Leaving Caisa on November 22, we went north-west and soon had our first glimpse of a snow-clad Bolivian mountain. The snow was not very deep, however, as it had fallen during the night, and before noon it was all gone. Our road crossed several ridges and then descended into a partly cultivated valley near an old silver mine and a smelter called Cuchu Ingenio. The road here was unusually good. Even in 1773 “The Blind Man’s Guide” says it was a “camino de Trote, y Galope.”
As we ascended a gorge, I was attracted by a little waterfall of crystal clearness that came tumbling down from the heights above, and was tempted to
take a hearty drink of the delicious cool liquid. A Boliviano from Tupiza, who was travelling with us for company, warned me against such a rash act as drinking cold water at this altitude. I had noticed that no one in this region ever touches cold water, and I thought the universal prejudice against it was founded on a natural preference for alcohol. So I laughingly enjoyed my cup of cold water and assured him that there could be no harm in it. An hour later we reached Laja Tambo, a wretched little poste, standing alone on the edge of a tableland twenty miles from Potosí. The altitude was about thirteen thousand feet. The sun had been very warm, and soon after alighting on the rough stone pavement of the inn yard, I arranged the thermometers so as to test the difference in temperature between sun and shade. The temperature in the sun at noon was 85° F. In the shade it was 48° F. Scarcely had I taken the readings when I began to feel chilly. Hot tea followed by hot soup and still hotter brandy and water failed to warm me, notwithstanding the fact that I had unpacked my bag and put on two heavy sweaters. A wretched sense of dizziness and of longing to get warm made me lie down on the warm stones of the courtyard. I grew rapidly worse, and was soon experiencing the common symptoms of soroche, puna, or mountain sickness. The combination of vomiting, diarrhœa, and chills was bad enough, but the prospect of being ill in this desolate poste, twenty miles from the nearest doctor, with nothing better than the usual accessories of a Bolivian tambo, was infinitely worse. Somehow or other, I managed to persuade Fermin to saddle and load the animals and put me on my mule, where I was determined to stay until we should reach Potosí.
The last thing to do before leaving the tambo was to pay the bill, and this I proceeded to do in the Bolivian paper currency which I had purchased in Tupiza. Alas, one of the bills was on a bank situated two hundred and fifty miles away in La Paz, a bank, in fact, in which the postillon did not have much confidence. The idea of having a servile Quichua postillon decline to receive good money was extremely irritating, and I tried my best, notwithstanding my soroche, to force him to take it. He persisted and I was obliged to find another bill in my wallet. I suppose my hand trembled a little with chill or excitement and in taking out the bill I partly tore it.
This would not have mattered had the tear been in the middle, but it was nearer one end than the other and the Indian refused to accept it. I had no other small bills and was at a loss to know what to do. In the meantime, Fermin and the pack-mules had left the inclosure of the tambo and started for Potosí while Mr. Smith was just outside of the gate waiting for me. So I rolled up the sound bill which the Indian had declined to receive, gave it to him, and while he was investigating it, made a dash for the road. He was too quick for me, however, and gripped my bridle. Exasperated beyond measure, I rode him against the wall of the tambo and made him let go long enough to allow me to escape. It seemed on the whole a lawless performance, although the bank-note was perfectly good. I fully expected that he would follow us with stones or something worse, but as he was only a Quichua he accepted the inevitable and we saw no more of him.
In the face of a bitterly cold wind we crossed the twenty-mile plateau that lies between Laja Tambo and the famous city of Potosí. On the plain were herds of llamas feeding, but these did not interest us as much as the conical hill ahead. It was the Cerro of Potosí, the hill that for two hundred and fifty years, was the marvel of the world. No tale of the Arabian Nights, no dream of Midas, ever equalled the riches that flowed from this romantic cone. Two billion ounces of silver is the record of its output and the tale is not yet told.
Rounding the eastern shoulder of the mountain, we passed several large smelters, some of them abandoned. Near by are the ruins of an edifice said to have been built by the Spaniards to confine the poor Indians whom they brought here by the thousands to work in the mines. The road descends a little valley and runs for a mile, past the ruins of hundreds of buildings. In the eighteenth century, Potosí boasted a population of over one hundred and fifty thousand. Now there are scarcely fifteen thousand. The part of the city that is still standing is near the ancient plaza, the mint, and the market-place.
Our caravan clattered noisily down the steep, stony streets until we reached the doors of the Hotel Colon where an attentive Austrian landlord made us welcome, notwithstanding the fact that one of the party was evidently quite ill. I could not help wondering whether an American hotel-keeper would have been so willing to receive a sick man as this benighted citizen of Potosí. The paved courtyard was small, but the rooms on the second floor were commodious and so much better than the unspeakably forlorn adobe walls of Laja Tambo, that I felt quite willing to retire from active exploration for a day or two. Fortunately, I fell into the hands of a well-trained Bolivian physician, who knew exactly what to do, and with his aid, and the kind nursing of Fermin and Mr. Smith, I was soon on my feet again.