Soon after our arrival at La Quiaca, at 9 P.M. on November 15, 1908, we received a call from two rough-looking Anglo-Saxons who told us hair-raising stories of the dangers of the Bolivian roads where highway robbers driven out of the United States by the force of law and order and hounded to death all over the world by Pinkerton detectives, had found a pleasant resting-place in which to pursue their chosen occupation without let or hindrance. We found out afterwards that one of our informants was one of this same gang of robbers. Either he decided that we were disposed to regard his “pals” in a sufficiently lenient manner to make our presence in Bolivia immaterial to them, or else he came to the conclusion that we had nothing worth stealing, for we were allowed to proceed peaceably and without any annoyance wherever we journeyed in Bolivia. He put the case quite emphatically to us that it was necessary for them to make a living, that they were not allowed to do so peaceably in the States, that they desired only to be let alone and had no intention of troubling travellers except those that sought to get information against them. They relied entirely for their support on being able to overcome armed escorts accompanying loads of cash going to the mines to liquidate the monthly payroll. This they claimed was legitimate plunder taken in fair fight. The only individuals who had to suffer at their hands were those who took up the case against them. Having laid this down for our edification, he proceeded to tell us what a reckless lot they were and how famous had been their crimes, at the same time assuring us that they were all very decent fellows and quite pleasant companions. Don Santiago, who in his capacity as coach-master and stage-driver, has had to carry hundreds of thousands of dollars in cash over the unprotected Bolivian highways, assured us that he had never been molested by any of these highwaymen because he never troubled them in any way either by carrying arms or spreading information of their doings. If the Bolivian bandits are half as bad as they were painted to us that night, Don Santiago must lead a charmed life for he and his stages certainly offer an easy mark for any enterprising outlaw.

The view from our hotel the next morning across the sandy plaza of La Quiaca was anything but inspiring. The plateau is so high and dry that nothing grows here. Even the mountains, whose tops are really higher than our own far-famed Pike’s Peak, look stunted like low sand-hills. Partly finished adobe houses, which were gradually meeting the demands of the newly-born commercial life of La Quiaca add to the forlorn and desolate appearance of everything. There was nothing to make us wish to stay any longer in Argentina, and we eagerly welcomed Don Santiago and his eight-mule team that

rattled up to the door a few minutes after six o’clock.

A quarter of a mile north of the town we crossed the frontier and entered Bolivia. For the next four hours there was little in the landscape to relieve the monotony of the journey. As those who are familiar with stage travel know to their cost, bumping over rough roads of stone or sand, in a cloud of dust with nothing to see on either side except a brown, treeless, rolling plateau, is not exciting. Nevertheless the process of keeping eight mules on the go, up hill and down hill, is never absolutely devoid of interest. As it was quite impossible for the driver to reach the foremost mules with his long whip, he employed a strong-lunged boy to race alongside of the mules, pelt them with stones, curse them in his worst Spanish, and frighten them into frantic activity with the lash of a short-handled whip which he laid on with no delicate hand. The mules became so afraid of his mad rushes that when they heard him coming they bolted in the opposite direction, sometimes pulling the stage-coach a rod or two off the road.

In a rarefied atmosphere that would almost kill a foreigner who should try to run any distance, the Indian boy only found it necessary to take short rests on the running-board of the coach, and even then he had breath enough left to keep up shrill whistling and loud shouting so as to make the mules remember his presence. If he stopped this continuous performance he heard from the driver in no uncertain language. The result was that, notwithstanding the primitive cart-track, the stage was able to make the sixty miles between La Quiaca and Tupiza in twelve hours. To be sure, there are two changes of mules and the luggage is carried on a separate wagon. But the road is as bad as it possibly can be. So much of it is in the bed of a stream, the coaches can only run in the dry season, May to November. In the rainy season the road disappears under swollen rivers and resort has to be had to saddle and pack animals.

In this extremely arid region the business of feeding the mules is a most difficult one. The rainfall is very slight. It is only by irrigation that fodder will grow at all. The ground is not sterile but it is so dry and parched that it does not look as if it would ever grow anything. The Indians in the vicinity are Quichuas, who speak the same language as did their former masters, the Incas. They are a patient race with little ambition and few wants. This does not prevent them, however, from charging all the traffic will bear when any one desires to purchase alfalfa or barley straw for his mules. Don Santiago told me that he had once been obliged to pay as high as forty dollars, gold, for enough fodder to give an eight-mule team a proper luncheon. Needless to say, transportation is expensive. The coach-fare from La Quiaca to Tupiza was ten dollars, about sixteen cents a mile. A charge of two cents a pound is made for luggage. None is carried free.

Our first stop was at Mojo, to change mules and eat a “breakfast” which consisted of the customary highly-spiced mutton and potatoes. We were not “favored by the addition of an excellent roasted guinea pig” as was Edmond Temple when he stopped here in 1826. Yet guinea-pigs are still common hereabouts and we saw several on the road.

Mojo is a village of four hundred inhabitants. There is a small branch office of the Bolivian customs service here which is supposed to look after travellers and their baggage. The principal custom house for southern Bolivia is at Tupiza, a much more agreeable spot for the residence of the officials and a natural distributing point for the region.

A short distance from Mojo we began an abrupt descent. In one place the hill was too steep to permit the road to make a proper turn, so we all had to get out and help lift the stage-coach around a “switch back.” After this tortuous zigzag we came out on a broad plain over which we passed without difficulty to the banks of the river Suipacha.

The water was low and the cart-track attempted to steer a straight course up stream. But as the shrunken current meandered over the sandy river-bed, we were obliged to ford it every three or four minutes. This entailed constant difficulties, for the leading mules would invariably stop to walk as soon as they entered the water, while the others trotted briskly in and tangled up the whole team. Perhaps the fault was mine, for I was having my first experience in driving an eight-in-hand, and the hard-mouthed mules took particular delight in giving me a bad time. Notwithstanding our difficulties, we reached Suipacha on time, and stopped to change mules.

This valley was the scene of one of the earliest victories of the patriots in 1810 at the beginning of the wars of independence. It will be remembered that after the glorious 25th of May, recently celebrated in Buenos Aires, the Argentinos attempted to free the province of Upper Peru from Spanish control. The result of the victory of Suipacha was to cause the Bolivians to rise and join the Argentinos against their oppressors. The patriot army marched joyously northward across the plateau, although the Argentinos suffered greatly from the cold and the high altitude. When they reached the southern end of Lake Titicaca, the Spanish army, augmented by hundreds of obedient Quichuas, attacked the patriots and practically annihilated them.

Suipacha itself, situated on a slight elevation above the banks of the river, looks like all the other small villages of this arid region. Plenty of sand and stones, a few mud-walled hovels, some thorny scrub, here and there an irrigation ditch and a green field, and on every side barren mountains. A favorite form of fence here is a wall of adobe blocks, adorned with cactus or thorny mimosa branches.

Suipacha is said to have six hundred inhabitants but it did not seem to be any larger than Mojo. From here a road goes east to the important city of Tarija, a pleasant, fertile town in southeastern Bolivia that enjoys a charming climate, and has often served as a city of refuge for defeated Argentine politicians who are glad enough to escape to such a land of corn and wine after unsuccessful revolutions on the dreary pampas.

The road to Tupiza took us northwest, and continued to follow the bed of the Suipacha or Estarca,

and one of its tributaries. In the valley were several farms or fincas as they are called here, where small crops are raised by irrigation. Half-way from Suipacha to Tupiza we passed through a magnificent rocky gateway called the Angosta de Tupiza. Cliffs five hundred feet high rise abruptly on each side of the river, leaving barely room enough for the road even in dry weather. For a distance of seventy feet, the width is less than thirty feet. Beyond the gate the mountains form a spacious amphitheatre. During the rainy season, from November to March, it is frequently impossible to pass through this gorge, even on good saddle-mules. Fortunately for us, the rains had not yet begun, and we had no difficulty.

We reached Tupiza, a town of about two thousand inhabitants, just at six o’clock. It is only ten thousand feet above sea-level, nearly two thousand feet lower than La Quiaca, and is prettily situated in a plain less than a mile in width, that in this region may fairly be called fertile, so great is the contrast with the surrounding desert. Good use has been made of the water in the little stream, and there are many cultivated fields and trees in the vicinity.

The plaza is quite an oasis in the wilderness. It is carefully cultivated and the shrubbery and willow trees make it a delightful spot. Around the plaza are a few kerosene oil street-lamps on top of wooden poles set in stone foundations. The white tower of a new church rises above the trees and makes a good landmark. Near by is the large two-story warehouse belonging to the Bolivian government and used as a post-office and custom house.

In the early ’80’s, before the construction of the Antofagasta railway, most of the commerce of Southern Bolivia passed through Tupiza and the custom house had more importance than it has now. To-day it has less than a tenth of its former business. With the completion of the railway to La Quiaca and its contemplated projection to Tupiza, however, the local revenue business is bound to increase.

Even at the time of my visit (November, 1908), the street in front of the custom house was blocked by scores of bales and boxes recently arrived from La Quiaca and awaiting examination prior to being shipped north to PotosÍ on the backs of mules.

On the opposite side of the plaza was a branch of the National Bank of Bolivia. Here we found that the Bolivian dollar or peso is worth about forty cents in our money.

The common currency consists of banknotes ranging from one to twenty pesos in value. These depend entirely for their value upon the solvency of the bank of issue. Several banks have failed, and the Indians are very particular what bills they accept. They dislike the bills of banks that have no agencies in the vicinity and prefer the bills of the National Bank of Francisco ArgondaÑo.

The nickel subsidiary coinage is usually genuine and is in great demand, but the smaller silver coins are frequently either counterfeit or so badly made that they do not ring true and are not accepted by the Indians with whom one has most to do on the road. Consequently it is the common practice to tear bills in two when change cannot be made in any other way. The result is that perfect bills are growing scarce and the expense of issuing new ones is being felt by the banks. Several times when cashing checks at branches of these banks, I was paid entirely in half bills. They are accepted in almost all parts of Bolivia but are at a discount in La Paz and are not received at all in some localities.

We are told that the scarcity of subsidiary coinage, and the relative frequency of counterfeit money, is due to the native habit of burying all coins of real value lest they fall into the hands of unscrupulous officials and rapacious soldiers. Since time immemorial, enormous quantities of articles made of the precious metals have been buried by the Indians.

Tupiza was the scene in 1819 of one of those ineffectual skirmishes in which the unaided Bolivian patriots endeavored to secure their independence. In fact, this old trade-route from the Pampas to PotosÍ was the scene of numerous engagements during the Wars of Independence.

There are two hotels in Tupiza, one of them being the headquarters of that section of the Bolivian army which is stationed here to guard the frontier. The other is more commonly resorted to by travellers. Our inn, the Grand Hotel Terminus, a long, low building once white-washed, with a courtyard paved with cobblestones and a few bedrooms opening into the court, was run by an amiable rascal who I believe claimed to be an Austrian. However that may be, he belonged to the type that believes in charging foreigners double the regular tariff. “For one roast fowl, $2.00, a bottle of vichy, $1.25, one bottle of German beer, $1.00, half pint of Appolinaris, $.40.” We were not able to get any discount. Instead of fighting our own battles we foolishly referred the matter to Don Santiago who lives at the hotel, has his office here, and depends upon the hotel proprietor for a number of favors. Our request naturally put him in an embarrassing situation, and all he could say was that the charges seemed to him to be regular. The proprietor appeared to be drunk most of the time, but he was not too drunk to charge up all drinks to his American guests.

There is a club here which was not in a very prosperous condition at the time of my visit. This may have been due to a patriotic celebration that had taken place a fortnight before. At that time a little poetical drama, reminiscent of the first conflict for independence in 1810, was played in the club-rooms. The drama, written by a local poet, was dedicated to SeÑor Aramayo, the MÆcenas of Tupiza, a member of the wealthiest family of southern Bolivia, and the owner of several rich silver mines and a large importing warehouse.

The shops of Tupiza were not brilliantly lighted although they contained quite an assortment of articles of European origin. The trade which they appeal to is that of the mule-drivers, the arrieros, who congregate here while their cargoes are being inspected by the revenue officers. The Indians of the vicinity, whose money comes chiefly from the product of their irrigation ditches, have little to spend.

Tupiza boasts two newspapers; one of them a biweekly, now in its third year, and the other a literary

weekly that had recently been started by the author of the poetical drama just alluded to. The weekly refers to the celebration in most flattering terms. “Undoubtedly social life in Tupiza had increased so far that it is high time to commence to notice its faults and deficiencies. These could easily be removed with proper enthusiasm and good will. Tupiza is a centre of social culture, but unfortunately it is not yet able to appreciate such worthy theatrical spectacles as have recently taken place!”