CHAPTER I

GOING UP

OUTWARD BOUND—ACROSS THE ISTHMUS OF PANAMA—DOWN THE WEST COAST OF SOUTH AMERICA—MOLLENDO AND A ROUGH LANDING—A ZIG-ZAG RAILWAY—AREQUIPA, THE INCA’S REST—PABLO, THE “FORTY-NINER”—SUNRISE ON LAKE TITICACA—AN INLAND PORT—TIAHUANACO; REMAINS OF A PRE-INCA AGE—A CAPRICIOUS COGRAILWAY—LA PAZ; STEEP STREETS AND RAREFIED AIR—FIFTY LEAGUES ON MULEBACK—A NIGHT IN AN INDIAN HOSTEL—DEMONS OF THE PASS.

I WAS A YOUNG MINING engineer, recently appointed to the post of assistant manager of a tin mine in Bolivia, to which South American republic I was bound, when I sailed from New York one brilliant day in early August.

The trip down the coast to Colon was uneventful, except for a gale which struck us off Cape Hatteras, and caused our round-bottomed boat to roll and pitch to an extent which rendered unhappy—not to say miserable—most of the passengers on board, the greater number of whom were employees of the Panama Construction Company, either returning to the Isthmus on the expiry of their leave, or going out there for the first time.

On the eighth day we landed at the palm-fringed port of Colon, to learn that the last train for Panama had left. With much difficulty, the casual railway officials were persuaded to run a special train to enable us to catch the boat which we had been telegraphically advised was being held at Panama until ten o’clock that night for our convenience.

It was long after dark when our special train, drawn by an ancient engine, after interminable delays, pulled out of Colon station. The entire run to Panama—a distance of forty-six miles—was accomplished in spasms, separated one from the other by halts, each of which seemed little short of eternity, often beside a stagnant swamp from which hordes of mosquitoes arose to devour us. The night was black as pitch, and nothing could be seen of the Isthmus but an occasional cocoanut palm or banana tree, growing near enough to the railway track to be illuminated by the two oil lamps which dimly lit our antiquated coach. Five hours of this progress brought us to the port of Panama, whence we were taken by tender to the steamer which lay two miles out to sea, awaiting our arrival. The first few days’ journey southward from Panama are dreaded by travellers, because of the intense heat which usually prevails when crossing the equator. We, however, were fortunate to encounter a cold wave that was sweeping up the coast. The sea was smooth, except for the long swell typical of the Pacific Ocean, in which our ship rolled lazily.

On the fourth day out, with the help of a flood tide, we steamed up the broad estuary of the Guayas river, at the head of which—thirty-six miles inland—lies Guayaquil, the port of Ecuador, off which we cast anchor in mid-stream. On the river we passed Indians in dug-out canoes, with cargoes of bananas or cocoa-beans, drifting leisurely with the tide. When the tide turns, the Indian boatman ties up at the nearest point on shore, to await the moment when the water once more flows in the direction in which he is going. Here and there on the shores of the densely-wooded estuary was a clearing in which stood an Indian hut or two—miserable palm-thatched hovels, built on high piles.

At Guayaquil we were not allowed to go on shore, because of the ever-present yellow fever, and our only pastimes were fishing for the sharks whose fins could be seen circling around the ship, or else bargaining with the two-legged sharks, the sellers of Panama hats, who besieged the ship and pestered one to buy their wares.

On leaving Guayaquil, we skirted the Peruvian coast—a monotonous stretch of sand-dunes—calling at the little ports (or rather roadsteads) at every one of which the health authorities boarded the ship on its arrival and subjected passengers and crew to an inspection. All these ports were plague-infected spots, and their inhabitants were fearful of adding yellow fever to their other troubles.

A stay of two days at Callao permitted a visit to Lima, a not unattractive city, with well-built houses and many excellent shops. The ladies of Lima are reputed throughout South America to be of a high average of beauty. Of this, however, it is difficult for a newly-arrived European to judge, as their faces are so thickly coated with powder that their features are masked. They all wear the black silk mantilla, which covers the head and is draped across the shoulders—a head-dress which becomes them very well.

On proceeding southwards the ship passed close to several little islands, which were swarming with birds. These are the famous guano islands—the home of the diver bird. On one day I saw four flights of divers, each more than half-a-mile long, skimming over the surface of the water. At one point we passed a flock of countless thousands of ducks, divers and pelicans, all busily engaged in diving for fish, a shoal of which they had located, the diver birds dropping like a bolt into the water from a considerable height.

Sixteen days after leaving Panama we arrived at Mollendo, where I was to disembark—which, by good chance, was possible to accomplish. I say “good chance” for this reason—Mollendo is, properly speaking, not a port, but is merely a landing-place, situated in one of the most dangerous spots for this purpose on the entire coast. The shore line is very rocky, and jagged points of rock are dotted about for some distance off the shore. There is always a heavy ground swell, which renders the landing of passengers and cargo difficult in the most favourable circumstances, and an utter impossibility when the sea is running high. On the previous day we had experienced rough weather, and the chances of our being able to land on arrival at Mollendo appeared very slim. Had we not been able to do so, we should have had to disembark at the next port—Arica—there to await the next steamer going up the coast, and once more try our luck at Mollendo.

It happened that the sea was comparatively smooth when we cast anchor that Sunday morning, half a mile off shore. Row-boats, manned by Peruvian sailors, took us off the ship. There was a tremendous ground-swell, as usual, and to me it was a novel sensation to be in a little boat in such a sea. At one moment perched high on the crest of a wave, and at the next lying in a deep trough, where land and ship were blocked from view by walls of water, we ran the gauntlet of the black rocks on which the sea seemed intent to hurl us, and reached the little wooden landing-stage. The disembarkation was the most difficult part—at any rate, in so far as the passenger himself was concerned. The boatmen waited their opportunity to approach the wharf, and rowed hard in on the top of a wave. It was then a case of scrambling out as quickly as possible and clambering up the perpendicular ladder which was the only means of access to the landing stage. I was more than a little wet by the time that I got ashore, as were all the other passengers who landed here. As for our trunks, there was hardly one that escaped at least one dip in the sea before it was hauled up to safety, and the fact that all mine were of water-tight construction was a matter for some self-congratulation.

Mollendo is a horrible little town, of small wooden buildings, situated on a sandy waste. It possesses two little hotels—ramshackle buildings, where one is thoroughly uncomfortable; yet this is the favourite seaside resort of the well-to-do Southern Peruvian and Bolivian, who flock there during the season. Here we stayed the night and left the next morning by train for Arequipa.

The railway to Arequipa, although not such an extraordinary engineering feat as the Cerro de Pasco railway in Peru, is, nevertheless, of considerable interest. To reach Arequipa, it climbs 7,550 feet, winding backwards and forwards up the steep slopes of the hills, through sandy, barren country, in which only cactus grows. In consequence, progress is rather slow.

A curious feature of the uplands of the desert—which here stretches almost uninterruptedly from the sea to Lake Titicaca—are the crescent-shaped sand dunes peculiar to this region. These dunes of fine crystalline sand are constantly travelling in the direction of the prevailing wind, and when their path is crossed by the railroad they do not pile up on the permanent way, but mysteriously dissolve and re-form on the other side of the track.

Towards evening we reached the ancient town of Arequipa—which name, in the Quechua language, means “resting-place.” It was here that the Incas of Peru were accustomed to halt when travelling westwards from Cuzco, their capital. It is a quaint town, of considerable size, lying almost at the foot of the semi-dormant volcano, El Misti—a snow-capped cone from whose crater vapour is usually issuing. Its proximity to this volcano keeps Arequipa in a perpetual tremble. Rarely a day passes but that an earthquake, and perhaps more than one, rocks the city. I was not aware of this characteristic before my arrival, and was somewhat surprised, therefore, to awake during the night and find my bed heaving up and down. I had been in earthquakes before and immediately understood what was happening, but was in no wise reassured by my knowledge. On the following morning, I was astonished to hear no mention of the earthquake. That an occurrence of this nature should pass without comment appeared to me absurd, until I learned that, to the inhabitants of this...