A. S. Forrest

TO countless people South America is little or nothing more than a geographical expression, and to such the Argentine Republic is the representative State, typical of all the rest. There could be no greater error, for the natives of the great southern continent are sharply differentiated, alike in many traits of character, the vocations which they pursue, and the physiography of the territory which they inhabit. There are, it is true, certain ties between them all; they all boast a common ancestry in the Iberian Peninsula, and they are also united by a common religion, and, to a lesser extent, a common language. Still, the uninitiated person does not go so very far wrong in supposing that the Argentine dwarfs all its neighbours. It would be a veritable Triton among the minnows were it not for the juxtaposition of Brazil, which vastly exceeds it in the matter of size, if not in prosperity. The rivalry between the two countries is of long standing, but even Brazilians have to reluctantly admit that their neighbours are easily first both in the development of their resources and the extent of their commerce. There is yet another factor which gives the Argentina pre-eminence. In its capital, Buenos Ayres, it has the largest city south of the Equator, and, next to Paris, the largest Latin city in the world. The noise of its fame has reached the ears of thousands of people to whom Rio de Janeiro and Lima are mere abstractions. Nor is that predominant fame undeserved. Buenos Ayres is a mighty place of habitation boasting avenues and architecture which would grace any city in the Old World. The progress has been almost incredibly rapid. From an ill-paved, wretched settlement on the flat banks of the muddy River Plate, a splendid city has arisen. There is no “Colonial” atmosphere about it; it has instead all the impress of a European city, and in this respect it stands apart from every other town in South America.

The traveller who approaches Buenos Ayres, after having seen Rio and Montevideo, will probably experience a little disappointment, when he first catches sight of the city, for its fame far transcends its appearance when viewed from the deck of an incoming steamer. The journey up the muddy river is uninteresting, and, but for the buoys that mark the fourteen miles of dredged channel, has no features to distinguish it from the English Channel on a calm day. At night, when lit up by its innumerable lights, the city presents a more imposing spectacle from the river, for the vast area that it covers is then apparent. In the daytime the low-lying metropolis is relieved by only a few outstanding buildings, the lemon-shaped dome of the Congress Buildings being the most conspicuous. Its straight streets are set at right angles, and through the centre of the city runs the magnificent Avenida de Mayo, lined with magnificent buildings of many styles, shaded by tall trees, and at night brilliantly lighted by electric standards. It is in the “Avenida” that you receive the best impression of the city’s importance. Stand at any point of this great boulevard, your mind receives the impression that you have reached the centre of a State which has in a remarkably short space of time risen to be one of the most important countries of the New World.

But the majority of the streets of this vast city are still the long, narrow lanes which the early designers laid out, and they offer dreary vistas of interminable length. Although most of the buildings that line them are new and stately, and have fronts which betoken the wealth of the builders, they are rather ostentatious, and become wearying after a short time. But there are many notable buildings in the city which are worthy of the city’s importance. The Government buildings in the Plaza de Mayo, the Houses of Congress, the numerous hotels, the Cathedral, the Bolsu, and the sumptuous quarters of the Jockey Club compare favourably with similar institutions in other parts of the world. Moreover, the homes of the wealthy landowners, merchants, are veritable palaces, sumptuously furnished, and even persons of lesser estate reside in houses of great beauty and luxury. Clubs are plentiful, and provide for the various nationalities who form colonies in the city. When one considers the fact

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that the city has a population of about one million, which is about a fifth of the entire population of the country, it is not surprising to find that there are many places of entertainment, which are run upon similar lines to those in Paris, London, and New York. Companies from Europe tour South America, and Rio, Buenos Ayres, Valparaiso are favoured with the best talent the world possesses. The opera house at Buenos Ayres is quite a sight on gala nights, and the toilets of the beauties of fashion are not less extravagant or tasteful than those of the fairest Parisiennes. The women of Argentina are famous for their beauty, and although they begin at an early age to put on flesh, they long retain their good complexions and love of showy dress. The men are not far behind the womenfolk in their love of display, good looks, and luxuriant habits, although of late there is a disposition among the younger men to go in for the sports and pastimes generally associated with Englishmen and Americans. The Jockey Club owns and runs the racecourse, and its enormous wealth is derived largely from that institution. Horses and motor-cars are the passions of the rich, as the long line of automobiles of latest types that line the boulevard outside the racecourse testify. There are many horses on the streets of the city that must arrest the attention of the visitors, not on account of their beauty, but of their sorry appearance. The cab horses in particular are badly treated by their drivers, and it is one of the stains upon this city, that has in so many respects emulated the ways of northern capitals, that its authorities allow the brutes who ill use the poor beasts to go unpunished. So far as its maritime situation is concerned, Buenos Ayres is not very fortunate, for the channel of the estuary being so shallow has, notwithstanding the many improvements that have been made in the docks of recent years, forced much of the shipping to other ports more accessible. Rosario has been growing in importance as a grain exporting town, and being well placed in the Parana, large vessels can go alongside and load much of the grain grown in the fertile province of Santa FÉ. Bahia Blanca has even a greater importance, and is growing so rapidly that it has not inaptly been called the “Liverpool of the South.” Magnificent graving docks have been built, as well as harbour works, and the Government, recognising the strategical value of its position on the Atlantic, have made it a military and naval depot.

The growth of Rosario and Bahia Blanca is a good thing for the country, for it helps to counteract the tendency towards concentration in the capital, which is about the only real menace to the republic’s continued and increased prosperity. La Plata, the other port which lies about fifteen miles farther down the estuary of the Plate than the capital, has proved a dismal failure. Much money has been wasted in the attempt to make a port for the capital at this spot; but, in spite of its wide streets and imposing buildings, the city has a neglected, desolate aspect, few persons cross its grass-grown streets, and the whole place is a good instance of the Nemesis which overtakes extravagant hopes. The projectors of the city showed a singular lack of foresight in imagining that there was need for another grand city within such easy distance of the capital. The museum at La Plata is a magnificent building, with much to interest the anthropologist, but it proves rather gruesome to the average visitor, who is rather appalled by the enormous collection of skulls and skeletons of American Indians that occupies many rooms and hundreds of cases.

THE LEMON-SHAPED DOME OF THE CAPITAL.

La Plata has its parks with muddy little ponds and lakes, gardens with beautiful trees, an avenue of giant eucalyptus trees, and its zoological gardens, with a few specimens, that give signs of life that the city could ill spare.

With the exception of Belgrano and Palermo, which are filled with superbly appointed mansions, the suburbs of Buenos Ayres are depressing and sordid. As the town fades into the camp, the houses become poorer and poorer, streets are like quagmires, and old tin cans are utilised for building the shacks occupied by the squalid poor, for, like all great cities, Buenos Ayres has them in great abundance, a mixed lot of the unfit of European and native races.

But the cities are only the small part of Argentina. They are the exchanges rather than the creators of its wealth, a wealth which lies in the far-spreading Pampas, which form the natural feature of the republic. Much has been written upon them, and nearly everyone who has undertaken the task has set on record their two salient characteristics, their apparent limitlessness and their deadly monotony. The first hour’s journey on any of the railways that run from Buenos Ayres is over an unbroken, expansive sea of green, the second hour is the same, and if you go travelling on until sundown, the same landscape will meet the eye. With certain necessary variations, Swinburne’s lines on the North Sea might be applied to the Pampas of the Argentine:

or, as another poet has phrased it, the vast prairie seems:

But the dweller in cities will not be depressed by this changelessness of landscape. He will rather welcome the escape from the congested haunts of man, drinking in with gusto the fresh clean air that has blown over countless leagues of grassland, and revel in the sense of liberty which comes when one stands in the great open spaces and vast solitudes of nature. If the unending sweep of green and the herds of innumerable cattle become oppressive, the eye can seek relief in following flights of hawks and other birds, or in searching for a clump

of stunted trees, or the round head of a wind-pump, the sweep of a small stream, the occasional hut of a shepherd, or the more imposing “estancia,” as the Argentina farmhouse is called. Cattle, horses, and sheep are never long out of the line of a traveller’s vision, and with them the herdsmen of the plains, the “gauchos.” Although the Pampas form so large a part of the territory, they do not occupy it all, for the country is so long that it boasts all sorts of climates, from the tropical to the arctic. To the north subtropical forests abound; to the west the plains fade away into the mighty Andes, which tower 23,000 feet towards the sky; while to the south lie the bleak hills and arid plains of Patagonia. Cattle-raising, horse-breeding, wheat-growing, and meal preparation, although the staple industries of the Argentine, do not exhaust the list. Mendoza, situated at a point where the Pampas merge into the foot-hills of the Andes, is celebrated for its vineyards. Poplar trees give shelter from the cold mountain winds, and the scene might almost be laid in the Rhone valley. Woods, streams, and lakes give a diversity which is welcome to the traveller who comes from across the plains. Mendoza has plenty of wide streets and low one-story houses. Shady trees line the roads, and streams of water run down the gutters all day long. In the hot dusty weather an army of boys and men, equipped with buckets attached to long poles, sprinkle the streets with water from the runnels. Little bridges of planks are formed across the gutters where they are too wide to step across. In the dark and smoky interiors of the workmen’s cafÉs and wineshops merry little groups of bronzed and grizzly bearded peons sit round heavy, old-fashioned tables, sipping wine out of great flagons, smoking big black cigars, gambling, and playing cards. Women, with jet-black eyes, and mantillas, move leisurely about the streets, seeking always the shady side, or sit upon stiff wooden chairs placed outside the entrances to their homes, plying their fans vigorously to keep themselves cool, and the flies from settling. The town is laid out with rigid symmetry; the streets are wide and straight, as if drawn with a ruler, and cross one another at right angles. New buildings have sprung up in the principal street, which lies at the lower end of the town, and all the architectural fads and fancies of recent years are represented. Buenos Ayres has set the fashion for all the newer and progressive towns and cities in the republic, and an effort is made in Mendoza to emulate the outside cafÉs that crowd upon the pavements of the Avenida in the capital. Round the tables, under the awnings, a crowd of the youth of the city congregate before breakfast and dinner, and all the latest styles in clothes are to be seen, and the very latest gossip heard. The Grand Hotel, which occupies a large portion of one side of the Plaza, is an old-fashioned but very comfortable caravansary with flowery patios and lofty rooms, and a fore court in front, which is used as an open-air dining space. As rain seldom, if ever, falls upon this town, it is always safe to take a seat and a meal in this pleasant spot. The popularity of the courtyard is contributed to in the evenings by the cinema pictures which are thrown on to a screen stretched on one side. Crowds gather round the tables to witness the free show, and visitors have opportunities of mixing with the better class inhabitants. The evenings are very hot during the summer months, but the days are stifling. Dust is wafted about in great clouds, and adds to the general discomfort of the sweltering heat, and the noonday siesta is the only refuge for those fortunate enough to indulge in this custom of the country. A public park has recently been laid out on the rising ground on the outskirts of the town. The fertility of the soil, assisted by artificial irrigation, has produced a fine shady spot, surrounded by rich green foliage. Firs, poplars, palms, and smaller plants of many varieties flourish on this beautiful

site. The great Cordillera forms a background of surpassing beauty to these gardens, as well as an almost impregnable barrier between the republics of Argentine and Chili. In a corner of the park, which is dotted with pools of muddy water, meant for lakes, there is a small collection of animals and birds, hardly large enough to be called a “Zoo.” The best specimens it possesses are the giant condors, which are found upon the surrounding heights of the Andes. These great birds are formidable enemies to travellers on the hills, and many stories are told of their prowess. That they attack sheep and even men can readily be credited, for their outstretched wings frequently measure from eight to ten feet across, while their beaks and talons are equally strong and powerful. A flock of these aerial monsters, sailing near a narrow mountain pass, would scare the nerves of any traveller, for an encounter with them on the edge of a precipice is rather a one-sided affair, in which the odds are all in favour of the birds. The other exhibits in the gardens are mostly native fauna, and there is plenty of room for future extensions. The vineyards round the town and in the surrounding districts are shaded by tall poplar trees, and irrigated by small canals, for nature is all

too sparing of the “gentle rain” in this sunny region. The water for these canals is derived from mountain streams, formed by the melted snow, and there is no limit to quantities available. The dry air of Mendoza and the altitude (it is 2700 feet above sea-level) render it a most desirable place of residence for persons troubled with pulmonary complaints, and the perpetual sunshine which covers the landscape makes for cheerfulness, in spite of the heat. The wine of this district is much appreciated locally, although the bulk of it finds its market in the provinces of Buenos Ayres and Santa FÉ. The best qualities are really good, although they might not tempt the connoisseur accustomed to the wines of France to forsake his vintage. Mendoza is an important station on the Trans-Andean Railway route, and many passengers from Buenos Ayres to Valparaiso find it a pleasant resting-place on the long and trying journey. After nearly twenty-four hours in the train which crosses the monotonous plains, a day’s or a night’s rest at Mendoza acts as a pick-me-up of which delicate people should always avail themselves. Although the railway across or through the summit of the Andes is now completed, and is available for passengers nearly the whole year round, the summer months from November to April are the best for making this trip. Until quite recently the seven-hour journey by coach or muleback, from Las Cuevas to Salado, deterred many from making the journey, but now that the trains run backwards and forwards through the tunnel at the summit, no one considers the journey

in the light of an undertaking. The scenery is grand. Majestic and rugged mountain tops covered with dazzling white snow lie round on all sides, and as the train winds round the slopes, over valleys and ravines, an endless succession of strange rocky forms are passed. Just before coming to Las Cuevas the train stops at a little station, where there is a small hotel patronised by mountaineers and excursionists who desire to spend a day or two among the rugged peaks. It is nearly nine thousand feet above sea-level, and quite near to the railway track—a curious compact mass of stones and gravel forms a natural bridge over a small river. This bridge gives its name to the station—Punta del Inca. Many passages in the journey are awe-inspiring, and as the route follows that taken by San Martin on his famous march into Chili a good idea can be formed of the difficult nature of his undertaking. Great brown hills, destitute of vegetation, rocky and sandy, predominate. Immense boulders, which threaten to fall at any moment, hang menacingly over the track, which is protected in many places by stout iron sheds. Fallen boulders and rocks brought down by storms and the melting snows lie scattered in wild disorder over the valleys. The scenes are full of a melancholy which even the bright sunlight reflected from the snowy peaks cannot dispel. The distant peak of Aconcagua rising to the enormous height of nearly twenty-three thousand feet, comes into view from time to time as the train winds around its tortuous course. At the highest points reached by the line many of the passengers suffer from the “mountain sickness,” but only a few resolve to brave the “Straits” in future rather than repeat the Andean journey. At Soldado, the frontier station, the customs examine the baggage, and at Los Andes carriages are changed, and the journey down to Santiago and Valparaiso, through richly wooded slopes, is accomplished in about four hours. The traffic between Chili and Argentina is steadily increasing, and the establishment of the Trans-Andean Railway has done much to bring about a more intimate friendship between the two nations.

The history of the Argentine nation has followed similar lines to those of its sister republics. The conquest by the Spaniards was followed by a long colonial period, which came to an end when the people, after a desperate struggle, won their independence. Since then it has had its wars with neighbouring States, and, like all the rest of the republics, innumerable internecine quarrels. But of late years more peaceful counsels have prevailed, and the settlement of the boundary dispute with Chili, through the more sensible medium of arbitration, is a good augury for the future. Out of the war for independence a great and commanding personality emerges. General San Martin might almost be called the Brutus of South America—the noblest of them all. The Argentines recognise this, and have expressed their admiration and gratitude by erecting a statue to him in the public square of every town in the country, an act which though admirable is apt to bore the traveller. Brave, patriotic, able in warfare, and unselfish are the qualities which can be ascribed in all fairness to San Martin. In many respects he may be overshadowed by Bolivar, but he had none of the latter’s weakness, none of his faults or crimes. His sole aim was to drive the oppressor out of his native land, and he not only succeeded in doing this, but also materially assisted in breaking the power of Spain in Chili and Peru. When his great task was accomplished he retired quietly from the scene of conflict, disdaining to compete for power with self-seeking, unscrupulous politicians. His was a mind utterly incapable of intrigue, so he was content to leave the wily Bolivar to his desperate devices and his colossal dreams of empire.