Tocopilla is a two hours' run north of Gatico. We reached it in the early afternoon and remained there all night taking on cargo. According to the last census it had 5366 inhabitants, although it does not appear to have half that number of people. Next to Salaverry and Mollendo it is the vilest hole that I have ever stepped foot into, although I am told that it is a paradise compared to Pisagua. It is a long, narrow place, built on a sandy fringe between the mountains and the sea. Its houses are mostly one-story frame shacks, the majority unpainted. A point juts into the ocean off which are two small guano islands. Near the end of the point is the large electrical power plant of the Chuquicamata mines. It gets its power from the ocean, a tunnel having been dug out under the water and thence upwards so as to cause great pressure. There has been much trouble on account of the tunnel getting clogged with seaweed. The Siemens-Schukert Company of Germany installed the machinery, which has given such poor satisfaction that I understand the Chuquicamata Mining Company (Guggenheim interests) have taken it over under protest.
Tocopilla has a comparatively large German element, most of the male members being employees of the Sloman Copper Smelter. This plant is on the side of a mountain and some of its mines are visible from the port.
Street in Tocopilla
The town is not only exceedingly wretched in appearance but also has the reputation of being pestilential. The captain of the Chilean vessel Condor landed here in 1912 sick with the yellow fever. He recovered but this pestilence nearly wiped out the whole town. There is no verdure of any description hereabouts with the exception of a few plants in front of the houses, the country being a sandy and a stony waste; the same is true about Antofagasta, yet in both places mosquitoes thrive. This yellow fever epidemic was singular because south of Lima the West Coast of South America has always been absolutely free from it. In 1915 Tocopilla was a closed port for four months on account of bubonic plague, which is ever present in the seaport towns from La Serena northward to Panama.
In company with Mr. B. Brice of Valparaiso, accountant for the Pacific Steam Navigation Company, I took a walk to the cemetery. The two gates were locked so we started to walk around it to see if there was another entrance. Since walking was obnoxious in its neighborhood on account of tin cans and nondescript rubbish, we made a detour by going out onto the plain. Suddenly our nostrils were assailed by a disgusting odor which caused us to hold our breath. "Look here," said Mr. Brice, pointing to a myriad of mounds which we had previously taken to be rubbish piles; we found that they were graves for at the head of some were wooden crosses and desiccated bouquets.
"I believe that we are in the yellow fever burial ground," I said.
"Possibly," answered Mr. Brice. "Let us ask that individual," indicating a man in the distance who was scraping with a stick among the mounds and whose actions savored of those of a ghoul.
Upon asking the "individual," whose appearance was that of a degenerate, we were informed that we were in the bubonic plague graveyard.