After travelling all day through the woods, we encamped near a house owned by a white man, with a wife and large family of children. The place was called Llactahuasi. On the road we shot a wild turkey, which was fortunate, for the woman declined selling us the only old hen she had, as her brood of little chickens were too young to do without parental attention. The only other living things about the house, besides the children, were two dogs. The question first asked by our people on arriving at a house is for provisions, so as to forestall the same question from the poor settlers, who are found along the road at uncertain distances. The country may be said otherwise to be uninhabited even by wild Indians.
May 15.—At 4 p. m., thermometer, 73°; wet bulb, 71°; clear and calm. An increase of 15° of heat since this time yesterday. Temperature of a stream, 56° Fahrenheit. As the mountains dwindle into hills, the trees increase in size and the undergrowth thickens. Thousands of creepers are tangled in the most confused manner. The branches of the woods are loaded with a thick growth of moss, and immense masses are heaped up on the tops of the trees. The creepers run up the trunk, coated with moss on the south side, crawl out on the branches, and thence grow down to the ground from the end, on which another creeper ascends, until the branch becomes so loaded that it breaks down with the weight. The tops of the trees grow up, and then are pulled down by these huge vines, which hang like hempen cables. While the climate and soil encourage the forest trees, the creeping parasites seem determined to drag them downward. There is a constant cracking noise of snapping branches, accompanied by a thundering roar, when large trunks are brought down. Great logs cross our track, and we dare not look aloft, for fear of seeing increased danger. A creeper runs up the trunk of a large tree, and out on a limb, descends to another large tree, and turns itself round the butt as if done by hand; then it wound its way up to perform the same effort again, while the branches or roots were all pulling like so many braces, until the limb was broken from the tree. As it drops to the ground, there is a thick moss ready to grasp it, and the log is soon covered out of sight and rots.
Some of the larger trees have been torn up by the roots, and have fallen to the eastward, as if done by a sudden gust of wind rebounding from the side of the mountain. All the easterly winds that strike the broad side of the Andes do not glide upwards, but the current is sometimes divided. The lower half turns under, sweeping down over the forests with such force back towards the east as to break down the trees and place them in the position referred to. The winds cannot rebound horizontally, for they would meet each other and produce a calm. Their only means of escape is either close down on the surface of the warm earth, or up into the more rarified regions. When the heavy gales, which sometimes blow in the rainy season from the eastward, strike these lofty Andes with a force that uproots the forest trees, destroys the crops, and sets the ocean in a rage, they accumulate here, and must burst their way out. They would split the mariner's heavy canvass sails and blow through; but here the gigantic strength of the mountains resists them with a composure that makes the forest the sufferer. These heights of the eastern side of the Andes are among the most terrific portions of the earth. They seem to correspond to the rocky shores of the ocean, where the waves beat heavily against their banks. The trees, bushes, vines, creepers, and mosses are heaped up just here, like we find sea-weed hanging on the rocks of the sea-coast. The fisherman paddles his canoe into the calm ocean beyond the troubled breakers that strike against the land. Here we find no inhabitants. There never were any. We discover no ruins or marks of bygone ages. These primitive forests are not inhabited by the savage of the present day. Here are no birds among the trees, except the wild turkey; he walks through the bushes and feeds on berries. There are very few of this family, much to our regret. Few wild animals roam about.
While descending the mountains to the east of Cuzco, we found what we see here, numbers of land shells. This, then, may be called the snail district. They are certainly in the majority, and the only thing with animal life, which seems to flourish in these inhospitable places. If our poor mules were not so very sure-footed, we would never be able to descend by this road, which is so precipitous in some places that horses could not travel and carry a man. The short-legged donkey would be lost in the deep mud holes, which the mules jump into and then leap out. At night they are turned on the path to devour leaves from the bushes, or seek some palatable herb among the trees; there is no shelter nor pasture for them. Our party encamped in the wilderness as much exhausted as the animals. The climate is damp and sultry, and when we lie down to rest the season is so gloomy, it seems like a long and tedious trance. Our old arriero proves to be a polite and amusing character. He is a creole; makes a living by travelling down this road with salt and returns with chocolate. Every now and then, after we have passed a difficult part, he turns with most downcast expression and says, "Ah! Patron! your boxes are very heavy for my mules." We tell him the roads are bad in his country. "They are much better than they used to be." He said when he travelled on the table lands, we became very tired of riding all day, but here we went so slow that he did not feel fatigued, particularly on his way up, when his mules were poor and could scarcely climb back. He told us that it required at least six weeks rest for the mules in Cochabamba, keeping them well fed on lucerne all the time, before they were fleshy enough to load again for another trip down. His full name is Cornelio Cespedes; he had been engaged travelling up and down the Andes for a number of years, and appears to be an honest, worthy man. Cornelio begs me to sell him Rose. I object, because she would have to travel this dreadful road.
Descending some distance, the first sign of active animal life was a perfect swarm of ring-tail monkeys. They travel along among the tops of the trees at a rapid rate, first swinging to a limb by the feet, and then by their long tails. A little one, who looks in the face like a young negro, sometimes gets frightened and calls for his mother, who promptly runs to his assistance, when the cunning rascal jumps on her back, holds on to her hind leg with his tail, and gallops her off to the next tree. The noise they make deafens us, particularly after a shot is fired. They are not easy to kill. The men are very fond of the meat, probably because there is not much other to be had on the road.
Our beds became wet by the rains during the night; this encourages the fleas in our blankets to annoy us, and although we were tired enough to sleep, we were not able to do so. We mount very much exhausted, while our animals stagger with the weight.
The arrieros pile the baggage up in a heap at night, and cover it with the pack-saddles. Our boxes were well covered with tarpaulins before we left Cochabamba, and I had them lined and soldered inside with tin, to be water-tight. We find this a good plan. No doubt we should have been wanting in provisions had our boxes leaked, for the rain ran off the sides of the hill, flowing round the baggage. Travellers supply themselves with biscuits baked hard, without salt, as it melts in this moist climate and the bread spoils. We carried cheese, tea, sugar, rice, cakes of chocolate, and sardines, with two biscuits a day, and what we could gather with our gun in geese, turkeys, and monkeys. We worked along much better than our poor animals. The article we found most valuable was rice. A wild turkey, cut up and well boiled with rice, seasoned with a small quantity of ajé, a lump of Potosi salt scraped with it, was most refreshing after a hard day's travel. The greatest favor to a traveller met on the road in the forest, is to present him with a biscuit. The patron who shares his bread with the men will always get through. The arrieros generally carry a bag of roasted or parched corn. It is amusing to see them luxuriating on the hind leg of a ring-tailed monkey, taken alternately with a grain of parched corn. They say the tail of the monkey is the most delicate part when the hair is properly singed. If our game gave out, and it became cold monkey or nothing, we opened our box of cheese. Monkey meat keeps longer than any other in this climate; carried on the side of the baggage, it becomes tender during the day by beating against the trees as the train passes along. Of the skins the arrieros make pouches, in which they carry coca beans and parched corn, suspended by the tail to a strap round the waist, with the legs tied one to another, hair side out. This is thought ornamental, and a greater protection from wet weather than the best tanned leather. The arrieros are generally cheerful fellows, and are always anxious to point out game, generally looking for turkeys, knowing that the four-leg kind will fall to them alone.
There is great trouble in getting a fire; the dead wood is so much soaked by rains that José has to inflate his cheeks till the tears run out of his eyes. Every man carries a flint and steel with him. Arrieros sleep soundly with their heads in the rain and feet in the ashes.
On the evening of the 7th May, we reached the Espiritu Santo; following it for some distance we came to a lonely house, situated in a beautiful and romantic spot. Standing at the door, looking up the ravine, through which a stream dashes, the great Andes appear in might, wrapped in their misty robes. The freshness of the foliage and thickness of the leaves present different shaped clusters, so heavy and massive that there seemed to be a difficulty on the soil for the crowds of trees and little saplings to find room to grow. At the foot of the steep hill on which the Indian's hut stood, a small piece of flat land, by the side of the stream, was thickly planted with sugar canes. We gathered some tobacco seed which was ripening on stalks nine feet high. The Indian was a Quichua; his only comfort appeared to be in chewing coca, and his only companions three tamed turkey hens. His house was well built, the sides being open work, and roof well thatched with wild palm leaf. A stick of wood with notches leaned in one corner towards the loft. This was his stairway. As we sling our hamacs in the lower story, the old man went up to bed. I told José to inquire why he slept up there, and we found he was in the habit of doing so not to be at home to the tigers, who troubled him by repeated and unwelcome visits during the night. He had no objection to their calling in the day time, as then he was ready to trade saltpetre and lead for a tiger's skin, which became valuable at the Pacific coast.
Looking down the ravine we saw the Espiritu Santo descending with the land, thickly coated in green. The forest trees are not so large as we expected them; none of them are equal to the oaks of North America. The old Indian pointed out the cinchona leaf on the opposite side of the ravine, but said there were few trees in his neighborhood, that the bark gatherers entered the woods farther towards the northwest of us.