We halted at a place called San Antonio, composed of a single shed, very neatly built and thatched. Our hamacs were slung up and baggage put under cover. We bathed in the waters of the stream, and were refreshed by our suppers. We felt grateful we had crossed all the mountains in safety, as we look up at their heads among the clouds.
The evening is like that of spring. As we found everlasting winter on top, so perpetual summer is here. The flats are covered with a growth of forest trees, besides which there are cane-brakes, bamboo, and coarse grasses, sappy bushes, and plants that prove the soil to be of the richest kind. This is the place for the axe, the plough, and the hoe. The axe has never touched one of the trees, except when the Indian wanted its coat. The face of the country is a true picture of nature. The hand of civilization has not yet touched it, though probably it contains a soil and a climate that would produce as well as the richest spot known, and would astonish the planter, not only by an enormous yield, but encourage him in planting a variety yet unexampled.
A log canoe lay fastened to a stone near the bank of the San Mateo. This is the first wooden vessel we have seen since we left the steamship "Bolivia" at Callao, begging pardon of the wooden spoons, plates, stirrups, and other ware along the route.
Cornelio has unpacked a small bale of cotton goods, and is measuring off several yards of white cotton cloth for four Yuracares Indians' pay in advance for their services in the morning in helping us cross the river. The trade is interesting; the Indians have thrown down their bows and arrows in confusion, and stand watching with eager eyes the unrolling of colored cotton handkerchiefs, knives, needles, &c. When they see the fish-hooks there is a shout of joy. They crowd so close round old Cornelio that he has great difficulty to keep the savages from trying on all the colored cotton caps he has brought. These Indians have no gold ornaments to trade for what strikes their fancy; they are nearly distracted with desire to get what they see. They own nothing but bows and arrows, a little yuca, and a few ears of corn to offer in exchange. Animal food is so plentiful here that they are not obliged to cultivate the soil, however productive it may be.
The province of Yuracares belongs to the department of Beni. It comprises the sides of the ridge from head to foot, and therefore within its borders the climates are cold, temperate, warm, and hot. Gold is reported to have been found in its streams, though we were unsuccessful, after washing all the way down from the top. We did not see the people gathering cinchona bark, prohibited by a decree of the government. Few of these trees are on our way down, yet we saw trains of mules loaded with bark crossing the Andes on their way to the Pacific, and workmen packing it up in bales in the bank at Cochabamba. Unless a different system is followed in the gathering, this valuable article of trade will be lost. The lands wooded with cinchona trees belong to the government. Private individuals have no control over the preservation of these parts of the forest. All who desire to gather may do so; this is a destructive plan. Every man in the country has an interest in the trade; yet, those who reap the greatest benefit by it, destroy every tree they meet, chopping it down, and stripping every inch of bark from its trunk and limbs.
CHAPTER VIII.
Cinchona forest—Indians shooting fish—Department of the Beni—Vinchuta—Small pox—Canichanas boat's crew—Cotton cloth and silver coins—Our faithful servant José Casas and the mules—Trade at Vinchuta—A night on Coni creek—Embarkation at the base of the Andes—Chaparé river—Canoe life—Floods—Bark cloth—Pick up the sick—Indians at prayers in the wilderness—Lassoing an alligator.
The cinchona trees of Bolivia are found in that boisterous uninhabited region on the east side of the Andes which we have just passed through, in a sort of belt all along the side of the mountains, stretching from about half-way down to the feet of the Andes; a beautiful green skirt, which clothes these lofty mountains and protects their nakedness from the heavy east winds and beating rains. The general impression on the other side of this valuable forest is, that the cinchona tree may be found many miles to the eastward of where the bark gatherer has penetrated. This is not so; probably most of them have touched the lowest edge of this rich dress. On the road to the head of the Madre-de-Dios, in Cuzco, I passed beyond where the bark gatherers went, and Leechler, who made his living by collecting bark, was constantly saying to me, after we got fairly down into the bottom of the Amazon basin, "I see no cinchona trees, sir, and I am looking out for my fortune down here." When we returned to the boisterous region, there he was calling my attention to the shining leaf, clearly distinguished from the other foliage.
The impression in Bolivia is that the Yungas forest is giving out, and the bark gatherers are turning their attention to the Yuracares forests. There is no doubt that the forests of Yungas have been nearly stripped of this valuable tree. The only way to save the cinchona tree is to take the bark off in strips, so that the tree will cover itself again, and then the supply will be constant. The decree issued by the government, prohibiting the cutting of bark for the next three years, is no remedy. The forest does not become enriched by a new growth of trees in that time. It requires a man's life, and probably more, for the cinchona tree to become of full size, and after the first growth is cut down that species of tree may be forever lost to the land where it was originally found in such abundance. The cinchona tree requires care and protection.
At daylight in the morning twelve or fourteen Indians came to San Antonio's shed to see us. Three of them were on their way to a lake for fish. While the mules were loading for the ferry I accompanied the three savages. As we walked along they asked me all sorts of questions, none of which I could understand. When they saw a bird they called my attention to it, and made signs for my gun to shoot. They seemed to admire my gun as much as I did their bows and arrows. I drew from my belt one of Colt's revolvers and showed the number of balls it carried. By way of trying one of them, I offered it to him; he shook his head, no; patting his hand on his arrows, as much as to say he admired his own invention the best. As we neared the fishing place they quickened their pace and walked single file, like soldiers marching up to a fortification. The lake was small and deep, with water so clear that the bottom was plainly to be seen. The stream that fed it ran off the side of a hill, thickly wooded. Long stakes had been driven into the muddy bottom, and to the heads, which stick out of water, poles were fastened by means of creepers, so that the Indians could walk out upon a platform just above the surface of the water. As they did so they arranged their black spears, which were about twelve feet long, and silently watched on the bottom, one at each end of the lake and one in the middle. Their arrows were pointed down into the water; when one fired and missed there was a general shout of laughter, and he good naturedly talked to them and to the fish as he caught the arrow when it rebounded to the surface, between the bow and its string, a stout cord, neatly twisted, made of white cotton. The next one that shot caught his arrow in the same way, which was shaking with a heavy fish, a foot in length. He killed it by sticking his knife into the back of its head, took out the arrow, and threw the fish on the shore. Turning up the point of his weapon he sharpened it with his knife, and made ready the second time. The knife was fastened to a string suspended round the neck; after using it, he threw it over his shoulder, where it hung on his back out of his way till the next fish was caught. The knife looked like a table knife broken square off, and sharpened at the end like a chisel, and was used as such, not like a common knife.