A dozen or so of the local "coches" are waiting in the shade of all these and in that of the vines that clamber upwards by their side. They are crude affairs, whose lack of paint and polish is more than counteracted by the dictatorial attitudes of the brigand-like drivers who lounge at ease upon the boxes. It must be admitted that the manners of these latter are far less formidable than their appearance. Indeed, they smile far more graciously than the corresponding metropolitan tyrants of South America as they drive off one by one, bearing away their patrons beneath the shady avenues.
The majority of folk, however, remain for some while to chat together, since in these parts the railway station is an accepted centre of sociability. The queer medley of the crowd possesses its own charm. A group of officers in dark uniforms and red kepis rub shoulders with Gauchos and peones in dark clothes and black or blue bombachos. Beyond is a knot of women in the homely and loose costume of the district, bare-headed, and with hair drawn tightly back to be wound into a plain knot at the back of the head. An elaborate dandy, dressed ostentatiously in the favourite black from head to foot, is extracting a few centavos from the pockets of his shining velvet waistcoat with which to endow a couple of dissolute-looking beggars who have drawn near.
Although the jet-black faces of the negroes and the browner tints of the half-castes are much in evidence, the countenances of the true Uruguayans remain remarkably fair and fresh. Indeed, the features of many are unusually handsome, and curiously untouched by the stress of heat and climate.
Perhaps the most striking of all in the neighbourhood is the tall figure of one who has detached himself from a group of friends, and is walking toward where a line of tethered horses is waiting. Like the other who has been distributing alms to the beggar, he is clad from head to foot in black. Nevertheless, the aspects of the two are as different as night and day. The one is a walker of the streets, this latter a true lord of the Campo. Unmistakably a landed proprietor of no little consideration, his costume affects the Gaucho to a marked degree. With scarf wound negligently round his neck, loose jacket, and broad bombachos, the spotless black of the finest material is finished off by the light boots of the man whose life is spent in the saddle. In his hand the rebenque—the inevitable riding-whip—glistens with its silver carving, a work of art.
None could deny the coquetry of his appearance; but this is the stern coquetry of the warrior and hunter, as a glance at his grave, rather hawklike features will confirm. A strikingly handsome figure of a man, he stalks with assured tread, raising his sombrero with a simple gesture to acquaintances, until he reaches the spot where the line of horses are tethered. His mount is a magnificent bay, whose leathers and bridle are silvered as thickly as they may be and yet remain flexible, while the saddle and stirrups are heavily coated with the same material. He has swung himself into the saddle now, and is riding away, forcing his horse with consummate ease into a series of curvets and caracoles that evoke admiration even from the numerous professional centaurs in the crowd. But the rider never once looks back as he swings away in the shade of the trees. The romantic figure is either unconscious of admiration or too accustomed to the tribute to be concerned. In any case, he is a product of the land, a veritable paladin.
To the north of Tacuarembo are grass hills overshadowed by the inevitable tall table-lands. Where the rock juts out from the side of these the fronds of many varieties of fern sprout thickly, and by their sides are clumps of evening primrose, everlasting pea, and a wealth of far more brilliant blossoms of the tropical order. In the hollows the vegetation of the wooded streams grows ever more luxurious, and here the flowers star the banks in the wildest riot of profusion.
Seeing that it is springtime, all this is as it should be. But there cannot be many parts of the world whose inhabitants are permitted such a striking reminder of the season as is the case just here. In the neighbourhood of one of these enchanting streams is a very humble mud hut. Its dwellers are pure Africans, and they are just without, enjoying a sun-bath with all the zest of the race.
But the interest of this particular spot is not concerned with them at all; it is centred upon the modest homestead itself. The mud walls have responded in an amazing fashion to the call of the year. Not content with a background of lichen and moss, they have flung out lengthy streamers of fern, from amidst which peer shyly the blossoms of various plants. Obedient to the impulse of spring, each of the four sides has garbed itself thus. In less exuberant parts the effect would be strained for with toil and achieved with triumph. But here the black inhabitants regard their eloquent house as a matter of course.
Just after leaving the small station of Bañada de Rocha is a tunnel. This fact may appear totally unworthy of mention—anywhere else but within the countries bordering on the River Plate. Here a tunnel is an object to be paused at, and to be inspected with not a little curiosity. Although it is possible that some minor burrowings may exist, to the best of my belief the three republics of Argentina, Uruguay, and Paraguay can count no more than two regular tunnels between them. The wonderful shaft bored through the heart of the Andes is one—the other is before us here at Bañada de Rocha. As the only specimen of its kind in Uruguay, therefore, it is not without distinction, and is worthy of at least a passing remark.
After passing through the tunnel the line drops down into a fairly wide plain, hemmed in by numerous low ranges of the inevitable flat-topped hills, while a few elevations of the same curious nature dot the country in the nearer neighbourhood of the track. In a short while, however, the more broken country has surged up all about once again, bearing upon its surface quaint rocky projections, some shaped exactly as tables, others in the form of sugar-loaves, while yet others resemble giant mushrooms sprouting cumbrously from the soil.