A volunteer mestizo, Arriero, with his little son, drove a train of mules which carried the baggage.
Our path was shaded by willow trees, and the way obstructed with droves of llamas, loaded with rock salt from mines in the neighborhood.
The leaves of the trees seemed calling for water, while the temperature of the air, at mid-day, in the shade, was 68° Fahrenheit. Peach and apple-tree leaves doubled up, showing both their edges to the sun; the fruit is small, oblong, and unthrifty-looking.
The ravine through which we ascend is thickly populated with Quichua Indians. Their houses are built of stone and mud, and thatched with coarse mountain grasses.
The natives are busily employed gathering in the harvest of maize, which is small-grained and of four colors, red, white, yellow, and blue. It is of excellent quality, generally used as food, roasted or parched.
Potatoes, of which there are numerous varieties, are also now gathered; they grow in perfection, though much smaller than their descendants in the United States.
The little estates—chacras—are owned by descendants of Spaniards, Indians, or Mestizos, the latter a cross between the two former.
In almost all cases the cultivation of the soil is performed by the aborigines, at wages from ten to twenty cents a day.
As we rise above the foliage, the mountain tops begin to look wild and barren, with rocks and red clay; below we have a beautiful view of the town of Tarma, amidst its green trees and pasture fields. My mule, Rose, pants for breath; she is so fat and plump that the climbing troubles her.
On the mountain-side is seated a fine looking Indian, blowing a semicircular shaped trumpet, made of a number of cow's horns, stripped one into the other, with the joints sealed; he don't seem to be so particular as to the tune, as he does to the distance he may be heard, and he makes the valley ring. José thinks he is trying to blow up a wedding with a fair one among the flowers below. The Indians celebrate harvest-time with merry-making. Their meals are cooked in the fields, where their kitchen utensils are carried. They have music and dancing in the barley stubble. It is amusing to see these happy people enjoying themselves in the open air. As we pass, the reapers are seated near the road, in a barley field, at dinner, upon the ground, in rows one behind another, laughing and talking among themselves. When we meet them they are very civil, modest, and unassuming in manners. The men carry enormous loads of barley or wheat on their backs, while the women drive the loaded ass, and sling the children over their own shoulders. Their horses, mules, sheep, horned cattle, pigs, and dogs, are all admitted, together with the family, into the harvest field; while the father reaps, and the mother gathers, the boys tend the flocks, and the older girls take care of the babies and do the cooking, while at the same time they spin woollen yarn by hand, for stockings. One of them offered a pair for sale at twenty-five cents, which were nearly long enough for trowsers. They are always employed, go to bed early, and rise before the sun, as their Incas taught them to do.