PotosÍ was an irresistible attraction to thousands, but the dreadful climate, the high altitude, the cold winds, and the chilling rains drove away those who could afford it to the more hospitable valleys a few days’ journey eastward where, with an abundant water-supply at an elevation of eight thousand feet, charming villas sprang up surrounded by attractive plantations, the present suburbs of Sucre.

A fairly good coach road has recently been completed, and a weekly stage carries mail and passengers between the two cities. We preferred, however, to continue on our saddle mules and followed the older route. The new road is a hundred miles long. The old trail is only seventy-five. With good animals it need take but two days. We were in no hurry, however, and decided to do it in three.

The valleys through which our road descended, at first arid and desolate, gradually became greener and more populous. The views were often very fine and extensive and we saw a few snow-covered mountains. In the middle of winter, that is June and July, the snow frequently covers everything. Now, on the 29th of November, the prevailing color was a tawny brown.

On the road we met long strings of llamas, donkeys, and mules laden with every conceivable shape of basket, bag, and bundle bringing from the fertile valleys to the eastward, potatoes, maize, wine, green vegetables and fruits, the produce that feeds PotosÍ.

Further evidence of the extent of this traffic and the number of arrieros that continually pass over this road is the frequency of little chicherias, wretched little huts built of stone and mud, baked in the sun, and thatched with grass or bushes, where “chicha” can be bought for a penny a gourd.

On the bare ground in front of one of them a woman had pegged down the framework of a hand loom and was beginning to weave a poncho. Near her the family dinner of chupe was simmering away in a huge earthen-ware pot, supported on three stones, over a tiny fire of thorns and llama dung. Other picturesque jars filled with chicha awaited her customers.

We lunched at what Baedeker would call “a primitive thermal establishment,” a favorite weekend resort for German clerks in the importing houses of PotosÍ. A swimming-pool that affords opportunity to luxuriate in the warm sulphur water attracts many visitors, as it is practically the only place in southern Bolivia where one can get a hot tub bath.

The proprietor of the Baths, a type of Englishman that in the Pacific Ocean is called a “beach comber,” was an amusing old vagabond who made a great fuss ordering his half-starved Indians to prepare us a suitable meal. Our expectations were aroused to a high pitch by his enthusiasm, but the quality of the food was not any better than that of

the ordinary native inn. There was one very marked difference, however. We were not met by any declaration of “no hay nada.”

Our second stopping-place was Bartolo, a small town of a thousand inhabitants, chiefly Quichua Indians, and a picturesque old church surrounded by a wall made of stone arches. We arrived on a Sunday evening and found the tambo already so full of travellers that there was no room for us or our beasts. The Prefect of PotosÍ had given us a circular letter requesting the masters of all the post-houses on our route to accord us “every facility for our journey.” We soon found the letter to be of little avail, for when there was any difficulty such as lack of accommodation or of fodder we were invariably informed that the master of the poste was away attending to some business in another village. As our letter, however, included also the governors of towns, we now asked to be directed to the house of the Gobernador of Bartolo and found that worthy gentleman bidding good-bye to some Sunday visitors with whom he had been partaking freely of brandy and chicha. He was at first inclined to be insolent, and although he had a comparatively large house, declared that he had no room for us and that we must return to the inn. As the situation approached that point where it was becoming necessary to use force in order to secure shelter for the night, an obliging guest, who had possession of the largest room in the inn, learning from Fermin, the Gaucho, that we were delegados, offered us the use of his quarters while he sought accommodation among his acquaintances in the town.

In the meantime, the family of the tipsy governor had sobered him up enough to make him realize that he had shown discourtesy to the bearer of a government passport and he came to the inn with profuse offers of entertainment which we unfortunately could not accept.

We left Bartolo early the next morning. The dust had been laid by thunder-showers in the night and the crisp mountain air was most refreshing. Occasionally we passed the ruins of a rude stone cairn erected in colonial days to measure the leagues between Sucre and PotosÍ. Fermin had never been beyond PotosÍ, so we were obliged to fall back upon the service of guides or postillons from here on. They cannot be taken farther than from one poste to another, generally six leagues or twenty miles. They receive a regular tariff of four cents per league, and a small gratuity besides.

For this munificent sum of a little over a cent a mile, they are supposed to assist in catching and saddling the animals, to hold the packs while they are being loaded, and then to run beside the trotting pack-animals, ready to help if the loads become loosened, constantly at hand, a willing slave to the arriero and a guide to the traveller. Generally lightly clad with the regulation Quichua small clothes, that look as though made of meal-sacks, they march or lope along cheerily, now and then blowing lustily on an ox-horn, which they carry slung over the shoulder as a badge of their position.

The postillons will not budge unless their tariff is paid in advance, for they have learned through centuries of experience that while the traveller with a stout whip, mounted on a good animal, with the authority of the government at his back, can force them to go the required distance after the fee has been paid, they have no means whatever of forcing him to pay after he has arrived at his destination and has no further need of their services. The first postilion we had, recognizing the fact that our arriero was a stranger in this part of the country and that we were foreigners, ran far ahead of the little caravan, and would have disappeared among the thorny shrubs of the arid hillside had we not galloped after him and threateningly ordered him to return to his post at the heels of the mules. The next one proved to be a good fellow and did his work well, notwithstanding the dust which was his portion during most of the day.

This morning we passed a field in which alpacas that looked like overgrown woolly dogs were feeding. As the sparse foliage increased, we met numerous flocks of sheep watched over by diminutive children in shawls and ponchos who ran away and hid behind rocks when they saw us coming.

About the middle of the morning we came to the edge of a plateau and enjoyed a wonderful view of fertile valleys, whose waters flow rapidly down to the Pilcomayo. It seemed difficult to realize that a Bolivian landscape could have any other color than brown. Our descent was now rapid, and the temperature grew warmer except when we encountered a small hail-storm.

After passing the scene of a battle in the unsuccessful revolution of General Camacho, a militant politician with whom Bolivia had considerable difficulty in the ’90’s, we stopped for lunch at a tumbled-down hostelry called Quebrada Honda, in honor of a deep little valley whose steep sides rise abruptly from a roaring mountain torrent. Squatting on the ground in front of the tambo was a Quichua woman weaving a bright-colored poncho.

In the afternoon we passed some primitive dwellings which consisted of huge flat boulders under which excavations had been made leaving them partially supported by piles of stones at the corners. The method did not seem to have proved successful, for in most cases, the roof, too heavy for the supports, was lying on the ground.

About five o’clock we arrived at the poste of Pampa Tambo. We found a postilion in charge; the “master of the poste was absent” as usual. The postilion decided to charge us three times the regular rate for forage and Fermin protested vigorously, but in vain. Although it was a matter of only a dollar or so, I decided to see whether my letter from the Prefect of PotosÍ would make any difference with his attitude toward us. The sight of the official seal, and an emphatic threat that he would get himself into trouble if he persisted in his outrageous demands, gradually brought him to lower the price until it came within two or three cents of the regular tariff.

Hardly had we settled the dispute when a violent thunder-storm came up. This was the last day of November and the rainy season was beginning. From now on we had showers nearly every afternoon.

In the evening a party of foreigners arrived, consisting of a wealthy Franco-Boliviano and his two sons who were on their way home from Paris. They amused us by their elaborate preparations to supply themselves with drinks and edibles. Little alcohol stoves were kept busy making hot toddy, and drinks without number soon produced a very drowsy party.

We got an early start the next morning and, in an hour after leaving Pampa Tambo, came in sight of the great river Pilcomayo which is associated with the tragic death of the French explorer, Creveaux. The Pilcomayo rises west of PotosÍ, receives the turbid waters that have passed through PotosÍ’s smelters, flows east and then southeast towards Paraguay, finally joining the Paraguay River just above Asuncion. Were it not for the gigantic morass, the Estero Patino, which interrupts its course for about fifty miles, it would serve as a convenient means of communication between the mining region of Bolivia and the Rio de la Plata. Most of its course is through the Gran Chaco, a debateable land that has been only partly explored.

East of the Andes, where the affluents of the Pilcomayo are almost interlaced with those of the MamorÉ, in the watershed between the basins of the Amazon and the ParanÁ, lies a region of rich tropical forests with possibilities of development that appeal very strongly to far-sighted Bolivianos. The conditions are tropical, the soil is fertile, and there is an abundance of rain. There are, however, in this region, many tribes of wild Indians of whom little is known and who have shown no desire to encourage the advent of strangers. Transportation is exceedingly difficult.

We found that a suspension bridge had been built across the Pilcomayo at its narrowest and deepest point, but owing to the tardiness of the wet season, we were able to ford the stream lower down and save a dÉtour of several miles. After crossing the river we rode up a dry gulch in which an attempt at cultivation by means of irrigating ditches was producing both pomegranates and peaches.

An hour’s ride beyond the river brought us to Calera, a little hamlet of Indian huts with a very primitive tambo. We had counted on resting here during the middle of the day, but there was absolutely nothing to be had either for man or beast. We could have unloaded and unpacked our own supplies, but there is no point in eating when your mules cannot eat, and so we pushed on, twelve miles further, to the town of Yotala. Our path crossed a low range of barren hills and then descended a thousand feet or more by a steep, winding path to the river Cachimayo which we forded without difficulty. In this little valley we found many attractive plantations, the fincas or country houses of the wealthy residents of Sucre. Extensive irrigation has transformed the bed of the valley into what seems like a veritable paradise, so great is its contrast with the barren region around about.

Yotala is an old Spanish town, much more dead than alive. There was an inn, misnamed a “restaurant,” where there was nothing to be had in the way of food for any of us. Fermin finally succeeded in finding a poor widow who had a little fodder for sale and was willing to let the mules eat it in her back yard. As for ourselves, we had to fall back as usual on canned goods, just as though this were an isolated poste, twenty miles from anywhere, instead of being a town of several thousand inhabitants. We spread out our little lunch on the stones of the plaza under two trees.

As it was noon, and the sky cloudless, the sun shone with considerable ferocity. Presently a slovenly official with an expression on his face that said plainly he was not quite sure whether we were distinguished travellers who ought to be looked after or only vagabonds who should be driven off, came and inquired if we were French merchants. On receiving a negative reply he seemed rather relieved and withdrew to the shade of his own house. Of course if we had whispered the magic words “delegados de los Estados Unidos,” all would have been different.

After the mules had had a rest we covered the remaining six miles to Sucre, passing on the way a number of large fincas. One of them seemed to bear a distant resemblance to a pleasure park. Statues of men and animals, summer houses, pagodas, and a small intramural railway whose imitation locomotive was a small automobile in disguise, lent the place a festive air which was increased by one or two minarets and other fantastic towers. We learned afterwards that this was La Glorieta, the seat of the Prince and Princess of Glorieta. The story, as told us by a pleasant old lady in Sucre, is as follows:—

It seems that the head of the richest family in Bolivia, who is also the leading banker of Sucre, wearying of republican simplicity, decided to make a large donation to the Pope. Soon afterwards his great generosity was rewarded with the title of “Prince of Glorieta.” Unfortunately, our presence in this part of the world was not properly made known to this Bolivian royal house and I am unable to give an adequate description of the beauties of Glorieta. They have, however, been published by the owners in a pamphlet, and from all that I could hear, Glorieta has a distant resemblance to Coney Island.

After passing Glorieta, we crossed a small caÑon, climbed the sides of a deep gorge, and suddenly found ourselves at the city gates.

Sucre has a population of twenty thousand souls, including fifty negroes, and two or three hundred foreigners, a large number of whom are Spaniards engaged in mercantile business. There are two or three hotels here, and we were in some doubt as to which might offer the best welcome. After a vain effort to locate the Prefect and get his advice, we decided to go to the Hotel Colon where we found large comfortable rooms on the second floor, facing the plaza. The proprietor was most polite and attentive. The only fault that we had to find with him was his continual spitting. The fact that there were no cuspidors and that he was ruining his own carpet did not deter him in the least. Perhaps he had rented the furnishings.

It is superfluous to speak of the filth of the kitchen

through which we had to pass to reach the back yard. It differed from others only in the large number of guinea-pigs that swarmed everywhere. They helped to make the bill-of-fare more interesting.

Sucre owes its importance to its comparatively pleasant climate. The average temperature is 56° F. Bolivianos, accustomed as they are to one of the worst climates in the world, say that Sucre has “the finest climate in existence,” which means, being translated, that it is fairly tolerable. Nevertheless, we found it very agreeable to be down at this lower elevation, and we could scarcely sympathize with Castelnau, who, coming up from the eastern plains in 1845, thought Sucre very “triste.” He and his associates had been for many months in the warm regions of Brazil and found it difficult “to resist the cold and the effects of the altitude.” Most of them suffered severely from soroche although few people now-a-days think of being troubled at an altitude of anything less than twelve thousand feet and Sucre is only a little over nine thousand.

If the miners had felt as Castelnau did, the old Indian city of Chuquisaca would never have become the social and literary capital of upper Peru. Its name was changed to La Plata in recognition of the stream of silver that flowed to it from PotosÍ. Here resided an important bishop who looked after the souls of countless thousands of Indians scattered up and down the Bolivian plateau and in the tangled jungles east of the Andes. The citizens of Chuquisaca, or La Plata, acquired before long a reputation for wealth and intelligence which spread far and wide. They called their city the “Athens of Peru” and they established here a university where students still come to study law and medicine.

After the great battle of Ayacucho in December, 1824, when General Sucre won the memorable victory that defeated the last Spanish army in South America, Upper Peru was erected into an independent Republic, taking its name from the great General Bolivar and giving to its capital city the name of its first president.

President Sucre was living at the capital when Edmond Temple came here in 1826. That entertaining writer describes him as tall and thin with mild, prepossessing manners and diffident address. Temple had lived in Bolivia for nearly a year and was moved to say that General Sucre was the best choice that could have been made to fill “the arduous, troublesome, and thankless office of Supreme Chief of the new republic of Bolivia.” Temple attended a session of Congress where he was unfavorably impressed by the custom of remaining seated during the whole debate and by the constant practice of spitting, “which is a breach of decorum which no Englishman can patiently witness!” The innkeeper must have been a descendant of a Congressman.

As long as Congress sat here the representatives came mostly from this region and were naturally influenced by the aristocratic society of the capital. The wealthy politicians of Sucre succeeded in diverting a large part of the national revenues to beautifying their city, building extravagant public works, and neglecting the just claims of La Paz. La Paz, far more populous, and enjoying a much more important situation commercially, was overlooked. Little of the public revenue found its way thither. The result was a revolution in which La Paz emphatically proclaimed its desire to share in the distribution of the public moneys and public offices. The then President gathered the Government forces together in Sucre and proceeded to march on the rebellious metropolis. He was defeated not far from La Paz with great losses, and the war-like AymarÁs of La Paz followed up the victory with orgies of a disgusting and barbaric if not cannibalistic character. The result was that while Sucre retained the Supreme Court and the title of Capital, La Paz became the actual seat of government, and few foreign diplomats have ever undertaken the five days of hard travel which separates Sucre from Challapata, the nearest railway station.

Nevertheless the wealthiest people in Bolivia live in Sucre. They are very aristocratic and extremely exclusive, and they feel very superior to the citizens of La Paz although that place is really much more important than Sucre. The great land-owners have established here the headquarters of the most important banks in the country.

At the largest of all, the Banco Nacional de Bolivia, I drew some money on my letter of credit. Among the coins which I trustfully accepted were seven or eight that proved to be bad. The Indians always ring a coin before accepting it. The result was I found myself the victim of a clever bank cashier. The coins were probably not counterfeit. The Bolivian government has not been above issuing “silver” coins, particularly “half pesos,” that contain so much “alloy” as to be valueless.

These debased half dollars have long been a subject of annoyance not only to travellers but to the neighboring Peruvians. Sir Clements Markham says that at the time of his visit to Peru in 1859, when he was on that famous mission that secured Chincona plants from eastern Peru for transportation to India, war was imminent between Peru and Bolivia and one casus belli was that the Bolivian government persisted in coining and deluging Peru with debased half dollars. These ill-omened chickens have certainly come back to roost, for one never sees them now in Peru and they are all too frequent here. Perhaps that is one reason why the local banks are so unusually well built.

There is also a pretentious “legislative palace,” and at the time of my visit a large theatre was in the course of construction. It was hoped to have this completed in time for the celebration of the one hundredth anniversary of the beginning of the War of Independence.

The market-place is neither so interesting nor so picturesque as that of PotosÍ. A few of the men wore curious helmet-like hats with small visors turned up in front and back. It would be interesting to know whether this were the original hat of the vicinity or whether it had been copied from the head-gear of the armored Spaniard conquistadores of the sixteenth century. The corresponding women’s hats were twice as large as the men’s but the brim was turned up in the front and back in the same fashion.

Most of the women wore felt hats of native manufacture, picturesque coats of white cotton decorated with many little pieces of colored calico, and as many heavy woollen petticoats as they could afford. The majority wore rough rawhide sandals without socks but a few had elaborately patterned knitted stockings.

A considerable quantity of chocolate is manufactured here and, as in the mountains of Colombia, no meal is considered complete without it. They appreciate better than we do the advantage of having the drink as light and airy as possible, and consequently never serve any without beating it to a light froth by means of a wooden spindle that is inserted in the pot and rapidly revolved between the palms of the hands.

There are several Indian silversmiths here, as well as in PotosÍ, where filigree-work, spoons, and simple silver dishes are hammered out. The director of the mint in PotosÍ told me he was frequently offered pure silver family heirlooms that have come down from the extravagant days of the seventeenth century when in a well-to-do house every imaginable utensil was made of silver.

Another specialty of Sucre is the manufacture of tiny dolls out of pieces of fine wire, lace, and tinsel. They range in size from four inches down to half an inch. Sometimes an effort is made to copy a native costume, but more generally the dressing is entirely fantastic or suited only to high carnival. Similar dolls are made in south central Mexico.