Many travellers have studied Cuzco but none with so great care as Mr. Squier, in whose “Peru” may be found many drawings and plans of the rooms.
Thirty years ago, when he was here, there was no inn, and he was obliged to depend on the kindness of the local officials and the hospitality of the monasteries. But there is now a commodious Hotel Comercio where reasonably good meals and decent bedrooms enabled us to be very comfortable. Of course, the “plumbing” was conspicuous by its absence, and there was by no means so much luxury as at the Hotel Marone in Arequipa. However, even the Incas were not remarkably cleanly and it is as well not to have too many of the conveniences of the twentieth century when living in a metropolis of the fifteenth.
Cuzco has long been notorious as one of the dirtiest cities in America; and it justifies its reputation. The stone paving of the streets is extremely rough and unspeakably filthy. To add to the slime, the sewers are open conduits running through the middle of the narrow streets. In the wet season, they are kept flushed by heavy downpours. In the dry season, they are unspeakable.
One has to be very careful where one steps while investigating the ancient structures, for the present inhabitants are no more cleanly or sanitary in their habits than their predecessors. It is pathetic to see the filth and squalor that surround the walls of the magnificent old edifices.
Although we rarely forgot to pick our way carefully through the streets, the practice soon became a habit and did not interfere with the enjoyment of the brilliant colors affected by the Quichuas. Their home-made ponchos and shawls, fastened with one pin instead of two as in Potosí, are woven of native wool and cotton. Yet though the material may be as rare and uncommon as real alpaca, vicuña, or llama wool, the brilliant hues are unmistakably aniline. In fact, in the market-place of almost every city in the Andes, one is pretty sure to find a native peddler whose specialty is the sale of German dyes.
The most striking part of the Cuzco Quichua costume is the pancake hat. It is reversible, being made of a straw disc with a cloth-covered hole in the centre. On one side, for rainy weather, the disc is lined with coarse red flannel or some other worsted stuff, but the dry weather side is elaborately covered with tinsel on black velvet. Likewise, the loose, baggy cloth that covers the opening in the centre is lined with velveteen on the fair-weather side and coarse woolen stuff for rain. The men’s hats are slightly larger than the women’s, but otherwise the fashion seems to be alike for both sexes.
Opposite our hotel was the church and convent of La Merced. Its cloisters are noted for their fine old paintings, their elaborately carved stone columns and arches. Its gardens are filled with rare flowers and shrubs. In the crypt beneath the altar, Pizarro’s partner, Almagro, and his son are supposed to have been buried. The obliging Brother who showed us the monastery had never heard of any such tradition. “Quien sabe?” and a shrug of the shoulders was all he would reply.
Not far from La Merced is the warehouse of Sr. Lomellini, Cuzco’s leading merchant, an Italian gentleman who, while building up an extensive business, has devoted himself to a study of the Inca civilization. He has brought himself in as close touch with it as possible; the very entrance to his warehouse is a fine old Inca doorway, while his home, half way up the side of Sacsahuaman, was once the site of the palace of Manco Capac, the first famous Inca. He showed me with a sad smile a few elaborately carved bronze figures or idols that looked very much as though they had been buried for centuries in the mould of a royal mausoleum, but instead were “made in Germany.” Later I found similar specimens in Lima, where one “antiquarian” had the effrontery to have three of identically the same pattern, differing only in color, exposed for sale in the same showcase.
West of Sr. Lomellini’s warehouse is the monastery and plaza of San Francisco. The plaza is chiefly interesting for the Beggars Fair which is held here every Saturday evening. There are practically no pawn shops in Cuzco, but this fair takes their place. We were told it was an excellent opportunity to obtain bargains. It may be so for the natives, but as we were branded at once as “foreigners who had plenty of money,” the prices of everything were put up to the highest possible notch and kept there. I was surprised at the amount of old rubbish, rusty nails, bits of broken pottery, and worn-out second-hand clothing, hundreds of things that one rarely sees exposed for sale in a pawn shop, and many on which no one but a junk dealer would advance a penny. As a picturesque spectacle, however, the Fair was most attractive. The plaza was lit up by smoking torches and crowded with a swarm of bargain hunters who jostled each other noisily up and down the long lines of traders seated on the ground behind their wares.
Nearly all the fairs in the Andes are held on Sunday mornings. The market-places are usually entirely deserted in the evening. I suppose in this fair it would not do to expose cast-off household treasures to the full light of day. Not only is the chance of making a sale much greater when the article can only be seen by torch-light, but the newly-poor individual, who is forced to bring hither his household goods, may more easily avoid the scrutiny of his newly-rich neighbors.