so late as this.

"Which young ladies is he calling on?" I inquired, mystified.

"On la Carmen; she lives near the end of the village."

It now dawned upon me that Prat was at the bagnio of Carmen Vargas and that accounted for him not showing up at the hut. I proceeded down the street to rout him out but had not gone far before I ran into him and Güell, both in a state of intoxication. Prat was just emerging from the jovial stage and was entering upon an ugly mood. Save for his bloodshot eyes and the reek of alcohol, he was as immaculate as ever, but the dude was a sight to behold. His side and back were covered with dust; only one flap of his collar was buttoned, the other flying in the air; his hair was unkempt, and his hat was awry. He could hardly steady himself on his feet and was leaning on Prat to keep his balance. At the same time he was trying to sing a stanza from the Cid.

"Hail to the glorious Carmen, the light of Peru!" he yelled upon espying me.

I told Prat immediately what had happened. At first he did not understand, but when I repeated that Estevan had sold our horses and run away, great was his rage. He drew out his knife and shrieked what he would do to the cholo when he caught him. The news sobered him up considerably, so much so that when Güell burst out again in another stanza, he told him to shut up and cease his idiotic prattle in case he himself did not care to feel the knife between his ribs instead of between Estevan's. We went again to the blacksmith shop where Prat started upbraiding the blacksmith, and then went to the alcalde's residence. That official was asleep but Prat insisted on having him wakened. Presently he appeared attired in his pajamas. He wanted to know the meaning of this disturbance and was on the point of telling us to go to the infernal regions when he suddenly realized that we were foreigners of distinction, due to the stiff collars and quality of our wearing apparel. His demeanor changed and he invited us inside, saying that he would dress and talk with us directly. He ushered us into a well furnished apartment and left us. We heard him ordering breakfast, yelling to a servant to prepare three places as he had as guests two "milords ingleses."

During the meal, which was spread on a table beneath a vine trellis in the patio, the alcalde, Don José Vergara, asked us the nature of our visit, to which narrative he did not reply, stating that he would take the matter up with us again after breakfast. In the meantime he plied us with many questions about North America, most of which Prat answered--wrong. The latter had never been there nor could he speak English well, the extent of his vocabulary being "bulldog," "dollars," "all right," "good-night," etc. He now converses fluently in English. His ignorance of that language was not known to the mayor, who himself spoke an execrable patois although he was a pure-blooded white man. When we said that we wanted to start as soon as possible for Moquegua, the alcalde implored us to remain a few days in Ilabaya as his guests. When we told him it was imperative for us to continue, he promised us horses and a man from his stable who would accompany us. He also said that he would apprehend Estevan and see that he would be sent to prison if he had not already escaped to Chile.

"What will he get?" I inquired.

"At least twenty years," he answered. "I shall see to it."

"Is not that pretty severe?"

"Severe, nothing. One of my friends has an estancia where labor is badly needed. You see that he will be put to work profitably."

Don José ordered the blacksmith summoned to his presence, and when that individual presently was brought before him, the alcalde, threatening him with all sorts of physical evils, elucidated from him that the previous night Estevan had called for the horses which were corralled behind the shop stating that the "señores ingleses" were about to continue to Moquegua, saying they preferred to travel at night instead of during the heat of the day. Not long afterwards his boy had seen a mountaineer driving them laden with goods up a road that leads into the Andes. The boy asked him what he was doing with the horses since they belonged to the "señores ingleses," whereupon the mountaineer answered that he had bought them from the mozo Estevan for fifteen soles each. The mountaineer the blacksmith added was well known to him, was an honest man, and frequently came to Ilabaya. The next time he came he would inform Don José of his presence so that the latter could deal with him. I have always believed that the blacksmith had a hand in this deal and that he was hiding Estevan who had mysteriously disappeared after the transaction. At Moquegua I wrote Don Santiago Carmona telling him what happened. Six months later I received a reply when at home in the United States saying that he had never heard a word about Estevan and the horses, although he had heard rumors that the alcalde of Ilabaya was riding one of them. Since Ilabaya was in Peru it was useless to go there for he would receive no justice.

Although Don José Vergara said that he would loan us the horses, when we were about to depart he came to me and said that it would cost us twenty-five soles ($12.50) for their rent. This was reasonable enough according to the standards of civilization but was exorbitant for that locality. It was after ten o'clock in the morning before we got away. For about ten miles the trail led over a rocky plateau and then came to the edge of a precipice at the bottom of which was the bed of the Cinto River, here dry. Here were three mud huts and a cistern half full of water, which was drawn from some springs a few miles up the valley. We remained here about an hour during which we cooked some meat and potatoes that we had brought with us; we pushed on again across another plateau similar to the one which we had just traversed excepting that it was sandier and smoother riding. At nightfall we came out on a nose of a hill and saw below us in the distance the lights of a city which we knew was Moquegua. An hour later we clattered over the flinty pavement of the narrow streets and pulled up at the portals of the Hotel Lima, one of the best in rural Peru. A large well-ventilated room, electric lights, and the noise of locomotive whistles made us feel that we had again reached civilization.

Moquegua is a fine old town on a river of the same name and capital of the province of Moquegua, lying at an altitude of over four thousand feet above sea level in the center of a rich agricultural district, abounding in olives. These and raisins are the chief exports of the district.

The city has a population of nine thousand and much resembles Tacna on account of the substantial buildings; it is not as lively as Tacna, due to the former place having stationed there five regiments, but otherwise it is a pleasanter town. It is higher, cooler, and there is more verdure. The valley itself is a long, broad ribbon of cultivation, mostly devoted to the growing of grapes. Moquegua is connected to its port, Ilo, by a railroad sixty-five miles long.

Before the Pacific War, Moquegua was a wealthy town and larger than at the present time; since then many of the inhabitants emigrated, many going to Arequipa and to Lima. The alameda, though much neglected, shows signs of former grandeur, which is testified by the broken statues and cracked stone benches which formerly were the pride of the city. Moquegua has the name of being a very religious place; it has many churches and its streets swarm with priests, in this respect being much different from the Chilean towns that I had just visited.

Ilo is a small port of about two thousand inhabitants, very poor and squalid but not so much so as Mollendo. In both these places bubonic plague is rife, but strange to say that malady has never mounted as high as Arequipa or Moquegua. At Ilo I boarded a small postal steamer of the Peruvian Line and after a few hours' steam we anchored off the cliffs of Mollendo, the most dangerous landing place on the Pacific Ocean. The swell is so great here that sometimes passengers have to wait two weeks before it has subsided enough to permit them to embark on the steamers. I had to transfer to another ship here because the one I was on touched at all the small ports and took a week to reach Callao.

Mollendo is one of the dirtiest towns that I have ever visited and I have visited some "hot" ones. It is a bubonic stricken place of about five thousand inhabitants, according to the census reports, although I doubt if its population is in excess of three thousand. A steep incline up a cliff leads from the dock past the custom house to the stinking Hotel Ferrocarril, the only hostelry in the town. This ramshackle old building, painted dark green, is situated on an eminence at the extreme southwest corner of the town, at a street corner. A veranda runs around the street sides of it, onto which the rooms open. Beggars, hobos, cripples, bums, and dogs bask on the sun-warped boards of its floor, and sneak-thieves are ever watching for an opportunity of entering the dirty holes which are the guests' rooms. The dining room and the barroom are the only adjuncts of the institution which are kept clean, and the latter is the most lucrative enterprise to its owners of any business establishment in the town. It has several billiard tables of doubtful cues and cushions and to them at the noon hour repair all the German clerks of the mercantile establishments. There is much liquor sold and much drunkenness to be observed. At one corner of the room sat a well-dressed aged man. He had the palsy so badly that he could not lift a glass to his mouth so he sat there imbibing whiskey and soda through a rubber tube that extended from his mouth to the glass. The Hotel Ferrocarril is owned by a couple of Italians who are fast waxing wealthy. It is hell to stay in Mollendo even for an hour and the travelers are to be pitied who stop here days at a time waiting for their steamers which run on uncertain schedules.

The place owes its importance to the fact that it is the port of the large and prosperous city of Arequipa about seventy-five miles inland, and that it is the outlet and port of entry of the Lake Titicaca basin, and of the historic and interesting old city of Cuzco, the pristine capital of the Inca Empire, three days distant by rail. Formerly Mollendo was the seaport of La Paz, Bolivia's quaint metropolis, but now traffic has been changed from that city, so that Arica and Antofagasta get the bulk of its trade. There has been much talk of transferring the port of Arequipa to Islay, a settlement a few miles north of Mollendo in a sheltered location, but the merchants at Mollendo made a strong kick about it, and bribed the politicians at Lima, so that the scheme never matured. At Mollendo, my Peruvian money ran out because I did not get enough Chilean money changed at Arica, and I had a hard job getting change here. Some Italian bankers to whom I applied knew how badly I wanted Peruvian currency, so accordingly discounted my Chilean money so much that I must have lost twenty-five dollars by the transaction.

As I said before, Mollendo is a hotbed for bubonic plague. Several people die daily of it here, but its mention is suppressed by the health authorities so as not to give a black eye to the town. When a person dies of it, it is kept quiet and the victim is buried at night. Northeast of the town is the potter's field. Here graves eighteen inches deep are dug. The cadaver is trussed up by having its feet drawn back to its haunches by means of a cord tied around the shoulders and is thrown into the impromptu grave. I was told by several people that so poorly is the job done that sometimes the toes protrude above the ground and are nibbled at by buzzards and by starving dogs.

From Mollendo, I went to Callao on the Chilean steamship _Limari_. It was a good ship but rolled considerably even in a calm sea. It took three days to make Lima's busy port, no stops being made, but from the deck I could see the dim outlines of the towns Lobos, Chala, and Pisco. An acquaintance of mine, Mr. Kurt Waldemar Linn, of New York, a German by birth but a naturalized American citizen, who is connected with the International Film Company, told me in Santiago that he expected to be on this boat and arrive in Lima at the same time I would. I failed to find his name on the passenger list and when I arrived in Lima, he had not yet shown up. The next day he appeared, having disembarked from the Pacific Steam Navigation Company's steamship _Mexico_. He said he was sorry that he had not made the trip on the _Limari_, and that never again would he make a trip on any ship of the Pacific Steam Navigation Company if he could help it. He said that the service and food on the _Mexico_ were vile but to crown his discomfiture one morning at breakfast the first officer who sat next to him asked him how he slept the previous night.

"I didn't sleep very well," answered Mr. Linn. "There was too much noise going on."

"Oh, yes, there was a good bit of noise on board. We caught a German spy last night and that caused the racket." At this witty remark the officer looked at Linn and winked. The latter did not relish this sort of pleasantry even though it was meant in fun.

At Callao the custom house officials are careful to ransack all one's belongings looking for things dutiable and those non-dutiable as well; on the latter they levy private duties for their own pockets. There is much red tape and tipping to be done and nowhere else in my travels have I been subjected to so much annoyance at a custom house unless it was at Belgrade, Servia. Hotel couriers meet the steamers and it is advisable for the traveler to give his possessions in charge of one of these men who will relieve him of the trouble connected with the custom house and transferal of baggage to Lima. The courier expects a large tip, but it is more convenient to give it in one lump sum to him than to have to run the gauntlet.