On the 18th of April I left Crucero, on my way to the chinchona forests, rather late in the afternoon, accompanied by Mr. Weir the gardener, a young mestizo named Pablo Sevallos, and two cargo-mules. After a ride of three leagues along the bleak plain of Crucero, covered with coarse Stipa and stunted Cacti, we reached a little shepherd's hut, called Choclari-piña, at dusk. It was built of loose stones, with a sheepskin hung across the doorway, but with no plaster or mud between the interstices of the stones, so that the piercingly cold wind blew right through the hut.[308] The poor Indian family were kind and hospitable, and gave us plenty of fresh milk. Next morning we continued the journey along the same plain, with the snowy peaks of the Caravayan Andes on the left, and the glorious nevada of Ananea ahead, whence rise the rivers of Azangaro flowing into lake Titicaca, and of Ynambari finding its way to the Atlantic. A ride of twelve miles brought us to a hut called Acco-kunka (neck of sand), at the foot of long ridges of dark-coloured cliffs, with huge boulders of rock scattered over the sides of the hills. A hard white frost covered the ground.
At Acco-kunka I met a red-faced man, about fifty years of age, who gave his name as Don Manuel Martel. He said that he had been a colonel, and had suffered persecution for being faithful to his party; that he had lost much money in the cascarilla trade; and that he was now making a clearing in the forests of Caravaya, for the purpose of growing sugar-cane. He talked about M. Hasskarl, the Dutch agent, who was employed to obtain chinchona-plants in 1854, under his assumed name of Müller; said that he employed an agent named Clemente Henriquez to collect the plants; and vowed that if he, or any one else, ever again attempted to take cascarilla (chinchona) plants out of the country, he would stir up the people to seize them and cut their feet off. There was evidently some allusion to myself in his bluster; and I suspected, what afterwards proved to be the case, that Martel had, by some means, got information respecting the objects of my journey, and was desirous of thwarting them. I had always carefully avoided any mention of the subject since leaving Arequipa. Martel said he was going to buy gold-dust at Poti, so I soon got rid of him; and, passing an alpine lake, full of water-fowl, we began the descent into the golden valleys of Caravaya.
On the left a black cliff, perpendicular, and fully 2000 feet high, formed one side of the descent, and the space on its inner side was occupied by a small glacier, the only one I have ever seen in the Andes; whence descends, in a long waterfall, the source of the little river Huaccuyo, which dashes down the ravine. For the first thousand feet the vegetation continues to be of a lowly alpine character, consisting of coarse grass and flowering herbs, chiefly Compositæ, of which there were several Senecios, generally with yellow flowers, a gentian with violet-coloured flowers, a Bartsia with a yellow flower, a little Plantago, and a Ranunculus. As we continued the descent, the scenery increased in magnificence. The polished surfaces of the perpendicular cliffs glittered here and there with foaming torrents, some like thin lines of thread, others broader and breaking over rocks, others seeming to burst out of the fleecy clouds; while jagged black peaks, glittering with streaks of snow, pierced the mist which concealed their bases. After descending for some leagues through this glorious scenery, the path at length crossed a ridge, and brought us to the crest of the deep and narrow ravine of Cuyo-cuyo.
The path down the side of the gorge is very precipitous, through a succession of andeneria, or terraced gardens, some abandoned, and others planted with ocas (Oxalis tuberosa), barley, and potatoes; the upper tiers from six to eight feet wide, but gradually becoming broader. Their walled sides are thickly clothed with Calceolarias, Celsias, Begonias, a large purple Solanum, and a profusion of ferns. But it was not until reaching the little village in the bottom of the hollow that all the glories of the scene burst upon me. The river of Sandia, which takes its rise at the head of the ravine, flows by the village of Cuyo-cuyo, bordered by ferns and wild flowers. It is faced, near the village, with fern-covered masonry, and is crossed by several stone bridges of a single arch. Almost immediately on either side, the steep precipitous mountains, lined, at least a hundred deep, with well-constructed andeneria, and faced with stone, rise up abruptly. In several places a cluster of cottages, built on one of the terraces, seemed almost to be hanging in the air. Above all the dark rocks shoot up into snowy peaks, which stood out against the blue sky. A most lovely scene, but very sad, for the great majority of those carefully-constructed terraces, eternal monuments of the beneficence of the Incas, are now abandoned. The alcalde of Cuyo-cuyo received me most hospitably. In the early morning numbers of lambs and young llamas were playing about in the abandoned terraced gardens near the village. Besides Cuyo-cuyo, there are two small hamlets, called Muchucachi and Sullanqui, and several scattered huts in the ravine, the population of which is estimated at 2000 souls.
In the morning of April 20th I rode down the beautiful gorge to the confluence of the rivers of Sandia and Huaccuyo. After this junction the stream becomes a roaring torrent, dashing over huge rocks, and descending rapidly down the ravine towards Sandia. On both sides vast masses of dark frowning mountains rear themselves up for thousands of feet, and end in fantastically shaped peaks, some of them veiled by thin fleecy clouds. The vegetation rapidly increased in luxuriance with the descent. At first there were low shrubs, such as Baccharis odorata, Weinmannia fagaroides, &c.; which gradually gave place to trees and large bushes; while all the way from Cuyo-cuyo there were masses of ferns of many kinds, Begonias, Calceolarias, Lupins, Salvias, and Celsias. Waterfalls streamed down the mountains in every direction: some in a white sheet of continuous foam for hundreds of feet, finally seeming to plunge into huge beds of ferns and flowers; some like driven spray; and in one place a fall of water could be seen between two peaks, which seemed to fall into the clouds below.
A most glorious and enchanting scene, allowing little time to think of the road, which was very bad, and in many places most perilous. In its best parts it was like a steep back-attic staircase after an earthquake. Three leagues from Cuyo-cuyo is the confluence of the torrent of Ñacorequi with the river of Sandia; and after this point maize begins to be cultivated, where the craggy jutting cliffs permit, between the river and the mountains. The Indians live in eyrie-like huts, perched at great heights, here and there, amongst the maize terraces. The village of Sandia is at a distance of fifteen miles from Cuyo-cuyo, down this ravine, a dilapidated little place, with more than half the houses roofless and in ruins. It is built along the banks of the river, and has a church in the plaza. The mountains rise up all round it, almost perpendicularly, forming a close amphitheatre; and in two places glittering cascades foam down from their very summits, into the bushes on a level with the town.
The descent from the summit of the pass over the Caravayan Andes to Sandia is very considerable, nearly 7000 feet in thirty miles, from an arctic to a sub-tropical climate. The height of Crucero is 12,980 feet; of the pass 13,600; of Cuyo-cuyo 10,510; and of Sandia 6930 feet above the sea.[309]
The four mountains closely hemming in the village of Sandia are mount Chicanaco, which is beautified by a splendid cascade; mount Vianaco, which ends in two fine wooded peaks, between which a long slender thread of water descends into the foliage midway; mount Camparacani, on the other side of the river, which rises up to a stupendous height, ending in a jagged rocky peak; and mount Catasuyu, which completes the circle, rising abruptly above the church. The name of Sandia is probably a corruption of the Spanish word sandilla, the first settlers having mistaken the quantities of gourds which grow here for sandillas or water-melons.
When I arrived in Sandia the governor was absent on his estate; the cura, my good friend Dr. Guaycochea, was getting in his maize-harvest on his land near Cuzco; and the principal remaining inhabitants were the Juez de Paz, Don Francisco Farfan, and one Don Manuel Mena, who was drunk in bed when I arrived, but who afterwards received me very hospitably. These good people are, in manners and education, the roughest backwoodsmen, much too fond of aguardiente, and addicted to chewing coca to excess; but they are warm-hearted and neighbourly, while they display some energy in working the coffee and coca estates in the distant montaña, and in making roads, such as they are, from these estates to Sandia. The richer people of Sandia all have more or less of Indian blood, and their wives and daughters are unable to speak any language but Quichua; and thus they seem to be more closely united in interests and feelings with the mass of the population than in any other part of Peru. The Indians of the district of Sandia are divided into six ayllus or tribes, besides the inhabitants of the villages of Sandia, Cuyo-cuyo, and Patambuco. These ayllus are established on the mountains around Sandia, living in scattered huts, some cultivating maize and potatoes, others raising barley and alfalfa for mules. The ayllus are called Laqueque, about a league up the river, on the right bank; Cuyo-cuyo (not the village), behind mount Camparacani; Oruro, on the heights below Cuyo-cuyo; Quiaca (not the village), near Oruro; Quenequi, about a league down the river; and Apabuco, behind mount Catasuyu. The population of the parish of Sandia is about 7000; 4000 in Sandia and its six ayllus, 2000 in the village and ravine of Cuyo-cuyo, and 1000 in Patambuco. As many as 1000 souls fell victims to the dreadful pestilence of 1855, which raged over all parts of the Andes of Peru. Nearly every Indian family, besides land near Sandia, owns a small farm of coca or coffee down in the montaña, to which men, women, and children go at harvest-time. As in all parts of the Andes, so in the Sandia ravine, I constantly found the Indians civil, obliging, and respectful, always saluting with an "Ave Maria Taytay!" and a touch of the hat in passing. They are reserved and silent, it is true, and superficial observers take this for stupidity. Never was there a greater mistake: their skill in carving and all carpenter's work, in painting and embroidery, the exquisite fabrics they weave from vicuña-wool, the really touching poetry of their love-songs and yaravis, the traditional histories of their ayllus, which they preserve with religious care, surely disprove so false a charge.