Coquimbo is a port of considerable importance. From the sea it is attractive. One main street extends along the water front, while the others branch off up the hill at right angles. There is the cemetery, somewhat suggestively prominent. A neat frame dwelling in the seaside, peak-roofed style, hollowed out of the hillside, and surrounded by needle-pointed pine trees, secures attention. Coquimbo ships large quantities of manganese and copper, and formerly a British coaling-station was maintained.
We arrived in Valparaiso one morning late in May. The American woman whose home it was, had promised we should see another Bay of Naples. The fogs lifted slowly. They showed apparently a city afloat, for the vessel masts were first visible and then the port proper, which seemed to lie flat to the sea. Later the skies were sapphire, yet it was not Naples. That morning there was a celebration in honor of the arrival of the Brazilian warship Almirante Barroso, and the bay was alive with small craft and stately ships, while the people swarmed over the heights and along the shore like ants.
Valparaiso (vale of Paradise) is the largest place on the Pacific coast, with the exception of San Francisco, and it is equally as fine a metropolis. Its population is 140,000. The city lies at the foot of high hills, which no one climbs because there are ascensors, or elevators, as in Pittsburg and Quebec. Unhappily it has not a golden gate and a sheltered harbor. The finest part of the city is the Avenida, or Avenue Brazil, at once shaded boulevard, business thoroughfare, and promenade.
The city has many fine business blocks of modern construction, and the government buildings are unusually tasteful and harmonious. All bear the impress of Italian architecture. The commemorative spirit finds expression in a group celebrating the heroism of Arturo Prat, the young naval commander who gained unfading laurels in the war with Peru. On the Avenue Brazil is a bust of William Wheelright, the son of Massachusetts, who provided steam navigation as well as built railways for Chile. There is also a statue to Lord Cochrane, the Scotchman who took command of the Chilean fleet in the contest for freedom from Spain and helped to bring victory. It cannot be said that Chile is unmindful of the strangers who have served her, whether in arms or in peaceful progress.
Scene in the Harbor of Valparaiso, showing the Arturo Prat Statue
The port, as is natural, is cosmopolitan. The German colony is largest, and after that the Italians in numbers, though in influence they are hardly so strong as either the English or the French. The French community is self-contained and is an important factor in commerce. The Britishers, chiefly from Scotland, are in everything except retail trade. Though the English language is common, Valparaiso is the one city in South America in which I heard German spoken oftener.
The shipping of Valparaiso is vast and varied, a floating panorama of many nations, like a miniature Hamburg. The English lines maintain a regular fortnightly service of cargo and passenger vessels, and also a special service of cargo vessels to Liverpool. The steamers are of 5,000 tons and upward. The distance to Liverpool by way of the Straits is 9,500 to 9,800 miles, and the sailing schedule is 35 days. The vessels touch alternately at the Falkland Islands, both for mail and for the cargo of wool. They coal at Montevideo, Rio Janeiro, and in the Madeiras. They bring out to Valparaiso general merchandise, and they take away products of the country.
The Bay of Valparaiso is a discouraging one. It is surprising that so extensive a commerce can be handled with such poor facilities. The shipping approximates 1,000,000 tons yearly. The engineering difficulties in the way of creating a real harbor are well understood, though not easily overcome. The rains wash the hills down into the sea, but the detritus, or silt, does not fill in what seems to be the bottomless bed of the ocean, so profound is it. There is no breakwater.
At the beginning of every Winter season the question is raised,—what will be the harvest of disaster? It seems incredible that vessels of 3,000 tons could be lost in this bay, but that is what has happened. In May, 1903, voyaging down the coast in the Tucapel, we were told that the Arequipa of 3,000 tons burden was the next ship following us. She arrived two or three days later, and took on passengers and cargo for the return trip. One night a savage tempest arose, many of the smaller vessels were wrecked, and the Arequipa foundered and went down with the loss of a hundred lives. Two weeks later from my hotel window I watched the wild bay and waited three days for a chance to get off on the Oropesa, one of the big ships which run between Valparaiso and Liverpool. Smoke from the funnels showed that the large vessels were keeping steam up, and they frequently steamed out into the open to avoid the dangers of the harbor. This storm was a norther which came in a circular path from the south. The immense floating docks tossed about as if they were eggshells; the buoys bobbed like dancing water-sprites; the schooners plunged their noses into the angry breakers until the mastheads dipped; again the masts and yardarms would be as a stripped forest in Winter bending before the blasts. And the wreckage of the hurricane of a fortnight earlier was still visible,—two big schooners driven hard against the rocks, their masts under water.