The señora at whose rancho we stopped complained that tiger-cats were killing her chickens; so one afternoon I set a steel trap at the base of a near-by stone wall, baiting it with a dead bird. I had not gone a dozen paces from the spot when the trap sprung with a loud twang, securely imprisoning the much-sought culprit. The cat’s greed had overcome its discretion, at which we rejoiced, for it made a desirable addition to our collection. On another occasion one of these beautiful animals bounded out from under the roots of a huge tree and seized a bird as I was stooping to pick it up—and made a clean getaway to its hiding-place with the spoils.
Our hosts on the Cachimayo were awaiting us, in order that we might be present at the ushering in of the “month of baths,” as December is called in this part of Bolivia. Whether or not they thought we were in need of the daily ablutions, I am unable to say; but this I do know, that we shocked the good people on numerous occasions by having a swim at every possible opportunity, even if the month was not in keeping with local traditions.
Peras Pampa is an immense estate on both sides of the Cachimayo, and but an hour’s trip by motor from Sucre. We spent a delightful ten days amid pleasant surroundings, living in a comfortable bungalow, and passing the evenings at the casa grande where the elite of Sucre’s society gathered for music, games, and dancing.
The grounds were a succession of orchards, fields, and vineyards. Scores of Indians lived and worked on the place, cultivating the ground, building stone fences, and taking care of the stock. At night they met and played very well on reed flutes of various sizes, each musician taking a separate part, so that the combined effort was somewhat like that produced by a well-organized band. Their favorite piece was “Red-Wing”—apparently learned from a phonograph record.
The evening parties were always enjoyable affairs. They began with a sumptuous dinner—including several kinds of wine; then a series of eight or ten well-chosen courses, followed by liqueurs and smoking. The women did not smoke.
After that there were charades, story-telling, music, singing, dancing, and perhaps a walk en masse in the moonlit grounds, through arbors of honeysuckle and other flowering vines and over paths bordered with hedges of roses. There were always more refreshments just before the party broke up at midnight. All the Bolivians we met at Peras Pampa were charming, and we heartily regretted that our time for combined work and play was not unlimited.
The majority of the people who formed the gay evening crowd lived in separate cottages on the estate—the guests of the owner. Each day they repaired faithfully to the river for a dip, although the water was usually very muddy, and there was about an even chance whether one would emerge without yesterday’s coat of grime or with an additional one. December is chosen for this purpose because it is the warmest and most pleasant month of the year.
The time allotted us for work in Bolivia had nearly expired. We had thoroughly enjoyed our lengthy sojourn in the republic, and look forward to revisiting it in the future. Our schedule called for rather extensive work in the Argentine, so, after a great deal of difficulty, we succeeded in collecting a caravan of riding and pack mules for the ride of over three hundred miles to La Quiaca, on the Argentine frontier. Ordinarily the trip from Sucre to La Quiaca should not be undertaken on mule-back. One should go to Potosi in one day’s time, utilizing the semiweekly motor-car service. A railroad connects the latter place with a small station a few miles this side of Tupiza, and from this point one may reach La Quiaca in two days by carriage. During the rainy season, however, both automobile and carriage service are suspended; and the difficulty of twice securing mules on which to cover the two stretches of road between railway terminals and the delays and other inconveniences are so great that we decided to travel the entire distance with a pack-train. This also gave us an opportunity to see the country.
The expedition left Sucre December 22. The caravan was appallingly large, for we were taking our entire outfit, and it required no less than six Quechuas to look after the mules and burros. All supplies, also, had to be taken with us, as very little is to be had from the Indians, who are virtually the sole inhabitants of the cheerless highlands. There are a number of large villages, it is true, but the person who relies on the natives for maintenance is as likely as not to have to live on coca and chicha, or suffer for his improvidence.
By noon we had reached the Cachimayo at a point where, ordinarily, it is fordable; but a heavy rain had caused the river to rise and we were confronted by a series of roaring cataracts covered with foam and débris washed down from the mountains. The mules were unloaded and driven into a corral. Soon other caravans arrived, until there were several hundreds of men and animals gathered on the river-bank. We spent the afternoon strolling through the adjacent apricot-orchards and vineyards. The former trees were laden with fruit, all ripening; it was small in size, but of delicious flavor. By seven o’clock the water had subsided many feet, and one of the arrieros having previously ridden across the river to test its depth, the caravan started across. The stream was three hundred feet wide and the current very strong, so that crossing it seemed an endless operation; the mules struggled onward gamely, but to the rider it seemed as if they stood stock-still while a maze of rushing water seethed and raged all around him in frantic efforts to sweep away everything in its path. Our own animals got across safely, although some of the packs were drenched; but a long train of burros laden with huge boxes of the popular Sucrenses cigarettes fared badly, and a number of the poor creatures were upset and whirled away down-stream. We continued onward in the darkness two leagues to Poste Escalera, a lone hut on a hillside, and spent a trying night at this flea-infested post. Next day we reached the Pilcomayo at a point where the river is divided into many narrow channels, although there is one main stream spanned by a swaying wooden bridge.