The coach which had been put at my disposal was old and very small, about the size of an ancient bob-tailed horse-car. Moreover, it was already occupied by a dozen native passengers who, like myself, had missed the regular train. As usual, they had no end of bags, bundles, and boxes. There was hardly room to squeeze inside the door. Undoubtedly they had better right on the train than I did, for they had paid their fares while I was riding on a pass. So I relinquished any claim to the coach and took the fireman’s seat in the locomotive, which afforded me a better opportunity of seeing the country.
We pulled out of Juliaca shortly after two o’clock and rattled along over the plains north of Titicaca. Here I saw for the first time llamas tied to stakes. Of all the thousands of llamas seen in Bolivia, I do not remember one that was tied. But I soon found that the practice is customary in and around Cuzco.
The inquisitive Indians who gathered at the stations to stare at our train while the engine was getting a drink of water were mild-mannered Quichuas. Puno is the northern limit of the Aymarás. The Quichua women here wore broad-brimmed black hats covered with velvet and ornamented with tinsel.
We did not reach Ayavari until six o’clock and it was dark before we approached the upper part of the valley of the Pucará River and began to climb up over the Vilcanota mountains. The night air was exceedingly cold, but fortunately, by this time, most of the native passengers had left the train and I was able to get a seat in the coach.
The highest station on the road, La Raya, is 14,150 feet above sea level. From here, there is a rapid descent of 2500 feet to Sicuani which was for many years the northern terminal of the railroad. Here, in search of supper, I stumbled through the dark streets with the train-crew to a filthy little Indian chicheria where a half-drunken brigand and his besotted spouse were persuaded to give us hot tea, beer, and stale bread. The conductor of the train said I would have to spend the night at Sicuani as he did not propose to go any further in the dark. Unfortunately for him, orders came directing him to proceed at once twenty-five miles further to Checcacupe in order that I might catch the north-bound morning train. The engineer declared that it was a dreadfully risky run from Sicuani to Checcacupe and that we would probably never reach our destination at all. But I was too tired and sleepy to care very much, and as soon as I got back into my little bobtailed car, pulled out my sleeping bag, and promptly forgot all about the train and the danger of falling into the Vilcanota River. The next thing I knew the Checcacupe station agent was flashing his lantern in my face and telling me to lie still as this was much the best place for me at this time of night (1 A.M.), and I should not be disturbed until morning. I thanked him and dropped off to sleep again, dimly conscious that some kind of an animal was scratching about on the floor of the little car among my dunnage bags. When I woke up, aroused by the shouts of the train-men who were making up the train for Cuzco, I found that my visitor was a little seven-year-old Quichua street-Arab who could speak no Spanish, but who said as plainly as possible that he would be my slave for ever after and desired to travel in my company. I gave him part of my breakfast and thought little more about it, especially as Mr. Clarence Hay, who had kindly agreed to accompany me overland from Cuzco to Lima, met me here. Mr. Smith had gone back to New Haven to pursue his studies.
Mr. Hay and I were soon installed on the train for Cuzco. We were already well on our way when the polite Peruvian conductor smilingly informed us that there was a boy in the second-class car who insisted he belonged to me. It was too late to put the little fellow off, so I decided to be responsible for him; but he was a foxy little rascal, slipped out of the train at some station before we reached Cuzco, and disappeared. Children mature early in the Andes.
At the time of our visit, the Cuzco railroad had only just been completed. The track runs along the steep side of a valley which has an embarrassing habit of sending down landslides quite unexpectedly, so the journey was a bit slow and uncertain. The natives are fond of exaggerating its irregularities, and said it would take several days, but we were to reach Cuzco on time, notwithstanding all their dismal forebodings.
The scenery was very pretty. The Vilcanota valley rapidly narrows as it descends, and the river becomes a roaring torrent. The climate is delightful and has been likened to that of Italy. The soil is extremely fertile and produces a remarkable variety of crops.
The road follows the west bank of the Vilcanota until it is met by the Huatanay River. Here it turns abruptly to the left and enters the lovely region that was once the very heart of the Inca Empire. The valley of the Huatanay is still densely populated, as it always has been. In quick succession the train passed the large Indian cities of Oropeza, San Geronimo, and San Sebastian. Suddenly we stopped in the fields and took on a group of laughing Peruvian sports who had waved a piece of red flannel to save themselves the trouble of going to the nearest railway station. One of the joys of this railroad is that everybody that is anybody flags the train whenever he pleases. The habit interferes somewhat with the time-tables, but no one cares (except the railroad people), and it gives an individual a great sense of his own importance to make a train stop while he climbs on board. A few minutes later we reached the temporary Cuzco station, a group of small, corrugated-iron buildings which stand in a plain a quarter of a mile south of the city.
The most agreeable approach is by way of the Alameda, an ill-kept avenue with a double row of alder trees, on the west bank of the Rio Huatanay. From it we had a fine view of the convent of Santo Domingo, the ancient Temple of the Sun, across the ravine to the east. On the west of the Alameda is the new rifle range of the local shooting club. The avenue itself leads into one of the principal streets of the best residence quarter, where Spanish houses have almost completely obliterated all traces of Inca occupation. As soon as we reached the centre of the city, long walls of beautifully cut stone, laid without cement, and fitted together with the