In the Wilds of South America

by Leo E. Miller

Totora is to me the most desolate and unattractive place in all Bolivia, and the inhabitants are quite in keeping with their town. It is frequently spoken of as the miniature La Paz because, like that city, it is built in a crevice in the mountains, and one does not see it until on the very brink of the precipice above. The inhabitants are practically all Quechuas, or Cholos of a low type who spend most of their time drinking, swearing, and fighting; then they unburden their souls of guilt by celebrating a religious fiesta. We witnessed one such performance the day after our arrival. Indians and Cholos formed the inevitable procession, headed by members of the clergy; they halted at each corner and sang a hymn to the tune of a few blaring brass horns. The gente decente stood on the upper balconies of their mud huts and showered home-made confetti and firecrackers on the heads of the sacred statue and the marchers.

The Indians of Totora make some of the loveliest blankets found in all Bolivia and—since the introduction of cheap German dyes—some of the most atrocious. They are woven of coarse yarn, are thick and heavy and of large size, being about seven or eight feet square. Usually there are wide stripes of two colors merging gradually into one another, and when some harmonious combination is used, such as dark green and yellow, the effect is very pleasing. The price of a blanket, requiring months to make and containing six or eight pounds of wool, was about three dollars.

Continuing our journey by way of Duraznillos and Lajma, we reached Chilón at the end of three days. A more tiresome trip is hard to imagine; the country is so uneven that one is constantly going either up hill or down, and the altitude varies from that of Totora, nine thousand eight hundred feet to ten thousand five hundred feet. The broken, arid landscape becomes monotonous, and the climate is trying owing to the heat at midday and the freezing temperature at night. The Indians scattered along the way are not of a particularly friendly nature, and are only indifferent at best.

At Chilón we entered the heart of the giant-cactus forest—and it can be properly known by no other name. The country, far as the eye can see, is covered with the thorny plants; some of the giant club-cacti rear their fluted columns to a height of sixty to seventy-five feet, and are of majestic appearance. There are also immense clumps of prickly-pear and several other varieties, while low, trailing kinds hug the rocky earth; the latter are rather unpleasant as one frequently strikes against them in walking, and the sharp spines penetrate shoe-leather and are extracted from the foot with difficulty; mules frequently get them into their noses while nibbling on leaves or the few blades of coarse grass, and are driven almost frantic with the pain. Many of the club-cactus plants bore an abundance of round fruit about two inches in diameter and covered with long, velvety down; when the outer covering was brushed off a smooth, red berry was revealed; it is very sweet and the flavor reminds one of strawberries.

Chilón is a settlement of twenty-five or thirty huts; its elevation above sea-level is five thousand six hundred feet, but the climate is very hot. We put up in one of the hovels where there was also a corral for the mules, and proceeded to work along the banks of the Rio Chilón, which is a small tributary of the Rio Mizque. The stream is rapid and shallow, and flows over a rock-strewn bed. Numbers of fish, including rays, were plainly visible through the clear water. The majority of the birds inhabiting the thorny jungle that grows on both sides of the watercourse, were still of the arid upland type; but there was a further encroachment of a foreign fauna, and the brown-shouldered orioles, coral-billed tinamou, and red-tailed parrakeets left no doubts in our minds of the origin of their distribution. They were the advance ranks of a stream of bird-life flowing up the valley of the Rio Grande and its tributaries, where conditions are at least somewhat similar to those obtaining in the chaco country to the east, which is their normal habitat.

Apparently the red-tailed parrakeets were mating. Large groups sat on the branches of some stunted tree, preening one another’s plumage, and emitting queer ani-like wails. If one observed closely, however, it could be seen that the flocks were always broken up into pairs that were snuggled up as closely together as possible.

Comarapa, the next station, is very similar to Chilón, but somewhat larger. The town is built near the base of a high range that towers to the east. A stream of small size flows past the settlement; it is known as the Rio Comarapa, and is thought to be the headwater of the Ichilo and Mamoré. The Indians said that the river flows through a deep cleft in the mountains, impossible to follow or navigate; also that an exploration-party of Germans once crossed the range with the object of locating the Ichilo on the other side, but after spending several months in the wilderness they returned without having found the river. There was at one time a well-known trail across the mountains, over which war-parties of Yuracaré Indians crossed to attack the settlers, and later they came to work in the pepper-fields; but the location of this passageway doubtless leading to the Ichilo or some other navigable stream, has been forgotten.

A few of the older families of Comarapa possess wonderful collections of ancient silverware made by the Spaniards centuries ago. One finds it difficult to refrain from openly admiring the massive ladles, bowls, plates, and cups that are unostentatiously placed on the table before the guest, but such a procedure would be considered unpardonable, as any comment on such possessions is looked upon with suspicion. To attempt to purchase an article of this kind is regarded as a very grave breach of etiquette; but not infrequently the owners of these treasures experience the need of ready money and will offer them for a fraction of their value.

The elevation of Comarapa is six thousand six hundred feet. But a short distance away rises the first outlier of the Andean Range, eight thousand three hundred feet high; from its summit we could see two other ridges, both of greater height, that must be crossed before reaching the forested slopes on the eastern side; and there may be more. We descended one thousand seven hundred feet into a small valley called California, settled by a few Quechua families. These people were squalid beyond description. Their dilapidated huts swarmed with fleas, and vermin of many kinds was so numerous that during the three days and nights we spent in the valley, no member of the party found it possible to get an hour’s sleep altogether. We left sooner than we had expected, as the insect plague drove us to the verge of exhaustion. Practically all the Indians we saw were suffering from consumption. Many of them had lost the sight of one eye, and I was told that in fighting among themselves they invariably try to gouge out one another’s eyes with their thumbs.

From a short distance the valley and the slopes above California appear to be heavily forested, but a close inspection showed that there was but a dense growth of low, dry woods, the trees not exceeding forty feet in height; the interlocking branches were draped with long streamers of grayish moss. The ground was perfectly clean and one could see a long distance ahead in the greenish-gray light. The surroundings were almost weird; subconsciously one expected to find strange sacrificial altars, and bearded Druids officiating at some gruesome rite of a mythical religion. Beautiful little deer walked timidly among the column-like trunks of the garlanded sanctuary, sniffing the air, and nibbling daintily at a leaf or twig, and made the hunter feel like an intruder in a consecrated place.