Nevin O. Winter

Cruising along the west coast of South America is a delightful experience. It is the perfection of ocean travel. One is always sure of fine weather, for it neither rains nor blows, and the swell is seldom strong enough to make even the susceptible person seasick. In defiance of our idea of geography the sailors speak of going “up” the coast, when bound towards the south. The boats along this coast are built for fair weather and tropical seas. They have their cabins opening seaward, and the decks reach down almost to the water’s edge. Some swing hammocks and sleep on deck, and it is very comfortable. Such vessels would not be adapted for the stormy Atlantic, and would not live long in a storm upon the Caribbean Sea. Sailors say that the wind is never strong enough to “ruffle the fur on a cat’s back,” and this immense stretch of sea might be likened unto a great mill pond. It is this part of the ocean, between the Isthmus and Peru, that suggested to the Spaniards the name of Pacific.

Near the equator the days and nights are equal. The sun ceases doing duty promptly at six, and reappears at the same hour the following morning. There is no twilight, little gloaming, and darkness succeeds daylight almost as soon as the big red ball disappears in the western sea. At night beautiful phosphorescence may be seen. The water is so impregnated with phosphorus, that each tiny wave is tipped with a light and the vessel leaves a trail of fire. From above the Southern Cross looks down upon the scene in complaisance. And thus the days pass in succession one after the other. The temperature is not uncomfortable, as the Antarctic Current tempers the tropical sun, and there is generally a southerly or southwesterly wind that aids. It is a pleasanter ride, and subject to fewer inconveniences than the ride along the eastern coast of the continent.

THE WEST COAST.

When the Stars and Stripes have faded from view at Balboa, and the jagged backbone of the continent has disappeared into the mists on either horizon, towards Nicaragua and Colombia, one feels that a new world has been reached. The real South America has been entered, and, when the good ship crosses the Line, about the third day out, home and the rest of the world seem very far away. It is a long journey to Valparaiso, Chile, if one takes a steamer that stops at all the intermediate ports, as it lasts more than three weeks. There are swifter vessels, however, that avoid Ecuador and make the journey in twelve days. The slower vessels follow the coast line, and the passenger is given many a view of the Andes, whose peaks are crowned with eternal snows but are frequently wrapped in fleecy clouds. At Guayaquil, the westernmost city of South America, it is even possible on occasions in clear weather to see Chimborazo, eighty miles from the sea. Nowhere in the world is there a greater assembly of lofty peaks than will be seen as the vessel proceeds along the coast. The Spaniards called these “sierras,” because their uneven summits resembled the teeth of a saw. Some of the peaks are regular in outline, but more often they are irregular and even grotesque, so that the imaginative minds of the natives have fancied resemblances to works of nature and have given them corresponding names. Nowhere in the world are there stranger freaks in geological formations, or more startling contrasts. Near the coast run the foothills, which gradually become higher and bolder until they end in the loftiest peaks. Back, and beyond all, an occasional volcanic peak may be seen lifting itself in solitary grandeur.

At the mouth of the Guayas River, in Ecuador, there is a dense growth of tropical vegetation. It seems to be a veritable hothouse of nature, where plants and trees wage a desperate war for existence against the vines, mosses and other parasites that attack them. This is the end of such scenes, however, for days and days. It would be difficult to find a more dreary aspect than the coast of South America from the boundary of Ecuador almost to Valparaiso. From the water’s edge to the Andes chain of mountains stretches a yellow and brown desert, unrelieved by a tinge of green, except where irrigation has been employed. At midday all is clear, but in the evening a purple haze covers the whole landscape. It bears a close resemblance to parts of Arizona and New Mexico in general characteristics. Cliffs three hundred to four hundred feet high, and which are scooped out into fantastic shapes, often form the water’s edge. The distant mountains look gloomy and forbidding. It very seldom rains there, perhaps once in six or seven years is a fair average. In other places a generation can almost grow up and pass away without an experience with rain. When it does rain, however, the desertlike plains and slopes immediately spring into life. Where for years there has been nothing but drifting sands appear meadows of nutritious grasses, and flowers and plants spring up in great confusion. Wherever the seeds come from is a mystery, but every nook and corner is soon ablaze with vegetation.

The boats stop at many ports from Ecuador to Chile. These little towns will be found nestling in little hollows at the foot of the hills, or tacked on the hillside. Each one is walled away from the other, and each is a gateway to a fertile valley or rich mining section. Sometimes a narrow gauge railway runs back into the interior, but there are no connections coastwise. The steamer furnishes the only communication with the world beyond, and the arrival of the boat is an event of great importance. Each town has its own specialty. At Guayaquil and Paita many merchants will come aboard with Panama hats, and good-natured bargaining will then be carried on with the passengers. Buying a hat is a tedious matter. The seller does not expect more than about one-third of the price he asks. If the passenger looks indifferent the native will hunt him up and reduce his offer. “How much would the seÑor give?” “Thirty soles! That would be robbery.” But the ship’s gong strikes and the time of departure is at hand. “Here, seÑor, is your hat. Muchas gracias. Adios!” The deal is concluded, and you have your hat at the price you offered, if you are shrewd enough to see that a cheaper hat was not substituted at the last minute. Deck traders board the vessel and stay with it for days, doing a good business in almost everything from vegetables and fruits to dry goods, and jewelry. Parrots, monkeys and even mild-eyed ant-eaters are offered the passengers for pets. Passengers join the boat at every stop, and, instead of hat boxes, as American women would be burdened with, the women here all bring on board their bird cages with their noisy occupants. Swarthy Spaniards and the darker-hued natives join the boat, many of them dressed in gay attire, and particularly wearing gaudy neckties and waistcoats. The boat always anchors at some distance from the shore, while passengers and freight are brought out either in lighters or row-boats. At some places a dozen lighters may be filled with freight for the steamer. The ship’s crew bring up from the hold scores of bales and boxes with labels familiar and unfamiliar. International commerce becomes real—almost a thing of flesh and blood. Each sling load brought up from the hold has its own tale to tell, and everyone becomes commercialized. The crowing of roosters at night, the bleating of sheep and bawling of the cattle remind you of a country barnyard at times, for the boat carries its own live stock, which are killed as the conditions of the larder demand. Thus it is that these slow galleons float along the coast past Paita, Pacasmayo, Salaverry, Pisco and the rest of the little ports. Five minutes after the ladder would be lowered the deck would become a floating bazaar.

Guayaquil is the port for the equatorial republic of Ecuador. Quite a business is done there, for more than one-third of the world’s supply of cacao beans, from which our chocolate is made, comes through this port. It is generally infested with more or less fever, and most people prefer to make their stay as short as possible. One of the curious things to attract the traveller’s attention is to see the mules with their legs encased in trousers. This is not due to any excessive modesty on the part of the inhabitants, for children several years old may be seen without as much clothing on. The purpose is to protect the legs of the animals from the bite of the gadfly, which is very numerous here. It was near Guayaquil that Pizarro landed with one hundred and eighty men to conquer the empire of the Incas. The capital of Ecuador, Quito, lies in a saucer-shaped cup at the foot of Mt. Pichincha, with many other lofty peaks in sight. It perhaps retains more of the original characteristics than any other city of South America. It vies with the City of Mexico the distinction of being the oldest city of the Americas. For centuries prior to the coming of the Spaniards it was the capital of one of the branches of the Incas, and Atahualpa used to eat his meals off plates made of solid gold. Hitherto accessible only over a long and difficult mountain trail, which was impassable during half of the year, Quito can now be reached by a railroad—thanks to American enterprise. No less than twenty volcanoes are visible from the track, of which three are active, five dormant and twelve are classed as extinct.

Callao (pronounced Cal-ya-o) is the principal port of Peru. It is always full of steamers and masts and has a general aspect of business. More than a thousand vessels touch here every twelve months. Its history has been exciting and there are many monuments to its heroes. Some warships are generally floating in the harbour. Lima is distant but seven miles from Callao, and it is a ride of only twenty minutes by an excellent electric road of American construction throughout. To the hum of the trolley one is hurried past irrigated fields, beautiful gardens and villas, and Inca ruins many centuries old. As the boats remain at Callao for a day the traveller is able to spend a few hours in the “City of the Kings,” as Pizarro christened it. Lima is a wonderfully interesting city, and its history is full of romance. It preserves in wood and stone the spirit of old Spain as it was transplanted into the New World. Carved balconies, which were patterned after their native Andalusia, still overhang the narrow streets of the Peruvian capital. Up-to-date electric cars whirl past old monastery walls where life has scarcely changed in three centuries. The LimaÑos are an easy-going, pleasure-loving people, among whom the strenuous life has few disciples. It has been the scene of many revolutions, and the marks of street fighting are numerous. Churches and ecclesiastical institutions abound on every hand, and ecclesiastics are numerous on the streets. The cathedral, in which the sacristan will show the alleged bones of Francisco Pizarro, is a fine specimen of architecture—one of the best in the world. On another corner of the plaza is the passageway from which the conspirators emerged on their way to assassinate the conqueror. The building which was the headquarters of the Inquisition in South America occupies still another site on the plaza.

Pisco is the next port of importance, and it is situated near a rich and fertile irrigated valley where sugar-cane grows abundantly. It is the port also for the interior towns of Ayacucho and Huancavelica, where numerous rich mines are found. Just a few miles out at sea are the Chincha Islands, from which Peru obtained such a large revenue for the guano found there. These deposits, once considered inexhaustible, because in places they were eighty feet or more in depth, have been almost exhausted. The great wealth received from them and nitrate has been dissipated.

At Mollendo, the last Peruvian port, there is a railway that runs to La Paz, the capital of the inland republic of Bolivia. It is a surf-lashed port where vessels are sometimes unable to land their passengers and freight. In fact the landing is through a “sort of Niagara Gorge gateway of rock, which gives to the mere landing some of the noise and a good deal of the excitement of a rescue at sea.” It takes three days’ travel to reach La Paz from Mollendo, as the train only runs by day. The first stage of the trip, as far as Arequipa, is over an almost trackless desert, where the wind piles the sand up in movable half-moon heaps. The sand-storms of the centuries have covered everything with these whitish particles, and the dusted peaks and hillocks stand out without relief of any kind. The second day brings the traveller to Lake Titicaca, the sacred lake of the Incas, which is crossed by boat, and a side trip will take the traveller to Cuzco, the capital of the Inca confederacy. Lake Titicaca is the highest and one of the most wonderful lakes in the world. It is larger than all the lakes of Switzerland together, and lies in a hollow two and one-half miles above the waters of the ocean. Lying in a peaceful valley, in a scene of desolate grandeur, where the trees are stunted and only a few of the hardiest plants survive, lies La Paz. The City of Peace, its name indicates, but this city has been the scene of turmoil and strife entirely foreign to its name ever since the Spaniards invaded these solitudes. Bolivia is another Tibet—one of the highest inhabited plateaus in the world, as well as one of the richest mineral sections.

In no part of the world, perhaps, is there such an abundance of life in sea and air as along the coast of Peru. Soon after leaving Callao the tedium of the voyage is relieved by the flight of millions upon millions of birds. There are gulls, ducks, cormorants, divers of all kinds and great pelicans with huge pouches under their bills. The sea is as animated as the air, and schools of fish, innumerable in numbers, may be seen darting through the water with their fins showing above its surface. Danger besets them from above and from beneath. The divers poise on wing every few minutes and then drop suddenly into the sea like a flash. For a few seconds they disappear beneath the surface, and then reappear with a fish in their bills. The lumbering and stately pelicans drop with a mighty splash that sends up a dash of spray. These greedy birds continue this foraging process until their pouches are so filled with fish that they are unable to rise out of the water until the load is digested or they disgorge themselves. The seals and sea lions keep themselves as busy as the birds, and constantly display their sinuous and shiny bodies above the surface, as they pursue the fish or come up to breathe.

We passed by the famous guano islands just before nightfall. The air was filled with birds, all of which were flying toward a great island that lifted up its rocky surface above the blue of the sea. At some distance above the sea were the smaller birds, which, at a distance, looked like mere specks against the sky. A little lower were the pelicans flying in single file, and in flocks of from twelve to thirty. They seemed to play the game of “follow the leader,” for if the leader poised his wings or lifted himself higher all did the same. Near the surface were divers, called “pirates” in the local parlance, in flocks of a thousand or more. They sailed along just above the surface of the water and continually altered their formation. With the naked eye the number of birds was myriad, but the telescope showed ten times as many. As far as one could see there was the same multitude of birds, all heading for this one island. The island itself was black with the birds already settled for the night, but each new arrival seemed to find a resting place either on the surface of the rock or in the caves underneath. For countless ages these birds have occupied these sterile volcanic rocks as their resting place, and have deposited the guano which has brought millions of dollars of wealth into the Peruvian treasury. A glimpse of this remarkable bird life shows how the guano has accumulated in such enormous quantities.

The northern part of Chile contains the dreariest section of this forlorn coast. There are no harbours, and a tremendous surf which rolls half way around the world before it strikes a breakwater dashes into foam upon these beaches. Several prosperous towns are located here as a result of the workings of nature’s laboratories. To reach these ports it is necessary to trust yourself to one of the boatmen, who crowd around the ladder as soon as the vessel drops anchor. Judicious bargaining is always advisable, and never pay the boatman until he has returned you safely to your floating hotel. The boat is guided through the surf with amazing skill, and it is very seldom that an accident occurs. They sometimes crowd each other off, however, in their eagerness to get the best position at the bottom of the ladder and secure the first passengers. But all these men are good swimmers, and the only result is a good wetting and much amusement for the steamer’s passengers who welcome any diversion.

Arica is the first port of importance in Chile at the north. It is only a day’s journey from Mollendo, the last Peruvian port. The Peruvian heaves a sigh when he enters Arica, but there is some hope in it, for he trusts to add this province to Peru’s possessions at some time in the future again. But at Iquique the hope fades, for sovereignty is lost for ever. Although not a large town, Arica has been the scene of several memorable events. It was here that were built the boats which carried the troops for the conquest of Chile. It was at that time a place of some importance among the natives, and the valleys back of it were densely populated and were cultivated by means of irrigation. Sir Francis Drake touched at this place in 1579, and found a collection of Indian huts on the shore. It is supposed to have been founded in 1250 by the Incas. It is like an oasis in the desert to the traveller who has coasted along the shore for days or weeks without seeing vegetation. At the present time it is famous for its oranges. They are grown in the rich valleys that lie behind the rather unattractive and forbidding hills next to the coast, and through the opening in the flat-topped hills one is permitted to catch glimpses of these valleys. Near the coast is a prehistoric cemetery filled with dead bodies, which were embalmed with almost as great skill as the mummies of Egypt.

Arica is a pleasant little place of several thousand inhabitants. There is a handsome little plaza which encloses a plot of shrubbery adorned with morning-glories and purple vine trees. One of the striking features is the brilliant colouring of the houses. There is also a rather imposing parochial church which is painted in the gaudiest colours that I have seen in any country; and it would be hard to duplicate it anywhere, even in Spanish America, a land of rich colouring. It used to be a great market for the skins of the vicuÑa, which are so beautiful. In late years, however, the skins are becoming less plentiful and the prices have jumped accordingly. The harbour is commodious and well sheltered. Interesting glimpses of native life are afforded by the Indian women coming to town. Some of them ride astride, being almost concealed by the huge panniers containing their market produce. Others trudge along by the side of the animals.

From this city a highway runs into the interior of Peru and Bolivia, which was constructed by the Incas a thousand years ago and has been used ever since. To-day caravans of mules, donkeys and llamas may be seen constantly passing up and down this ancient trail. They bring down ore and take back mining supplies and miscellaneous merchandise. It is known as the “camino real,” and is several hundred miles long. Near here is supposed to be the underground outlet of Lakes Titicaca and Poopo. One argument advanced in favour of this theory is that a certain kind of fresh water fish that abounds in that lake is caught in considerable numbers in the ocean near this town. It has been the scene of several disastrous earthquakes. On August 13th, 1868, it was almost washed away, and many of its inhabitants perished in a tidal wave which came without warning and devastated the coast for a hundred miles. Two United States men-of-war, which were in the harbour at that time, were lifted from their anchorage by waves sixty feet high and carried inland a mile over the roofs of the town. One of the vessels, the Fredonia, was dashed against a ledge of rocks and entirely destroyed, while the other, the Wateree, was left lying in the sand. Everyone on the former boat was lost and about half of the latter. For many years the boat lying on the sand was used as a boarding house for the railway employees.

On June 7th, 1880, Arica was the scene of a furious battle and a terrible massacre. At one end of the town, and directly on the sea front, is a promontory, which rises six hundred feet above the sea almost precipitously. On this rock, which is known as the Morro, the Peruvians had erected a powerful battery to defend the harbour. The Chileans, however, landed a force of four thousand men several miles below at night. In the morning the Peruvians found themselves attacked in the rear with no means of escape. As their guns were pointed to the sea they were useless to defend against those back on the landward side. Although short of small arms and ammunition, the Peruvians made a heroic defence and engaged in a hand-to-hand contest that lasted for an hour. At the end of that time the commander leaped over the precipice into the sea, and his body was crushed to a pulp among the rocks. Several hundred of his soldiers followed him, preferring to die that way to having their throats cut by the Chileans. For months afterward their bodies could be seen lying where they had lodged on the jutting rocks below. It is claimed that seventeen hundred Peruvians were killed, as this was the total strength of the garrison and no prisoners were taken. On a slab near the slope of the rock is an inscription in whitewashed stone, “Viva Battalion No. 4.” It was placed there by the victorious Chileans to commemorate the heroism of the enemy.

Arica is in the province of Tacna, which is the most northerly province in the republic, and is about the size of New Jersey. Agriculture in this province is very limited, and there has not been much of mineral development. There are some veins of copper and lead, and some scattered deposits of nitrate as well that have not been worked. A railroad from Arica runs back to the city of Tacna, the capital, which is one of the oldest railroads in South America. It is quite an important town, and is situated in a valley made fertile by irrigation. A railroad is now being built across the Cordilleras from this city to connect with the Bolivian railways. When that is completed it is believed that this line will be the best one, as it is the shortest, and every traveller is anxious to escape as much of the dust in crossing the desert region as possible. It is only a little over three hundred miles from Arica to La Paz. This road will add to the importance of Arica, for it will be one of the main arteries of commerce from Bolivia to the outside world, but it is not likely to help Tacna any in its growth.

The next province adjoining Tacna is TarapacÁ, which is one of the wealthiest sections in the Americas because of its nitrate deposits. It contains the richest nitrate region in the world. From Arica the cliffs rise up almost perpendicularly from the sea for the first day’s journey. Pisagua, the first port as you travel “up” the coast, is a city of about five thousand. This port does not differ much from a mining town in the States. Although considerable shipping is done here, Pisagua fades in importance beside its more important rivals.

“We do not want rain in Iquique.”

This statement was made to me by the manager of the nitrate trust, who lives in that prosperous city of thirty thousand or more inhabitants, and which is one hundred and eleven miles south of Arica. It was the first time I had ever heard of a community that did not desire rainfall. Water used to be brought by boat from more favoured regions, and was peddled through the streets at so much a quart or gallon. At times it is said to have sold as high as two dollars per gallon. A pipe line one hundred and fifty miles long now supplies this necessary liquid to this city, and it is sold by the metre instead of being put up in pint or quart bottles.

A walk through this city on the edge of the sea, with bare, brown and rugged hills for a background, showed not a blade of grass, except on the public squares and in a few diminutive courtyards within the houses, where the hand of man supplied the necessary water for growth. It is little wonder that lawn-mowers are a drug on the market in Iquique. The sun is fierce, and its unrelenting rays, absorbed and reflected by the vast area of desert waste, inflame the air to almost furnace heat. The streets are dusty and the fine particles get into your ears and nostrils, and you can almost taste it on your tongue. Many of the houses have a piazza on top, or a second roof, to break the force of the sun’s rays. The Arturo Prat Square has been made quite attractive, and is ornamented with a very creditable statue of that hero. Business around the shipping quarters is always lively, as it is bound to be where such an enormous export and import trade is carried on. In 1891, during the revolutionary fighting between the Balmacedists and Congressists, the custom house was the scene of a stubborn battle. The town was set on fire and confusion and disorder reigned supreme. At the present time Iquique is an important port and more than one thousand vessels enter it each year.

The dreariness and unattractiveness of the surroundings is hard to describe. Street cars with girls as conductors, good stores, the telephone and other modern conveniences, and even comfortable clubs do not make up for the lack of green vegetation. The groceries are filled with condensed milk from England, sardines from France, sausages from Germany, cheese from Holland, jellies and jam from Britain, and macaroni from Italy. But fresh vegetables and meats are at a premium, and unnatural tastes are developed. Many English live in Iquique. They are great brandy drinkers, and show discrimination “in not exhausting the wealth of the nitrate beds by taking too much soda in their brandy,” as one writer says. Nevertheless the people are happy, for wealth lies at their very doors and rain would cause great loss. By reason of this Iquique has grown until it is second only to Valparaiso in commercial importance. It has grown with a swiftness than can only be compared with our own western towns. In the first days of the saltpetre era nothing went slow and the town spread like magic. Much of the population is a rough one and hard to govern, but the authorities have done well. The battles that have been fought with fortune in Iquique and on this coast have cost many lives and much privation. A few have acquired fortune, but more have not even obtained a modest competence in return for the deprivation and sacrifice endured. Whatever has been gained at the cost of much labour and privation has been fully earned by some one—and perhaps by one who did not reap the reward.

The province of Antofagasta joins that of TarapacÁ on the south. Tocopilla is the first port of importance, but Antofagasta, a little over two hundred miles from Iquique, is the principal city. This province is a desert in appearance similar to the other, and this city can boast no advantages over its more northerly rival. Antofagasta is almost on the Tropic of Capricorn, and is in about the same latitude as Rio de Janeiro, on the Atlantic coast. It lies almost at the foot of some hills that are quite high, and is a city of about twenty thousand. The dull-coloured houses can scarcely be distinguished from the sombre hills at a distance. The dust is anything but pleasant. A great deal of nitrate and some copper are shipped from Antofagasta. There are several small wharves, but everything has to be transferred to lighters. The harbour is a wretched roadstead and, to get ashore, one has to brave a lashing surf. The pride of the city is a little plaza, where considerable coaxing has caused a little evidence of green from the grass and a few trees. A narrow gauge railroad, two feet and six inches in width, runs from here to La Paz, and a great deal of freight is transshipped to Bolivian towns.

The province of Atacama comes next, which does not differ much in physical characteristics from the three previously named. In some of the valleys, where water can be secured for irrigation, a little agriculture is attempted. There are also a number of minerals to be found, but not so much as in TarapacÁ and Antofagasta. Caldera, the principal port, is two hundred and seven miles from Antofagasta, and has a well sheltered bay. The oldest railroad in South America connects this port with CopiapÓ, the capital of the province. This city is situated in a fertile valley on the banks of a river of the same name. It is an old and quite important town, and has a number of educational institutions. It will soon be connected with Santiago by the longitudinal railway.

The last of the northern provinces is that of Coquimbo. This province is really at the end of the dry zone, and there are a number of rich valleys where the land is fertile and agriculture flourishes. It is a mining province as well, and a great deal of mineral wealth has been discovered. Guayacan is a port, but the principal port is Coquimbo, which is only a couple of hundred miles from Valparaiso. It has a population of probably ten thousand. The city extends along the bay in an irregular manner for some distance. The capital of the province is La Serena, and it is only a few miles from Coquimbo. There is nothing especially in its favour, although an attractive little city, but it is a relief from the dreary places farther north which have been mentioned.

Every one going this way is bound for Valparaiso. The voyager, who has journeyed twenty-six hundred miles along the Pacific coast, hails with delight the beautiful half-moon bay in which that city is located. He welcomes the splash of the anchor, which means a speedy transfer to the shore and the comforts of a good hotel. Many disasters have been recorded in this bay. In the winter terrific storms arise, and steamers oftentimes lift their anchors and steam out into the open sea for safety. The largest steamers are tossed about like eggshells, while the buoys bob around like water-sprites. The enthusiastic Chilean loves to compare it with the Bay of Naples. But it is not Naples. The waters are not so blue, nor the skies as perfect, but it has a charm all its own. A row boat or launch quickly transfers the traveller to the landing steps, and courteous officials promptly pass the baggage. Then a short ride in a rickety carriage, and the doors of the Royal Hotel hospitably open to receive the guests.