Panama to Patagonia

by Charles M. Pepper

It was a relief to get away in the early morning long before sunrise. The sun disclosed the edges of a vast mountain plain, with sand-dunes and scrub breaking its monotonous stretch and a rim of chalk-white mountains enclosing the whole basin. This was the Sierra of San Vicente. Again I noticed the presence of both quail and song-birds. About noon we reached a bend in the dry river-bed and even a rivulet of water. A ruined cabin and a corral fallen into disuse were here. In front were two graves marked by stones and a rude cross. My muleteer mused a moment. He pointed to the cabin, then to the graves, and shook his head. “I was here a year ago, Señor,” he said, “and they [pointing to the graves as though he could see their tenants] were there [pointing to the cabin] then.”

The afternoon was a gradual but steady climb among vast sheep pastures which were still peopled with many flocks, although nearly all the huts had been abandoned by their human dwellers. Toward evening after another long ascent we crossed an easy gradation of summits and then down to Amachuma. It is 12,444 feet above sea-level. The Indians at Amachuma were indifferently hospitable. At first they professed ignorance of any language except Quichua, but later, when the government innkeeper appeared, we got passable accommodations, one of the mud benches along the wall being cleared of the dogs and the natives in order that I might spread my blankets.

From Amachuma the next morning we rode for two hours up and across the chalk-white hills, and then a dark ribbon forked out on a vast plain below. “That is Uyuni,” said Loreto, my muleteer, simply. It lay against the horizon like a frozen sea. For the first time in weeks Loreto became enthusiastic. “There [to the north] is Oruro; there [to the south] is Antofagasta; there [to the east] the Potosi silver mines; here, Huanchaca silver mines; but, Señor, there is no water in Uyuni for my mules. I shall have to lead them back here to-night.”

Uyuni is a waterless oasis on the salt pampa.

Two hours descending through the white sand and scrub and we were on the outskirts of the place. The most prominent spot which we had seen proved to be the cemetery. The town is a staked, plain kind of settlement, without shrub or tree. The railroad yard, enclosed by a corrugated iron fence stockade, takes in most of the municipal territory. Caravans of llamas and droves of burros and mules filled the streets. Much of the freighting is done by the llamas. There are many small shops and several very extensive warehouses and supply stores.

Uyuni is an outfitting and shipping centre. It is on the edge of one of the most productive and varied mineral districts in Bolivia. In 1885 there was almost no settlement, but the development of the Huanchaca and the other mines made a town necessary. Huanchaca is nine miles away on the railroad spur. Though the company a few years ago was compelled to spend a large amount of money in pumping out the Pulacayo mines, the output was diminished only temporarily. It furnishes the bulk of the freight down the railroad to the coast at Antofagasta.

Everybody in Uyuni is an enthusiast on mines. I felt myself in Colorado or the Black Hills when the local judge and a party of citizens came to welcome me. The judge drew a rough map of the district. “Here,” he said, “is tin; there, gold; yonder, silver; over there, copper; out this way, borax; off here, bismuth; this way, lead; a little beyond, antimony.” He and his fellow-citizens were very anxious for the railroad to be built to Guadalupe and Tupiza, so that the mineral industry could be assured of transportation facilities.

In strolling about I observed all the characteristics of the native Indian race, and of the cholos. The fondness of the women for bright petticoats and French gaiters I have recounted. It affords a lesson to the political economist by showing that artificial wants can be created and goods sold in remote communities. Not only were French gaiters in demand, but gaudy handkerchiefs for head-dresses and also much jewelry that was not gaudy. Many of the women had finger-rings and ear-rings of gold. They appeared superior to the men, who are given to imbibing alcohol. But I would not be too censorious. I had seen these men in the desolate, lonely passes and on the dreary sand-plains, and was not sure, if my life from New Year’s to New Year’s had to be passed in the same way, that whenever I got into Uyuni with a chance for human companionship, I also would not get drunk.

Uyuni is intensely cold, lying, as the town does, at an altitude of 12,100 feet under the snow mountains which send down their icy breath, and on the salt plains which, when the rays of the sun are off them, are scarcely less chilling. The legend told every newcomer is of going to bed with a bottle of hot water to keep the feet warm, and waking up to find the glass in fragments and the ice retaining the perfect form of the bottle. I did not have this experience, but in September, which is in the beginning of Spring, the cold was penetrating enough to make me believe the story.

I noted on Sunday several foreign flags flying over various consulates; and this was a reminder that Uyuni, through its commercial and mining interests, is a kind of international centre. The Italians, French, Germans, and Chileans have the largest interests among the foreigners, though a fair proportion of the business is in the hands of Bolivians. Some of the foreigners originally came over the trail from Argentina. More of them followed the routes of travel from the Pacific.