An Indian woman was washing clothes in the more than half boiling water. After rubbing them over a smooth stone, she wrenched the argentine soap off in the cooler stream, and had hung them up to dry in the tropical sun on a small bush, under the shade of which she sat composedly. Her petticoat was conspicuously a new one. As we attentively observed some distinct letters upon the stuff, which were "Lowell," she seemed somewhat surprised, and laughed as though she thought us very inquisitive to be so closely examining a woman's clothing. Her earrings were of gold; a silver cross was suspended by a guard of vicuña wool around her neck. The black wooden ring upon her finger was carved from the hardest and deepest colored wood that grows to the east of us. A doubled-up piece of coarse scarlet cloth lay on the top of her head to keep off the rays of the sun, being used at night to cover her shoulders, which are now bare. She envies our straw hats, and says it is mean not to give her one. She wears shoes and stockings only on Sundays, when she goes to church; the former of fine black leather, and the latter, silk. Her language is Quichua. When the wise Incas mastered the Aymara tribe they colonized the country to the east of them, sending the Quichuas through the Aymara territory to surround those who never would be taught a strange language, nor give up their own.
While José enjoys a short flirtation, we get out our map to find that this woman has been washing her garments at the source of the river Mamoré; she is dipping her fingers into the main head of the great Madeira river.
Descending the side of the warm stream, we met a drove of sixty spirited mules, with heavy loads upon their backs. They ran up the road, fretting and staggering under the weight; getting out of breath, they make a full stop, and then clamber up again.
We halted, and had a talk with the arrieros; they were from Cochabamba, bound to Arica, in Peru, with one hundred and eighty quintals of cinchona bark from the province of Yuracares. They make the trip to Arica in about twelve days over both ranges of mountains.
Calling loudly to their mules, they move slowly up hill. It was hard work for them to get to the South Pacific shore with their bark, while the Indian woman's soapsuds went dancing by us on the dashing stream towards the North Atlantic.
On gaining the base of the mountains, we rode into the pretty town of Tapacari. The lofty church steeples were just visible above the tops of the richly green willow trees. Peaches were half ripe in the gardens, and our tired mules anxiously called out for food as a donkey passed with a load of green lucerne just reaped by the Indian's sickle. At 3 30 p. m., thermometer, 72°; wet bulb, 60°; cumulus clouds.
The people are so much whiter than those we have lately seen, that some of them appear very little like Indians. They are dressed in thin clothing. The women wear ruffles about their necks, and the lower parts of their dresses are fancifully worked by their own hands.
This is the land for chicha; the ravines seem to be flooded with it. People are dashing about on horseback, feasting and making merry near by. The postman, a most polite and attentive old fellow, attended to his business while taking his part in the frolic. He evidently had his share of chicha, which made him show loss of teeth when he laughed. His wife, one of those who help to keep the world balanced, cooked us a very good dinner. She had seven pretty daughters, but as our fresh mules were loaded we pushed on.
The streets of the town are very narrow, paved and clean. The houses are small, and well filled with large families, who are so gay and look so happy, that we leave them with regret.
The ravine is narrow; in the middle of the dry bed of the river flows a small stream. Rain falls in great quantities in due season, and the sides of the hills are washed into deep gullies. The contrast between the barren dry hills and mountains, with the green, gay little valley, is very great. But what attracts our attention are the crowds of children; some are sleeping on their mother's backs, others hang lazily in front; they crawl about the doorways, and I stopped my mule for a naked little fellow paddling turtle fashion over the street.