The centre of the town is the broad Avenue de San Martin, the alameda, with its double row of trees and the stream of water that runs on either side of the roadway. Were it not for this shade and the running water, the streets of Mendoza would be pretty hot in the middle of the day. Down this wide, cobblestoned street the Mendozians have their corso, or carriage drive, and one will see victorias with bells on the tongue wedged in with two-wheeled country carts, and all other kinds of vehicles. Happy farmers and the distinguished citizens of Mendoza mingle together on this occasion. There is a certain kind of provincial good humour about this little city so near the lonely Andes. Small boys armed with buckets on long poles dip the water from the canals and fling it across the thoroughfare. On Monday morning, or following a fiesta, this battle with the dust is conducted by a lot of shame-faced men who are not volunteers or employees of the city, but are working out a fine for the previous day’s debauch. The city also possesses a very pretty park besides a number of plazas. There is considerable street life in the city, and the cafés afford evidence of this, for they are wont to spread their tables far out under the trees in this genial climate.
Mendoza is not a temperance resort, for it is a great wine centre. This is the country of the grape, and it is this fruit that has brought wealth to Mendoza. All about the city are vineyards and meadows, and the outlines of the farms are marked by rows upon rows of graceful poplars. Millions of those poplars have beautified this country, which at one time was a barren waste, and would still be so were it not that man has harnessed the streams formed from the melting snows which rush down from the snow-clad peaks. Irrigation was first established by the Spaniards several hundred years ago, but it has been extended and systematized by the grape growers in recent years. Dams have been built across the rivers and the waters forced through artificial channels, until now there are more than twelve hundred miles of these channels, which water a district of approximately one thousand square miles.
As soon as you leave the city you will see the grapevines growing. Some are trained upon a low prop, as in France or Germany, others climb a staff and look like hops, while many vines creep up the poplar trees and stretch their tendrils across to the next tree, so that the tree trunks are all connected and form a cool, vine-covered lane for hundreds of rods. The vines are thus trained to form cool drives for the owners, and they are especially seductive when the great bunches of ripe fruit hang just high enough out of reach to be tantalizing. Little canals trickle here, there and everywhere among the fields of vines, and thus keep the roots ever moist. The prosperity of Mendoza is bound up in these tiny little streams, which give life to the grape, the onion and potato, for it seldom rains here. The day of my visit the sky became overcast with dark, foreboding clouds, as though a terrific storm was threatening. I hesitated to venture forth. The landlord said, “It looks this way nearly every day but it never rains.” I found out this statement was true and that rain is a rare event.
The development of the wine industry in the Mendoza district has been almost phenomenal. The greater part of the wine produced is not of a high quality, so that it appeals only to the masses and not to the connoisseur. The wealthier classes are satisfied with nothing less than the finest of European wines and champagnes. The quality of the grapes produced is of the finest, and the very best European varieties have been imported. The profits in some years are almost fabulous, for a few acres will bring in a handsome return. Some of the wine-manufacturing establishments are quite large and produce great quantities of that liquor so popular in all Spanish countries. The presses, vats, casks and everything in them is of the latest design. One will find wines leaving these establishments with Bordeaux, Burgundy, Moselle and Muscatel labels. It is shipped in both cask and bottle, and one will see high ox-carts and cumbersome wagons loaded with large casks on their way to the railroad station on almost any road leading to Mendoza. Thousands of tons of the grapes are shipped each year in the fruit form, for it is a peculiarly luscious growth and the bunches attain enormous size. Other fruits have been found to grow equally well at Mendoza and fruit canning is becoming quite an industry there. Peaches, pears and plums grow to good size and of good flavour, while apples, quinces and cherries do very well. The fruit culture is spread over a wide area of country and the culture is rapidly increasing. It is the boast of the Argentinian that the country is capable of producing every conceivable species of fruit, and it is not an idle boast. If the same care was taken that they give that industry in California they could flood the markets of Europe with their fruits. The general trouble is that the trees grow so easily that they are practically unaided, so that the fruit is oftentimes full of flaws and will not pass for prime quality in the markets. Grapes are about the only fruit to which scientific methods of culture have as yet been applied.
At Mendoza a change is made to the less comfortable narrow-gauge train, which conveys the traveller through the fastnesses of the Andes. The mountains are now plainly visible and the snow peaks can easily be distinguished from the dark background. The route leads first through grape and peach orchards, but these soon give place to the cactus and scrub growth which cling to the foothills. The Mendoza River, fed by the melting snows, tumbles along on its way down from the mountains and is crossed and recrossed many times. An occasional station is a somewhat forlorn outpost of human life. It consists principally of a water-tank and pile of fuel. The sole occupants visible are usually a woman, some children and a few goats, for the master of the house is probably at work. The solitudes are broken only by the shrill whistle of the locomotive. One enters a land of torrents, chasms, precipices and other freaky outbursts of nature.
At a distance of about one hundred miles from Mendoza is the Puente del Inca, Bridge of the Incas, one of the famous natural bridges of the world, and near it are some mineral springs and a hotel. This bridge is of limestone formation, the span being about one hundred and fifty feet in length, with a width of one hundred and twenty feet, and is about sixty feet above the Mendoza River, which flows beneath. There are many legends and tales which are told about this curious bridge, so named because it is said to have been on an old trail used by those ancient people.
CROSSING THE ANDES
A little further on is the station of Las Cuevas, the last stop in Argentine territory and the entrance to the tunnel under the mountain. The elevation at this place is in excess of ten thousand feet. There is a certain weird fascination about this spot so high up and seemingly so remote from all the hustle and bustle of the twentieth century. It is a place of contrariety. The contrast between light and shade and the different colours is very marked. There is no delicate and gentle shading of tints. There may be a black wall surmounted by the clear white snow; near by will be other rock walls, pinnacles or spires of green, violet, pink, blue or yellow. It is as though nature had set up a great kaleidoscope between the sun and the bulwark of rocks in order to flood this valley with colour.
When I crossed the Andes it was just a few weeks before the tunnel was opened to traffic. In early days this intervening distance between railhead was covered on foot or in the saddle. Later came the broad, white-covered four-horse coaches which conveyed our party. Five hundred horses and mules, many carriages and baggage wagons and a considerable force of men were maintained for this service. Four times the air-line distance is covered in reaching the highest point on either side. Extra riders with a hitch rope to assist a stalled vehicle follow the carriages. The manager, who was an American, and his guards, took short cuts and appeared in the most unexpected places. Scrambling, twisting and turning, the cavalcade mounted higher and higher, and the air became so cold that a heavy wrap felt comfortable. The air was wonderfully clear, and the distant mountain peaks were clearly outlined against the turquoise blue of the heavens. As the long line of carriages winding their way up the zigzag trail neared the summit, a sharp turn in the road suddenly revealed a striking statue outlined against the sky, and a feeling almost of awe fell upon us. While the carriages were stopped for the driver to examine the harness preparatory to the descent, the passengers gazed in silent admiration upon this monument. Lofty peaks lifted up their weird masses of black basaltic rock and dazzling snow into the clear blue of the Andean sky, among which were Aconcagua and Tupungato, which were clearly visible if one had a sharp and quick eye.