Near the equator the days and nights are equal. The sun ceases doing duty promptly at six, and reappears at the same hour the following morning. There is no twilight, little gloaming, and darkness succeeds daylight almost as soon as the big red ball disappears in the western sea. At night beautiful phosphorescence may be seen. The water is so impregnated with phosphorus, that each tiny wave is tipped with a light and the vessel leaves a trail of fire. From above the Southern Cross looks down upon the scene in complaisance. And thus the days pass in succession one after the other. The temperature is not uncomfortable, as the Antarctic Current tempers the tropical sun, and there is generally a southerly or southwesterly wind that aids. It is a pleasanter ride, and subject to fewer inconveniences than the ride along the eastern coast of the continent.
THE WEST COAST.
When the Stars and Stripes have faded from view at Balboa, and the jagged backbone of the continent has disappeared into the mists on either horizon, towards Nicaragua and Colombia, one feels that a new world has been reached. The real South America has been entered, and, when the good ship crosses the Line, about the third day out, home and the rest of the world seem very far away. It is a long journey to Valparaiso, Chile, if one takes a steamer that stops at all the intermediate ports, as it lasts more than three weeks. There are swifter vessels, however, that avoid Ecuador and make the journey in twelve days. The slower vessels follow the coast line, and the passenger is given many a view of the Andes, whose peaks are crowned with eternal snows but are frequently wrapped in fleecy clouds. At Guayaquil, the westernmost city of South America, it is even possible on occasions in clear weather to see Chimborazo, eighty miles from the sea. Nowhere in the world is there a greater assembly of lofty peaks than will be seen as the vessel proceeds along the coast. The Spaniards called these “sierras,” because their uneven summits resembled the teeth of a saw. Some of the peaks are regular in outline, but more often they are irregular and even grotesque, so that the imaginative minds of the natives have fancied resemblances to works of nature and have given them corresponding names. Nowhere in the world are there stranger freaks in geological formations, or more startling contrasts. Near the coast run the foothills, which gradually become higher and bolder until they end in the loftiest peaks. Back, and beyond all, an occasional volcanic peak may be seen lifting itself in solitary grandeur.
At the mouth of the Guayas River, in Ecuador, there is a dense growth of tropical vegetation. It seems to be a veritable hothouse of nature, where plants and trees wage a desperate war for existence against the vines, mosses and other parasites that attack them. This is the end of such scenes, however, for days and days. It would be difficult to find a more dreary aspect than the coast of South America from the boundary of Ecuador almost to Valparaiso. From the water’s edge to the Andes chain of mountains stretches a yellow and brown desert, unrelieved by a tinge of green, except where irrigation has been employed. At midday all is clear, but in the evening a purple haze covers the whole landscape. It bears a close resemblance to parts of Arizona and New Mexico in general characteristics. Cliffs three hundred to four hundred feet high, and which are scooped out into fantastic shapes, often form the water’s edge. The distant mountains look gloomy and forbidding. It very seldom rains there, perhaps once in six or seven years is a fair average. In other places a generation can almost grow up and pass away without an experience with rain. When it does rain, however, the desertlike plains and slopes immediately spring into life. Where for years there has been nothing but drifting sands appear meadows of nutritious grasses, and flowers and plants spring up in great confusion. Wherever the seeds come from is a mystery, but every nook and corner is soon ablaze with vegetation.
The boats stop at many ports from Ecuador to Chile. These little towns will be found nestling in little hollows at the foot of the hills, or tacked on the hillside. Each one is walled away from the other, and each is a gateway to a fertile valley or rich mining section. Sometimes a narrow gauge railway runs back into the interior, but there are no connections coastwise. The steamer furnishes the only communication with the world beyond, and the arrival of the boat is an event of great importance. Each town has its own specialty. At Guayaquil and Paita many merchants will come aboard with Panama hats, and good-natured bargaining will then be carried on with the passengers. Buying a hat is a tedious matter. The seller does not expect more than about one-third of the price he asks. If the passenger looks indifferent the native will hunt him up and reduce his offer. “How much would the señor give?” “Thirty soles! That would be robbery.” But the ship’s gong strikes and the time of departure is at hand. “Here, señor, is your hat. Muchas gracias. Adios!” The deal is concluded, and you have your hat at the price you offered, if you are shrewd enough to see that a cheaper hat was not substituted at the last minute. Deck traders board the vessel and stay with it for days, doing a good business in almost everything from vegetables and fruits to dry goods, and jewelry. Parrots, monkeys and even mild-eyed ant-eaters are offered the passengers for pets. Passengers join the boat at every stop, and, instead of hat boxes, as American women would be burdened with, the women here all bring on board their bird cages with their noisy occupants. Swarthy Spaniards and the darker-hued natives join the boat, many of them dressed in gay attire, and particularly wearing gaudy neckties and waistcoats. The boat always anchors at some distance from the shore, while passengers and freight are brought out either in lighters or row-boats. At some places a dozen lighters may be filled with freight for the steamer. The ship’s crew bring up from the hold scores of bales and boxes with labels familiar and unfamiliar. International commerce becomes real—almost a thing of flesh and blood. Each sling load brought up from the hold has its own tale to tell, and everyone becomes commercialized. The crowing of roosters at night, the bleating of sheep and bawling of the cattle remind you of a country barnyard at times, for the boat carries its own live stock, which are killed as the conditions of the larder demand. Thus it is that these slow galleons float along the coast past Paita, Pacasmayo, Salaverry, Pisco and the rest of the little ports. Five minutes after the ladder would be lowered the deck would become a floating bazaar.
Guayaquil is the port for the equatorial republic of Ecuador. Quite a business is done there, for more than one-third of the world’s supply of cacao beans, from which our chocolate is made, comes through this port. It is generally infested with more or less fever, and most people prefer to make their stay as short as possible. One of the curious things to attract the traveller’s attention is to see the mules with their legs encased in trousers. This is not due to any excessive modesty on the part of the inhabitants, for children several years old may be seen without as much clothing on. The purpose is to protect the legs of the animals from the bite of the gadfly, which is very numerous here. It was near Guayaquil that Pizarro landed with one hundred and eighty men to conquer the empire of the Incas. The capital of Ecuador, Quito, lies in a saucer-shaped cup at the foot of Mt. Pichincha, with many other lofty peaks in sight. It perhaps retains more of the original characteristics than any other city of South America. It vies with the City of Mexico the distinction of being the oldest city of the Americas. For centuries prior to the coming of the Spaniards it was the capital of one of the branches of the Incas, and Atahualpa used to eat his meals off plates made of solid gold. Hitherto accessible only over a long and difficult mountain trail, which was impassable during half of the year, Quito can now be reached by a railroad—thanks to American enterprise. No less than twenty volcanoes are visible from the track, of which three are active, five dormant and twelve are classed as extinct.
Callao (pronounced Cal-ya-o) is the principal port of Peru. It is always full of steamers and masts and has a general aspect of business. More than a thousand vessels touch here every twelve months. Its history has been exciting and there are many monuments to its heroes. Some warships are generally floating in the harbour. Lima is distant but seven miles from Callao, and it is a ride of only twenty minutes by an excellent electric road of American construction throughout. To the hum of the trolley one is hurried past irrigated fields, beautiful gardens and villas, and Inca ruins many centuries old. As the boats remain at Callao for a day the traveller is able to spend a few hours in the “City of the Kings,” as Pizarro christened it. Lima is a wonderfully interesting city, and its history is full of romance. It preserves in wood and stone the spirit of old Spain as it was transplanted into the New World. Carved balconies, which were patterned after their native Andalusia, still overhang the narrow streets of the Peruvian capital. Up-to-date electric cars whirl past old monastery walls where life has scarcely changed in three centuries. The Limaños are an easy-going, pleasure-loving people, among whom the strenuous life has few disciples. It has been the scene of many revolutions, and the marks of street fighting are numerous. Churches and ecclesiastical institutions abound on every hand, and ecclesiastics are numerous on the streets. The cathedral, in which the sacristan will show the alleged bones of Francisco Pizarro, is a fine specimen of architecture—one of the best in the world. On another corner of the plaza is the passageway from which the conspirators emerged on their way to assassinate the conqueror. The building which was the headquarters of the Inquisition in South America occupies still another site on the plaza.
A MILK BOY IN PERU.