The Indian men are fine looking; their forms are straight and well developed. The creoles are more numerous and frank in their manners. The effects of climate and provisions upon people are wonderful, and quite astonish the traveller.
We are in the department of Cochabamba, which has a population of 231,188 creoles, and 43,747 Quichua Indians. It will be observed that the proportion between the two races, when compared with the population of the departments above us on the Andes is reversed. The Spaniards have crossed over the mountains, east, to find here a more agreeable climate than in other parts of Bolivia, and delight in fruits and flowers.
In the province of Arque, a short distance to the southeast of us, there are three silver mines worked, and one hundred abandoned, besides several which have been left at the base of these mountains.
After a few claps of thunder among the heights to the north, heavy clouds doubled themselves up over head, and a pelting shower of hail stones, the size of peas, came down. The mules ran about with us as though we were beating them over their heads. The moment a little breeze rose, they turned their tails to it and stood with their noses close to the ground. The rain that accompanied the hail froze to our hat-covers and India rubber ponchos, while the hail rattled as it beat upon us. A hail stone which struck the top of my boot left a pain I felt for an hour after. Lightning flashed about in the very midst of us, while the loud thunder roared through the valleys like the noise from cannon of heavy calibre. Soon the sun shone out, the storm melted away, and all was clear again. It seemed like the winding up of a pleasant winter.
As night overtook us, our path, though level, was difficult to find among the sand and gravel of the river bed. Near some Indian huts, we hear them singing and playing upon a small guitar. We seldom heard singing on the mountains. José was ahead with the baggage, and, as the bright moon rose above the low hills before us, we discovered we had taken the wrong road. The Indians soon put us right; we were nearly fagged out with the day's work descending the Andes, but enjoyed the calm summer night. Our postillion's horn told us we had arrived at Zizque post-house.
At 8 a. m., thermometer, 70°; wet bulb, 61°. The difference between this temperature and that of yesterday morning at 7 a. m., on the mountains, is for the air 29°, and wet bulb 25°. Cool springs of fresh water rise along the edge of small green meadows; fine cattle feed under the shade of large willows trees. The postman keeps a good horse, and his house is surrounded by fig trees, loaded with fruit. By the side of a small stream snipe fly up. The doves and pigeons coo among the trees and bushes, while the turkey-buzzard soars over the tops of the small hills about us.
The road is narrow but level. On one hand we have the maize ready for the reaper; while, on the other, it is just peeping out of the ground; further on, in one field, the Indians are planting corn, and others are gathering their crop. Barley and wheat produce large heads and rich grains; beans seem to be favorites. Old hens run through the corn-patches with their families, while Spanish cocks square off before us in the road for a fight.
Under a grove of fig trees, which are large, were seated a party of merry Indian girls, sewing, spinning, and drinking chicha with their lovers.
On the 10th December, 1851, we rode into the beautiful city of Cochabamba, having a population of 30,396 people, situated close to the south side of a range of mountains, jutting out from the main trunk of the Andes, in latitude 17° S, and stretching off into the Madeira Plata, over two hundred miles in an east by south direction, separating this valley from that of Yungas.
As the newly appointed prefect was sick in bed with fever and ague, and his family not yet in their own house, we were obliged to seek quarters in the post-house. There was no hotel, and our letters of introduction were to the prefect. We had a horror of a post-house, not usually so habitable in a large city as it is on the road, and thought we had better go back into the country and pitch our tent under the fig trees. But the postillions and mules seemed tired, so we let them lead the way through well paved streets.