Panama to Patagonia

by Charles M. Pepper

AREQUIPA is the commercial, ecclesiastical, and political capital of southern Peru. It has a university, several colleges, an Institute of Agriculture, and a School of Arts. A fairer city never bloomed in volcanic desert. The valley of the river Chili is so vividly green that it seems alive. The snow-cap of the extinct crater of El Misti is ever in sight, while the fleecy dome of Coropuna and the glistening pinnacle of Chachani stand out like sentinels in white robes, all of them above 19,000 feet. Their icy breath is seldom felt, for Arequipa enjoys the balmiest climate that mortal could long for. It banishes pulmonary diseases. Life is gentle in this soft atmosphere, yet some persons complain that the night air chills the marrow. The mean temperature is 57° Fahrenheit, but water freezes in June and July.

Arequipa, which is in south latitude 16° 24′, is 7,500 feet above sea-level, about the altitude of the City of Mexico. The railway from Mollendo winds along the shore and through the volcanic soil for 106 miles to reach the city, climbing almost spirally. This road was the first experience of Henry Meiggs as a railway builder in Peru. He took it as a subcontractor, and spent $500,000 in supplying fresh water to the laborers and the animals during the eighteen months which its construction required. The length of the entire main trunk from Mollendo to Lake Titicaca is 330 miles.

A better idea of the region which lies between Arequipa and the coast is had by the slower mode of travel with horse or mule. I made this journey in company with two others during one of those periods when the port of Mollendo was closed on account of the bubonic plague, and when in order to get out of the country it was necessary to reach the little port of Quilca forty miles north of Mollendo. Leaving the railway at Vitor, an hour’s run from Arequipa, we took the animals and started across the sand-hills to the ranch of Santa Rosa. It is the only habitation in fifteen miles, for there is no possibility of human dwelling amid those dunes. Stone heaps have been placed at various points to mark the route which is followed by the llamas and the burros and the occasional wayfarer, but the frequent wind-storms cover the mounds and they are not always to be discerned.

It is the region of the famous moving sands and travelling hills. An experienced desert traveller, if he should be without a pocket compass, might “sense” the direction for the first half of the distance from the contour of the mountain range on the horizon. After that his danger of losing himself would not be so great, for there is an ascent to the top of a ridge of hills, and the landmarks here are more stable. The descent is down the flank of the barranca, or ravine, into the river valley. This is diversified by several pretty fincas, or farms. The dwellings are of adobe or bamboo. Alfalfa is raised and is the common fodder. There are also vineyards, some of them quite extensive.

We put up for the night at the finca of the former prefect of the Department. The owner of the estate was away, but the Indian tenants in charge gave us the hospitality of their dwellings,—the privilege of spreading our blankets in one of the cabins while they prepared for us the always appetizing broth, or chupé.

We were up with the stars in the morning, for fifty miles had to be covered in order to reach the ocean, and there was no intervening shelter, no camping-place,—only billowy sand-plain, rugged ravine, and sombre cañon. One of the Indian lads acted as our guide till we had wound our way up through the steep ravine and again out on the open. Then he gave us some hints to keep from losing our way and bade us “adios.”

The pampa was spotted with many curious formations of white sand in half-moon and crescent form, geometrical figures, as the whims of the winds had willed it. Some of these had gaps or circular passes; others could be passed by circling around the foothills, while still others could be surmounted only by a straight-away ride ahead to the crest and down the slope. The sand was packed so tight that it withstood the animal’s heels as readily as a paved road. This vista of crystal crescent sand-hills impressed me as of a gigantic Turkish scymitar beginning in the limitless desert and stretching to the unbounded horizon.

There was no vegetation, not even a blade of tuft grass or of the common cactus, nothing for the sight except the half horns of sand and the unbroken level of the pampa stretching ahead to the sloping mountain wall which seemed to lie straight across the path. But though the plain was absolutely barren, experiments have shown that this sterile soil is capable of producing in infinite variety, if only it is given water. The rain, if it could fall, would bring the oasis in a single season. Provide artesian wells, bring the snow rivulets down from Coropuna by the methods of modern irrigation, and this desert becomes carpeted with the verdure of growing green grain and yellow ripening fruit.

In bargaining at Arequipa for the animals, we had been fortunate enough to secure cargo mules for our baggage and good horses for ourselves. At every level stretch the horses took the bridle and cantered off, racing for miles until checked by the riders. Then, after a few minutes of slower pace, again the canter and the exhilaration of the Arab on his Sahara steed. In this manner the snow-peaks of Coropuna and the crystal apex of Chachani were lost to sight before the mid-day rest, and the sheet of glistening water ahead ceased to fret us or puzzle us to determine how a lake came there. It was the mirage, the quavering effect of the hot and dry atmosphere on the white sands.

When the base of the mountain spur was reached, we found it an easy climb to the ridge, and then plunged down a long ravine and up again to another plain partly shut in by the hills. The woman member of our party claimed the privilege of her sex to question and doubt. She was sure we were getting lost. The glint of the sea far off did not reassure her. She insisted that we were going in the wrong direction. We should be headed southwest in order to reach the coast, and she had satisfied herself that we were going northeast. I took out my pocket compass to convince her. Our actual direction was north. We had made one turn, and the gorge through which we had to descend in order to reach the sea required another turn, but she maintained to the end that we might have got there by some other route.