The next morning, after a breakfast of cold chicken and Eno’s fruit salts, all that our Boer War veteran could provide for our comfort, we pushed up the valley, and before long reached Totora, a typical Bolivian poste or tambo. It consisted of a small inclosure surrounded by half a dozen low mud-huts without windows. In one of these was kept alfalfa fodder to be sold to passing travellers. In another lived the keeper of the poste and his family. Here also was a fire from which one had the right to demand hot water, the only thing furnished for the comfort of humans. In another, two or three well-baked mounds of earth, flattened on top, were intended for beds. A roof, an earth floor, and a wooden door were the only other conveniences at the disposition of travellers.
These postes, more or less dirty and uncomfortable, may usually be found on the well-travelled roads in southern Bolivia at a distance varying from fifteen to twenty-five miles from each other. They are not picturesque, but after some little experience in travelling in that desolate region, one learns to welcome the little collection of mud-huts, with possibly a green spot or two of alfalfa, as a perfect haven of rest. To be sure, the only thing to eat is the food you bring with you, but you may be always certain of having hot water, and your arriero (unless he happens to be a veteran of the Boer War) will bring you a cup of excellent tea within twenty minutes after your arrival.
The road from Totora continued to be the rocky floor of a valley in which from time to time little streams of water or irrigation ditches appeared, only to lose themselves in fields of alfalfa or quinoa. During the dry season carts attempt to use this road, and we overtook a dozen of them on their way north. Each cart was drawn by six mules driven three abreast by a driver who rode postillion on the nigh mule nearest the cart. Before noon we climbed out of this valley and descended into a rocky, sandy plain through which flowed the river Cotagaita on its way eastward to join the great Pilcomayo. At this time of the year, the latter part of November, the river is a broad, shallow stream, easily fordable. On sandy bars left dry by the receding waters were camped caravans of pack-mules and carts. Beyond them lay the little town of Cotagaita, where the Argentine patriots were badly defeated in 1816. This place is, in a sense, the crossroads of southern Bolivia and is one of the main stations of Don Santiago’s stage-lines. Uyuni, on the Antofagasta railway, is one hundred and fifteen miles west of here, three or four days by stage. The mines of Potosí are nearly the same distance north. Camargo, the capital of the province of Cinti, is a few days due east, while Tupiza is fifty-four miles due south. There are several routes from Tupiza to Uyuni but the most important and the only one practicable for coaches is by way of Cotagaita. The road is new and said to be very uncomfortable. There is not much to interest the traveller, except a few mines. Not far away is Chorolque, a famous silver mine, at an altitude of over seventeen thousand feet.
The town of Cotagaita is an old Spanish settlement with the customary plaza, a few trees, a fountain in the centre and a church on one side; one story white-washed houses built of baked mud, the usual narrow streets crossing each other at right angles, their stone paving sloping toward the centre where a ditch does duty as a sewer; a few Indians and a few shops to minister to their wants. There are said to be twelve hundred inhabitants but I doubt it. The elevation is slightly lower than Tupiza.
We left Cotagaita after lunch, hoping to make the tambo at Escara before dark, but we were destined to disappointment. Mac, our Scotch arriero, had decided that the pack-mules, which Don Santiago selected for us at Tupiza, were not good enough to stand the march to Potosí, so he requested the coach agent here to give us two better animals. The latter allowed our veteran to go into the corral and take any mules he pleased. Rich in knowledge of the Boer War, but poor in experience with Bolivian mules, he picked out two strong-looking beasts that had been driven in the stage-coach but had never carried a pack in their lives. After being blindfolded they were saddled, with some difficulty, and we were about to start when it was discovered that one of them lacked a shoe on its nigh hind-foot. The blacksmith, a half-drunk, strongly built Indian, was summoned. He brought a new shoe, a few nails, and a hammer out into the street. The blindfolded mule was held by Mac while an Indian tied the foot that was to be shod securely to the mule’s tail. Then the blacksmith went to work. No attempt was made to fit the shoe, and when the second nail was driven, the mule kicked and struggled so violently as to throw itself and all three men in a heap in the middle of the road. Finally, after much tribulation, the shoe was securely fastened, and amid the cheers of the populace, we started briskly off for Potosí.
The new pack-mules, lacking all road sense and missing the bridle, promptly ran away. One of them was secured without much difficulty, but the other one went up the hillside through a grove of young mimosa trees which attempted to detain the load with their thorny branches. They only succeeded in partly dislodging it, however, and the mule continued his headlong career until his load turned completely under him, tripped him up, and ended by rolling him down-hill. Fortunately the dunnage bags were new and no great harm was done. Mac insisted that he could drive this mule as well as any other—which may have been true—so the poor coach-mule was reloaded. Then four of us tried for over an hour to make the two wretched animals carry their packs properly and stick to the road as pack-animals should. But they declined to enter our service, and we were obliged to send them back to Cotagaita, minus their loads. Meanwhile the two mules which Mac had so thoughtfully discarded at lunch time were reengaged. The exhibition was useful, for it showed us that Mac knew even less about saddling pack-animals than we did and was perfectly useless in an emergency. Fortunately, an excellent fellow, a brother of Don Santiago, became our deus ex machina, helped us out of our difficulty, and promised to join us the next morning with a new arriero. By hard riding we arrived at the little tambo of Escara an hour after dark and had some difficulty in securing admittance. No one has any business to travel at night in this country, unless bent on mischief.
CHAPTER IX
ESCARA TO LAJA TAMBO
We got up early enough the next morning to witness a phase of Bolivian life which we had heard of but had not as yet seen. An officer and two soldiers of the Bolivian army, travelling southward, had spent the night at Escara and desired to proceed promptly. The postes are subsidized by the Government on the understanding that all travelling government officials shall be furnished with mules and a man. Each poste has three or four guides called postillons, connected with it. This morning things did not move fast enough to suit the officer. The mules were not ready when he wanted to start and the meek Quichua postillon was offering an explanation. In the midst of it, the officer lost his temper, and taking his strong riding-whip, commenced to lash the poor half-clad Indian across the face and shoulders. The latter stood it for a few minutes stolidly and then commenced to back off, followed by the officer who continued to lay on the blows as fast as possible. At length the postillon turned to run and the officer pursued him, beating him and cursing him until out of breath. It was a sickening sight, but the strangest part of all was the absolute meekness with which the Indian took his beating. There was not the slightest sign of resentment or even annoyance. The strokes of the whip made the blood start and trickle down his face and sides, but he gave no evidence of feeling it.
Later in the day at Quirve, another poste, we witnessed a similar exhibition, only in this case the Indian did not even run away. The son of the proprietor, a great hulking brute, six feet tall and powerfully built, found fault with one of the postillons for some trifling mistake and beat him across the face and chest with a rawhide thong until the blood flowed freely. Like the other Indian, his face remained perfectly stolid, and he showed no signs of anger or irritation.