CHAPTER XXII
SUCRE, THE RIO PILCOMAYO, AND THE UPLAND DESERT TO THE ARGENTINE FRONTIER
The inhabitants of Sucre insist that their city is still the capital of the country, and that the removal of the government to La Paz is temporary only, owing to the greater accessibility of the latter place. They are confident that with the completion of the railroad from Potosi the old régime will return, and with it the gayety and activities that such an event occasions. This, however, does not seem probable.
The city is built on a plateau over nine thousand feet up, on the site of an ancient Indian village known as Choquesaka. Its climate is that of perpetual spring. The streets are very wide, paved with cobblestones, and are kept exceedingly clean. The buildings are, for the greater part, low, although edifices of pretentious dimensions and imposing appearance are not lacking, and numbers of most attractive summer homes dot the surrounding country. The Medical Institute is well-known throughout the neighboring republics, and annually supplies them with thousands of tubes of vaccine. The markets are abundantly supplied with provisions of all kinds, at reasonable prices, including many fruits and vegetables of a temperate climate—brought from the eastern lowlands.
The inhabitants of the upper class are well educated, refined, and charming. There is a total population of about twenty-five thousand, but by far the greater part of it consists of Quechuas and Cholos. As a whole, Sucre is one of the most delightful spots in all Bolivia and, when the vast country to the east with its unlimited resources is made accessible, the city will unquestionably enjoy the growth and prosperity to which it is so well entitled.
However, South American cities, with few exceptions, possess little attraction for me. I touch upon them almost reluctantly, and am impatient to return to the wild, free life of the boundless jungle, desert, or plain.
Within a few days after reaching Sucre, our necessary business affairs had been looked after and we had decided upon the upper Rio Pilcomayo as our next field of operations. Pack-mules were not to be had; the few patrones who owned herds of these very necessary beasts were all en route to or from Cochabamba. A weekly motor-bus service is maintained between Sucre and Potosi, and the powerful cars passed within a stone’s throw of the spot we decided to visit; but the list of waiting passengers was long, and even though a little monetary persuasion might have been helpful in securing an early passage for ourselves, the transportation of our luggage by that means was out of the question. We therefore secured the services of a coche. Six mules hitched to a lumbering vehicle that had seats inside for ourselves, with the luggage festooned about the exterior, took us thundering over the rocky, uneven road at a fast pace. The driver sat in front and diligently plied a long, thin whip that cracked with reports like those of a pistol, but inflicted little punishment on the mules, while a Quechua boy ran alongside and encouraged onward the panting animals with ear-splitting whistling and volleys of stones. I was never able to understand how these urchins could keep up the fast gait maintained by the mules, and at the same time have sufficient wind left with which to do the whistling.
Within an hour after leaving Sucre we had reached a point where the road ran along the rim of an attractive valley filled with trees, shrubbery, flowers, and pools; a number of queer structures combining Chinese, Arabian, Greek, and several other styles of architecture, were scattered about promiscuously and detracted greatly from the natural beauty of the spot. This place, known as El Recreo is the property of a Bolivian woman who calls herself a princess, and who for reasons unknown to me makes her home in far away Paris.
Soon after leaving El Recreo with its lovely vegetation and disfiguring minarets, stained glass, and other hall-marks of poor taste, the large town of Yotala was reached. Yotala is well-known throughout Bolivia for the excellent quality of the peaches and apricots that are grown and preserved there; and locally it enjoys the reputation of producing the best bread of the vicinity, although I could never agree with the latter assertion. The finest bread we had in all Bolivia was prepared by the hospitable señora living on the banks of the Pilcomayo, and in one of whose huts we resided the following eight days.
After an hour’s halt at a house called Pulqué, where the mules were fed and watered, and where we refreshed ourselves with weak coffee at thirty centavos the cup, we resumed the journey, and 3 o’clock P. M., found us on the bank of the great river we had sought—having come a distance of nine leagues since 7.30 o’clock that morning.