Main Street of Copiapó
Copiapó is retrogressant and will become even more so. Work has long since stopped at the mines and the only thing that keeps the place alive is that it is the capital of a province. If asked for a description of the city, I would say that it is an old adobe town in an oasis surrounded by barren mountains, with a broad alameda bordered with giant pepper trees. This brief description is accurate. The pepper trees are the largest I have ever seen and some of them are nearly eight feet in diameter. The alameda has an abundance of statues to Atacama heroes with a soldiers' monument to the illustrious Atacama dead. The house roofs rise to a slight gable and nearly all are of adobe. This mode of construction could not be possible in a country where rain falls frequently, because in 1915 when there was a hard rainfall in Copiapó, the first time that it had rained in eight years, many of the roofs became mud puddles and were washed in.
Outskirts of Copiapó
Note the Oriental setting
There are only two hotels in the Atacama metropolis, the Atacama and the Ingles. I stopped at the former which is the best. It is owned by a Boer named Bosman who married a native woman. Since the proprietor finds mining more profitable than hotel business, he leaves the management of his inn in the charge of his younger son. The hotel is fair as well as the meals, although it has none of the modern conveniences. The primitive privy is reached by crossing a barnyard and is a favorite place for poultry which roost here. I discovered a tarantula on the seat. To reach this place one has to run the gauntlet of semi wild swine some of which were ugly. The Ingles is owned by a native who is the son of a once famous Spanish opera singer. This man thinks well of himself although his only claim for distinction is evidenced by a disgusting ringworm on his right cheek which is larger than a dollar. In his emporium coarse obscene jests and loud words are the order of the day. There are only two bars in Copiapó and these are in each of the hotels. It is needless to say that the proprietor of the Ingles does the most business in that line because he consumes half of his sales. Copiapó is a poor saloon town because the natives make their own wine and chicha. They often repair to a section of the oasis named the Chimba, where they roast a lamb, hog or an ox and there amidst a copious supply of fermented beverages indulge in an orgy that baffles description.
