Leaving Sacába, our shortest route lay across a ridge of mountains that stretch out into the plain, and behind which the city of Cochabamba is situated; but, as the mules were very tired and footsore, we kept to the plain, and went round the end of the ridge. The approach to Cochabamba was up a stream, now dry, with what appeared to be country residences on either side, many having considerable pretensions to comfort, and all having good, well-stocked gardens. These country houses are called “quintas,” and the owners mostly have town residences as well. A bridge for the road had been built over the river, but one of the piers had fallen, from the simple fact that the foundations were not on rock, but on sand and small stones. We entered the city about half-past six in the evening, crossing the principal plaza just as it was getting dark, putting up at the “tambo,” where, with difficulty, I succeeded in getting a small and dark room, which was quite destitute of any bedding or furniture. There was nothing to be had to eat or drink in the tambo, and I could only get a plate of greasily cooked beef-steak, which my boy managed to buy somewhere outside; but, notwithstanding the poverty of the accommodation, having had supper, I managed to pass a very good night, as I had my camp-bed, and was therefore independent of hotel fittings, being always able to sleep well, provided that I could get under a water-tight roof.
The tambo is an old Spanish institution that is fast giving way to the hotel, or “posada,” and probably Bolivia is the only South American republic where the tambo can be seen in its old-fashioned style. The tambo of Bolivia is not so well managed as the travelling bungalow of India, where the wayfarer not only finds a room, but also finds the necessary articles of furniture, such as a cot and washing apparatus, while there is always an attendant who can prepare a repast if the traveller has no servant of his own. In Cochabamba the tambo, as a building, outwardly is all well enough, but the rooms are small, dark, and badly ventilated, and in place of furniture a brick or mud shelf, of a width sufficient for sleeping on, is built up in one corner, or right across the end of the room. Sometimes this sleeping-bank takes the form of a daïs, raised only about a foot above the ordinary floor of the room, and the arrangement is in Bolivia not confined to tambos, but found also in many middle-class houses in use instead of bedsteads. Most travellers carry a mattress and pillows with their baggage; and in Bolivia a very useful mattress is made, specially for travelling, not too thick, and with one side covered with leather, so that when rolled up there is no danger of the stuff side getting wet, and when in use the leather side, being below, helps to keep the damp from the sleeper. Bolivians seem to be able to sleep soundly on this table or shelf arrangement; but European travellers should be careful to have their own cots with them, as, if they try the tables, they will soon find that sleep is out of the question, the mud or bricks being tenanted by armies of active insects, to whom the arrival of a stranger in the land affords an opportunity for varying their nightly rations of Bolivian vitality that they are not at all slack in availing themselves of. Materials for washing seem to be quite superfluities in Bolivian tambos, and it becomes, therefore, necessary to carry a metal basin on one’s travels. However, the daily charge for a room is not at all extravagant, being a couple of reales, or about ninepence; but probably the proprietors of the tambos think that as the tribes of insects, that may be said to be joint owners of the hostelry, are sure to take a good contribution for themselves out of the unlucky traveller, it would be but justice to let off his pocket as lightly as possible. Fortunately for me, I was not destined to remain long in the tambo of Cochabamba, for on the following day I presented my letters of introduction, and soon had several kind offers of hospitality from various friends. Probably the reason why tambos are so badly furnished and attended to, is that it is the custom for travellers in Bolivia to quarter themselves on friends, and therefore there is not sufficient custom for good hotels. Had I arrived earlier in the day, I should have gone straight to the friends to whom I had been recommended; but, after all, I found that I had so many offers that, as I could not divide my time fairly amongst all the hospitable people who were willing to house me, I decided the difficulty by taking apartments, and secured a first floor in one of the best streets leading out of the principal square. My drawing-room was very large and lofty, and, being furnished in the usual South American style, with chairs, sofas, and a very small pedestal table, had quite a diplomatic look about it. The rent was also in diplomatic style, being sixty pesos faibles, or about £10 per month—quite enough, considering that no attendance or cooking was required, as I invariably took my meals with one or other of my acquaintances, and my boy prepared my morning coffee and attended to the rooms. More moderate apartments may be had in the city, but one cannot reckon upon getting a couple of decent rooms for less than thirty or forty pesos per month—say £5 to £8.
VIEW OF COCHABAMBA. (From a photograph.)
Cochabamba, probably the most important town of the republic of Bolivia, is situated in a plain 8450 feet above sea-level, overlooked by the rugged snow-clad heights of Tunari and Larati, whose giant tops rise fully 10,000 feet above the city. The town is well built, with regular streets, which all lead to the usual central plaza, in which are the government and municipal offices, and a cathedral that occupies nearly the whole of one side of the square. The public offices have a handsome colonnade extending over the foot pavement and running round two sides of the plaza, forming a promenade with good shelter either from sun or rain. There are in the city about 50,000 people, and amongst the upper classes are found many descendants of old Spanish families, but the bulk of the population are Indians of Quichuan or Aymará extraction. The language of society and commerce is Castilian, and the Indians of the town, who amongst themselves use their own tongue, whether Quichuan or Aymará, nearly all speak or understand Spanish; in the outlying villages and farms very few have been sufficiently educated to know any but their own language, and it therefore becomes necessary to have an interpreter for the journey from one town to another. These Indians present many features of interest, but their character and peculiarities are seen to greater advantage in their little homesteads on the mountains, and we shall have frequent opportunities of meeting with them outside the cities.
After many weeks of rough travelling, one of the greatest pleasures of arriving at Cochabamba is to meet with a well, nay, highly educated society, the fairer portion of which especially attract observation; for, apart from the natural charms with which “el bello sexo” of Spanish descent are largely endowed, the ladies of Cochabamba are generally accomplished musicians, while many are also good linguists, French and Italian being more in favour than English or German. But the “bello sexo” of Sucre, or Chuquisaca, as it is otherwise called, are generally considered to be more graceful and elegant than those of Cochabamba; so I must not part with all my praises for “las bellas Cochabambinas,” but reserve some for the fair Sucrenses, or Chuquisaqueñas. Many of the best houses are luxuriously furnished, and as all the furniture and appointments are either of American or European manufacture, the cost of an establishment must be very excessive, as everything has to be brought on mules or donkeys over the Andes from the ports of the Pacific coast. I saw several drawing-rooms in the city that had as much plate-glass and as many ornaments as are to be seen in a tastefully furnished house in London, and most houses of any pretensions have good pianos, which, costing perhaps £60 or £80 in Europe, are worth about £200 by the time they get to Cochabamba. At this rate, one can easily see that it must take a small fortune to furnish a house decently in the interior of the republic of Bolivia.
The chief wealth of the department appears to be in agriculture, for Cochabamba may certainly claim to be the agricultural capital of Bolivia, La Paz, Potosí, and Oruro being the chief mineral centres, whilst the true capital of the republic, Sucre, is the political and educational centre. Cochabamba is the storehouse for the crops of wheat, maize, barley, and potatoes that are grown on the plains on which the city is built. There are many large gardens in the outskirts of the town, which produce fruits of all kinds, such as grapes, oranges, apples, pears, peaches, apricots, and strawberries. Roses, carnations, camelias, and most European flowers are also grown, so that a visitor may easily fancy himself in the south of France, or even in a well-stocked garden at home, only that the latter idea must be of one of the finest summer days of England for the comparison to hold good at all, for it is almost impossible otherwise to compare the blue sky and fine clear atmosphere of Cochabamba with our own murky and cloudy skies. Nearly all the quintas, or country houses, are furnished with bathing arrangements, and have good gardens attached to them; but the one that took my fancy most was named “Maiorina,” a most valuable possession, or “finca,” as they are called. This finca not only has the largest and best stock of fruit and flowers, but it also has a really splendid douche bath. The house is built on a steep hill-side, and a small mountain stream of clear cold water is led by an aqueduct into the bath-house, which is dug out to a depth of perhaps twelve feet, and well lined with marble. The fall of water is about twenty feet, and as the stream enters the bath-house with a volume of about six inches deep by twelve inches in width, the blow received by the bather at the bottom is so severe that great caution is required to avoid exposing one’s head to the full force of the water. The stream has its rise in the snow that almost continually lies on the top of Tunari, and the water is therefore intensely cold—so much so, that to descend into the well of the bath nearly takes one’s breath away. The first effect of the cold upon me was to give an intense pain at the back of the head below the ears. I was therefore very cautious at first to keep clear of the big douche, and, holding my hands over my head, and bending forward somewhat in a diving attitude, receive the spray only, diverted from the main stream by the hands. I was told that several incautious bathers had been knocked down by the fall, and as the attendant does not remain in the bath-room, such an occurrence may easily end fatally. Notwithstanding the intense coldness of the water, and the fact that the bath is about three miles from the city, it is well frequented, and I saw many young ladies go with great regularity, although I should have thought the cold would have deterred them from bathing. The bath is the property of the owner of the Finca Maiorina, but he kindly allows the public to use it on payment of a reale each, or about 4½d., a payment which can only suffice to keep an attendant. The cost of construction and the repairs must be altogether at the expense of the proprietor, to whom all visitors to Cochabamba should be very grateful, for the bath is certainly a splendid luxury.
Cochabamba, like the generality of South American towns, has its “alaméda,” or place of public resort. To call these alamédas parks, would be misleading, for they are generally too small to be dignified with such a title, being more like some of the small parks or gardens that have of late years been made in the suburbs of London, on spots that were previously howling wastes, tenanted only by brickbats, dead cats, and street arabs. Certainly London has somewhat improved latterly in the matter of public enclosures, but still we could take a lesson in this respect from South America, where, when a town is commenced, almost the first thing projected is a plaza, or public square, and then an alaméda, or public garden; so that the town, as it grows, is sure of having some open breathing-places left unbuilt upon. Such a course might be adopted with great advantage in each of the rapidly built up suburban districts of London, where street is built close upon street, and terrace upon terrace, so that to get a breath of fresh air one is obliged to travel long distances to one of our noble parks, or right into the country. The alaméda of Cochabamba is just outside the town, and easily accessible on an evening or early morning stroll; it consists of four avenues made by poplar trees. But one cannot speak highly of the care bestowed on its preservation, for the walks are covered with a thick dust, which rises in clouds upon the slightest provocation. The entrance is through a gate or façade of considerable size, built of rough stonework, covered with plaster, on which, painted in bright and glaring colours, are representations, by a native artist, of some of the battles fought during the War of Independence, that ended in the break up of the empire of Spain in South America into the republics of the present day. Art in Bolivia does not appear to have risen to any great height, and therefore the frescoes and paintings by native artists that are to be seen in public places are not of a very high order of merit, and remind one forcibly of the cheap and highly coloured scenes sold at home for children’s portable theatres. The rules of perspective also appear to be about as much known in Bolivia as they apparently are in China or Japan; so that the paintings have a mediæval or Byzantine look about them, which might perhaps be highly appreciated in certain high art circles of the present day.
The city is fairly furnished with shops, which do not, however, make any great show in the windows, the goods being laid out in large stores or warehouses. A few fondas and billiard-rooms have inferior table d’hôtes, where the ordinary meals of the country can be procured, but the cuisine is of very third-rate character, and such places are therefore to be avoided if possible. Chocolate, sweets, and confectionery are plentiful and good, but the splendid ices that are to be had all through the year are the greatest luxury of Cochabamba. These are both cheap and good, and are made, it is said, from the snow always lying in the crevices of the heights of Tunari, from whence it is brought down by Indians for the ice-makers, who turn it into cream, vanilla, lemon, or strawberry ices, which meet with a ready sale during the heat of the mid-day and afternoon hours.
At the “tertulias,” or evening parties, which are quite an institution in Cochabamba, ices play an important part, along with tea, coffee, cigarettes, and small-talk. These tertulias are, to my mind, about the most dreary performances that a human being can be forced to assist at. It is the custom after dinner for the ladies of the house to take up their positions in rocking-chairs, a number of which are placed in a circle, generally near the open windows, except on the few occasions when the weather is unfavourable. Gentlemen friends are then expected to drop in promiscuously and, occupying the vacant chairs, provide the ladies with a feast of small-talk and scandal, which seems to be as much admired in the west of the world as it is in the east. Frequently these meetings take a political turn—and, indeed, one may almost say that they always do—for it is very rare to find more than one of the various parties of the day represented at a tertulia, as party spirit runs so high in the gloriously free republics, that it is not at all safe to differ in opinion with your neighbour at what would appear to be a friendly reunion. A stranger, of course, is not supposed to take any side in politics, but it is difficult to avoid being thought to be of the same party as one’s host; and it is therefore sometimes necessary to shift your opinions with every visit that you make during the course of the evening, as you are not expected to stay at any one house more than half an hour at the most, unless you are on very intimate terms with the family. To see a circle of say ten or a dozen people rocking away, some vigorously and others lackadaisically, while endeavouring to keep up a conversation, has a very funny look; but the motion of the chairs is so pleasant, that one soon falls in with the custom, and rocks as hard as any of the natives, though not able to join always in the chatting. The same kind of dreary visiting is practised on Sunday afternoons, from about two until four or five, during which hours polite and proper young men are to be seen hastening from house to house, got up in most elaborate style, and evidently making a most serious business of a social duty that, if taken more leisurely, would be a pleasure. A peculiarity I noticed particularly at these tertulias was, that each of the ladies present was addressed by the title of “señorita.” Whatever her age or position in life, married or single, rich or poor, all are señoritas in Bolivia. It used to sound excessively funny to hear an old lady, perhaps a grandmamma, called “señorita,” whilst the same term was used for her granddaughters; but, as in Rome one must do as Romans do, so, in Bolivia, a traveller who wishes to be thought polite and cultivated must be careful to address all Bolivianas by the style and title of “señorita.”