On the road we met long strings of llamas, donkeys, and mules laden with every conceivable shape of basket, bag, and bundle bringing from the fertile valleys to the eastward, potatoes, maize, wine, green vegetables and fruits, the produce that feeds Potosí.
Further evidence of the extent of this traffic and the number of arrieros that continually pass over this road is the frequency of little chicherias, wretched little huts built of stone and mud, baked in the sun, and thatched with grass or bushes, where “chicha” can be bought for a penny a gourd.
On the bare ground in front of one of them a woman had pegged down the framework of a hand loom and was beginning to weave a poncho. Near her the family dinner of chupe was simmering away in a huge earthen-ware pot, supported on three stones, over a tiny fire of thorns and llama dung. Other picturesque jars filled with chicha awaited her customers.
We lunched at what Baedeker would call “a primitive thermal establishment,” a favorite weekend resort for German clerks in the importing houses of Potosí. A swimming-pool that affords opportunity to luxuriate in the warm sulphur water attracts many visitors, as it is practically the only place in southern Bolivia where one can get a hot tub bath.
The proprietor of the Baths, a type of Englishman that in the Pacific Ocean is called a “beach comber,” was an amusing old vagabond who made a great fuss ordering his half-starved Indians to prepare us a suitable meal. Our expectations were aroused to a high pitch by his enthusiasm, but the quality of the food was not any better than that of
the ordinary native inn. There was one very marked difference, however. We were not met by any declaration of “no hay nada.”
Our second stopping-place was Bartolo, a small town of a thousand inhabitants, chiefly Quichua Indians, and a picturesque old church surrounded by a wall made of stone arches. We arrived on a Sunday evening and found the tambo already so full of travellers that there was no room for us or our beasts. The Prefect of Potosí had given us a circular letter requesting the masters of all the post-houses on our route to accord us “every facility for our journey.” We soon found the letter to be of little avail, for when there was any difficulty such as lack of accommodation or of fodder we were invariably informed that the master of the poste was away attending to some business in another village. As our letter, however, included also the governors of towns, we now asked to be directed to the house of the Gobernador of Bartolo and found that worthy gentleman bidding good-bye to some Sunday visitors with whom he had been partaking freely of brandy and chicha. He was at first inclined to be insolent, and although he had a comparatively large house, declared that he had no room for us and that we must return to the inn. As the situation approached that point where it was becoming necessary to use force in order to secure shelter for the night, an obliging guest, who had possession of the largest room in the inn, learning from Fermin, the Gaucho, that we were delegados, offered us the use of his quarters while he sought accommodation among his acquaintances in the town.
In the meantime, the family of the tipsy governor had sobered him up enough to make him realize that he had shown discourtesy to the bearer of a government passport and he came to the inn with profuse offers of entertainment which we unfortunately could not accept.