In the Wilds of South America

by Leo E. Miller

The Pilcomayo at this point varies in width from a few hundred feet to half a mile, is crossed by a suspension bridge, and flows between high, barren, rocky hills. There was comparatively little water, but the current was strong. For me the Pilcomayo possesses an unusual fascination. While looking at the hurrying, muddy torrent underneath, I could not help picturing the awe-inspiring stretches of wilderness through which those same waters must flow before mingling with the less fearsome Paraguay hundreds of miles farther down: little-known savages indulging in wild orgies and cannibalistic dances on its banks, or paddling silently and mysteriously on its glassy bosom to some jungle rendezvous unknown to white men; jaguars eagerly lapping up a refreshing draft after a gory meal of deer or peccary; myriads of pirañas lashing its surface into spray in their mad struggles to tear the flesh off some struggling, despairing victim; lines of crocodiles sunning themselves on mud-banks or slowly patrolling the water’s edge, like drifting logs, with only the ever-vigilant eyes showing the faintest animation; boundless wastes of pestilential swamps and lagoons, where mosquitoes and other obnoxious insects in clouds forestall the advent of man, but where millions of egrets, storks, cormorants, and other water-loving birds find a safe haven and lead their wild, joyous lives in blissful ignorance of despoiling plume-hunters; but, a shout of “Ya está, señor,” from the mule-driver reminded me of the fact that day-dreams must soon end. The man had unloaded the luggage at a little hut surrounded by shade-trees and fields of alfalfa. He had been unable to find the owner, but thought we could arrange to stay there should that personage appear. Most important of all, he wanted his money—and then he was off with twenty-seven miles of up-hill road ahead of him, before reaching Sucre that night.

While taking stock of our outfit and arranging it conveniently in the little adobe hovel that was to serve as our home, an elderly Bolivian woman came from one of the alfalfa-fields near by, and I rightly guessed that she was the owner of the property. To my request that we be permitted to remain, she promptly replied that she would consider it an honor to have us do so. I wondered if there are many places in our own country where courtesy to utter strangers is so universal as in Spanish America. Frequently, after long and trying journeys afoot or on mule-back (sometimes of hundreds of miles) our appearance was disreputable; but with one or two exceptions only during the entire course of my travels in South America, the kindness and politeness of the inhabitants was unfailing. When we left the Pilcomayo, the señora accepted not a cent of payment.

The country for many miles about was arid, excepting only the few irrigated flats near the river where fodder, grain, and vegetables grew luxuriantly. Cacti and thorny shrubbery dotted the slopes, but even these plants of the dry lands were not abundant. Numerous small streams empty into the river during the wet months; but now (November) their courses were dry and parched.

Rio Cachimayo at Peras Pampa, Sucre.

Bridge across the Rio Pilcomayo.

Birds were plentiful, but the species varied little from those typical of the uplands. However, they were nesting and this circumstance furnished a new and interesting field for study.

One of our first walks took us to an old mill, fallen into decay through neglect. There were hundreds of dollars’ worth of machinery ruined through lack of care and the use of improper lubricants. I have frequently seen machinery of various kinds, ranging from typewriters and sewing-machines to Pelton wheels, seriously damaged because lard or tallow had been used instead of oil, and the wearing surfaces never cleaned. In one of the dust chutes a pair of chestnut flycatchers (Hirundinea) had built a flimsy nest of twigs and feathers. It contained two cream-colored eggs speckled with red. The birds remained in the vicinity all day long and paid no attention to the Indians working near by, but when a dog chanced to pass they darted at it furiously, making quick dashes at its head and snapping their bills with a loud, popping noise. Another pair of birds of the same species had a nest above the door of a near-by house.

Leaf-cutting finches also called tooth-billed finches (Phytotoma), were very abundant. The inhabitants destroyed them whenever possible, as the birds cut the blossoms off the fruit-trees and grape-vines. The bright, saffron-breasted male sat in the top of some thorny bush and uttered queer, unmusical wails that reminded us of the mewing of a forlorn alley cat, while his gray-and-black-striped mate incubated the eggs in a small but compact nest hidden farther down among the spine-armed branches. We examined numbers of the nests; each one contained three eggs of a deep-green color, marked with a few black lines about the large end.