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Title: Vagabonding down the Andes
Being the Narrative of a Journey, Chiefly Afoot, from Panama to Buenos Aires
Author: Harry Alverson Franck
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Language: English
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VAGABONDING
DOWN THE ANDES
In the Monte Grande, the “Great
Wilderness” of Bolivia, the commander of
the first garrison insisted on sending a boy
soldier, with an ancient and rusted
Winchester, to “protect” me from the
savages
VAGABONDING DOWN THE ANDES
BEING THE NARRATIVE OF A JOURNEY, CHIEFLY AFOOT,
FROM PANAMA TO BUENOS AIRES
BY
HARRY A. FRANCK
Author of “A Vagabond Journey Around the World,” “Tramping Through Mexico, Guatemala, and Honduras,” “Four Months Afoot in
Spain,” “Zone Policeman 88,” etc.
ILLUSTRATED WITH 176 UNUSUAL PHOTOGRAPHS BY THE AUTHOR, WITH A MAP SHOWING THE
ROUTE
NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1917
Copyright, 1917, by
The Century Co.
Published September, 1917
A FOREWORD OF WARNING
A few years ago, when I began looking over the map of the world again, I chanced to have just been reading Prescott’s
“Conquest of Peru,” and it was natural that my thoughts should turn to South America. My only plan, at the outset, was to
follow, if possible, the old military highway of the Incas from Quito to Cuzco. Every traveler, however, knows the
tendency of a journey to grow under one’s feet. This one grew with such tropical luxuriance that before it ended I had
spent, not eight months, but four full years, and had covered not merely the ancient Inca Empire, but all the ten republics
and three colonies of South America.
A considerable portion of this journey was made on foot. The reader may be moved to ask why. First of all, I formed the
habit of walking early in life, developing an inability to depend on others in my movements. Then, too, the route lay through
many regions in which no other animal than man can make his way for extended periods. Moreover, there was the
question of caste. It is one of the drawbacks of South America that a white man cannot efface himself and be an
unobserved observer, as on the highways of Europe. Social lines are so sharply drawn that he who would be received in
frank equality by the peon, by the great mass of the population, must live and travel much as they do. Merely to ride a
horse lifts him above the communality and sets a certain barrier, akin to race prejudice, between him and the foot-going
hordes among whom my chief interest lay.
At best these lines of caste are a drag on observant travel in South America. The “gringo” can never get completely out of
his social stratum. His very color betrays him. It is always “Goot mawning, Meestear,” too often with a silly, patronizing
smile, from the “gente decente” class; among the rest his mere appearance makes him as conspicuous as a white man
among West Indians. Never can he be an inconspicuous part of the crowd, as in Europe. To get in touch with the
“common people” requires actually living in their huts and tramping their roads. The dilettante method of approaching them,
“slumming,” will not do. The disadvantages of the primitive means of locomotion in wild regions, such as the Andes, are
obvious. But the advantages of walking over more ordinary methods of travel are no less decided. Though the means be
more laborious, the mind is far sharper for facts and impressions while on foot than when lolling half asleep on a horse or in
a train. The mere pleasure of looking forward to his arrival, subconsciously building up before his mind’s eye a picture of
his goal complete in every detail, not to mention that of looking back upon the journey from the comfort of his own
armchair, is ample reward to any true victim of wanderlust. Thousands of men, supplied with all the comforts money can
buy, roam the earth from top to bottom—and are supremely bored in the process. It is the struggle, the satisfaction of
physical action, the accomplishment of something greatly desired and for a long time seemingly impossible, that brings real
pleasure, that makes every step forward a satisfaction, every little success in the advance an enjoyment. For after all, real
travel is real labor. He who journeys only so far as he can without exertion, who shirks the difficulties, will know no more
of the real joy of travel than he who lives without toil, seeking pleasure only and finding but the cold, dead body thereof,
without ever realizing the joy of life itself.
As in ancient times, so it is in the Andes to-day; distance cannot be covered without fatigue. On the other hand there is the
compensation of knowing completely the country through which one passes, storing away in the mind a picture of each
long-anticipated spot, indelible as long as life lasts. The Andean traveler will know the pleasures as well as the drawbacks
of the journeys of earlier, more primitive days, the joy of evening hours, when suddenly, from the summit of the last
toilsome ascent, he discovers, spread out in its smiling valley below, the peaceful village in which he is to take his night’s
repose, or when he perceives from afar, gilded by the rays of the setting sun, the towers of the famous city so long sought,
—hours of a vivid joy that few experiences can equal.
Thanks again to the barriers of caste, he who would really know the masses of Latin America should not only live with
them, but should dress as plainly as they do. It is hard at best to get into more than superficial contact with the South
American Indian, and to some extent his traits, like his blood, run through all classes. The upper-caste Latin American is by
nature a masquerader; he treats a “distinguished stranger” as a real estate agent pilots a prospective buyer about the streets
of some “New Berlin,” cleverly sidestepping the drawbacks; he shows his real self only when he is not on parade, before
he learns that he is under observation, and claps on the mask he always has instantly at hand when he wishes to show
“himself”; and he rates every man’s importance by the height of his collar and the color of his spats, cloaking himself in
pretense accordingly. He who does not wish to know the truth about a Latin-American country should attire himself in a
frock-coat, a silk hat, and appear with letters of introduction to the “people of importance.” His hosts will take him in regal
style along two or three of the best streets and into the show-places, will gild every garbage-can that is likely to fall under
his august eye, and will shield him from all the unpleasantnesses of life as carefully as the guardians of the princess in the
fairy-tale. Hence the mere lack of ostentation, the mere appearance of being one of the negligible masses, goes far toward
giving the unassigned wanderer a vast advantage in getting at the unmasked truth, in avoiding false impressions, over men
of more brilliant mind and better powers of observation.
My purpose in journeying through South America was primarily to study the ways of the common people. I am no more
fond of the unsavory, either in physical contact or on the printed page, than are the rest of my fellow-countrymen. But
every occupation has its drawbacks. No traveler through interior South America with whom I have yet spoken has found
conditions better than herein indicated; though for some strange reason it appears to be the custom to shield readers from
this, to tell intimate facts only privately and to falsify public utterances by glossing over all the crudities. The fact is that the
man who has spent four years afield south of the Rio Grande, and has come back to tell the tale, can only shake with
laughter when an exponent of the “germ theory” speaks. Explorers with millionaire fathers-in-law tell us that the out-of-the-
way traveler to such a country should take with him numberless supplies, from sheets to after-dinner coffee. It is the best
I
II
plan, for those whose aim is to live in comfort—or a still better plan is to remain at home. Far be it from me to censure the
man who journeys southward for other purposes for taking with him all the comforts he can carry; but he who seeks to
know the people intimately must not merely tramp their trails; he must become, in so far as is possible, physically one of
them. We should care little about the impressions of a European studying life in the United States who lived in his own tent
and subsisted on canned goods he brought with him, however much we might admire his foresight.
It may be argued that by following the plan I have outlined I saw only the lower class and do not report conditions among
the more fortunate inhabitants. Yet after all, the peon, the Indian, the masses, comprise nine tenths of the population of
South America. There are fewer persons of pure European blood between our southern boundary and Cape Horn than in
the state of New York; and by no means all of these live in even comparative comfort. The well-dressed minority of Latin
America has often had its spokesman; numerically, and on the whole, the condition of these is of as little importance in the
general scheme of things as are the doings of our “Four Hundred” in the life of our hundred million. I have, therefore,
summed up briefly the ways of this small, if conspicuous, class, and its ways are so monotonously alike throughout the
length and breadth of Latin America that this lumping together is not difficult. The chief problem in any country is the status
of the great mass of population, the condition of the common people, and it is to this that I have almost entirely confined
myself in the ensuing pages.
“Have you read ——’s book on Brazintine?” a noted French traveler once asked me. “He says all the brazintinos are
immoral and dishonest. You and I, who have been there, know this is true. But those are things one tells to a circle of
friends, that one shares over a pipe at the club, mais, enfin, ça ne s’écrit pas”!
It is due, I suppose, to a lack of Gallic finesse that I have never been able to grasp this point of view. Why the plain truth
should be reserved for the fireside and personal friends, and should be kept from one’s friends of the printed page, is
beyond my fathoming. At any rate, I have made no attempt to follow that plan. I tried not to expect everything in South
America to be exactly as it is in the United States—I should, indeed, have considered that a misfortune. After all, I went
south to see the Latin American as he is, not with the hope of finding him another American merely speaking another
language. I have tried to judge him by his own ideals and history, fully aware that in the latter he did not have a “fair
shake,” rather than by our own. Yet the traveler cannot entirely lay aside his native point of view; that would imply that he
was not convinced of the wisdom of his own way of life, and the question would arise, Why not change? Neither the Latin-
American nor the American point of view is all right or all wrong; they are simply different. Because we criticize does not
necessarily mean that we claim superiority, though I am reminded of the American resident in South America who asserted
that were he not convinced of his superiority to his neighbors, he would forthwith tie a mill-stone about his neck and jump
in where it was deep. But the traveler who does not express his own honest opinions, “loses,” as the Brazilians say, “a
splendid chance to keep silent.” I have, therefore, set down my real, heartfelt impressions. These may be false, even
worthless; the reader has full right to reject them in toto. But at least they have the virtue of frankness.
Moreover, South America has had its fair share of apologists. Virtually every country publishes at intervals a luxurious
volume of self-praise that resembles in its point of view the year-book of a high school or college class. Trade journals are
constantly painting things South American in the rosiest of colors. It has been the traditional policy of certain branches of
our government to cultivate Latin-American friendship by a myopic disregard of all the shadows in the picture. In our own
capital there exists a criminally optimistic society for the propagation of emasculated information concerning our neighbors
to the south. Among “distinguished strangers” from our own land who have visited Latin America there seems to have been
a conspiracy to whitewash everything, an agreement to have all they see or experience bathed, barbered, and manicured
before permitting it to make its bow to our public. The enormous majority of descriptions of South America resemble the
original about as much as a portrait resembles the sitter after a professional photographer has finished with it.
I do not know what the Latin American may have been in other years—perhaps he was the splendid fellow many make
him out. I am merely telling, as charitably as possible, how I found him. I am not interested in winning or losing his
friendship, in selling him goods, or in gaining his “moral support” to our governmental activities. I am interested only in
giving as faithful a picture as possible of my experiences with him. There are good things, praiseworthy things in South
America; if, in the telling, these have been overshadowed by the less laudable, it is because the latter do so overshadow in
point of fact.
Obviously, the experiences of four years, even in Latin America, cannot be crowded within the covers of a volume or two.
I have, therefore, confined myself within certain limits. History, for instance, has been almost completely eliminated. I have
taken for granted in the reader a certain basic knowledge of South America, though in the case of many even well-
educated Americans this seems to be taking much for granted. I have passed as briefly as possible over those things which
are already to be found within the walls of our libraries, confining myself so far as possible to that which I have personally
seen or experienced. I have, however, dipped as freely into the literature of each country as into the life itself, and in the
few cases where I have made use of facts so acquired, I have not taken of my cramped space to acknowledge the debt in
words. For similar reasons, though it may seem ingratitude, I have not taken the reader’s time to thank individuals by name
for personal kindnesses. They were many; but the doers know that their deeds were appreciated, without thanks being
detailed here; or if they do not, it is the fate of those who lend passing assistance to world-roamers to take their reward in
inner satisfaction.
The modern reader is prone to tire quickly of mere description; but nature is so important a factor in the Andes that it
cannot be briefly passed over. Personally I like an occasional sunset, like it so much that I sometimes go to the unrequited
toil of attempting to paint one. The reader who prefers his stage bare, as in Shakespeare’s day, can easily glide over those
pages. If he does without stage-setting, however, and relies only on his imagination, his picture is apt to be false, for the
III
IV
V
imagination has very faulty materials from our school-books and the tales of wandering Münchausens to work upon. Yet
after all, even with all one’s effort, it is sad how little of the splendid scenery, the atmosphere, the charm of it all—for in
spite of its drawbacks, South America has charm—one can get down on paper.
This was not a voyage of discovery; or rather, if there was discovery, it was only of a different stratum of life, and not of
new lands. My plan was not so much to find unexplored country in the ordinary sense, as to go by hitherto unmentioned
paths through inhabited and known regions, the out-of-the-way corners of familiar cities and the undescribed gathering-
places of mankind. In that sense South America is still chiefly “unexplored.”
Lastly, let me give fair warning that this is no tale of adventures. I would gladly have had it otherwise. I sought eagerly for
experiences that would make the story more worth the telling; I tried my sincerest to get into trouble; all in vain. In Mexico
I marched peacefully about between two falling empires. In Guatemala I strolled nonchalantly among Estrada Cabrara’s
band of hired assassins. In Honduras I chatted with the leaders of the latest revolution. In Colombia I met many cripples of
the civil war but recently ended. In Ecuador I found only peace and apathy in the very streets through which an ex-
president and his henchman had been dragged to death a few months before. In Peru all was love and brotherhood—until
after I left. In the Bolivian Chaco wild Indians wiped out a company of soldiers not a hundred miles from where I was
passing in placid unconcern. In the Paraguayan capital I sat with the man who not a year before had captained a
particularly bloody coup d’état. In Brazil I passed through two sections virtually in anarchy, and in one of its state capitals
watched a riot that came perilously near being a revolution. In Venezuela I strolled serenely through the very ranks of
revolters mere days before the leader and many of his band were killed. Yet hardly once did I knowingly come near
personal violence. The fact is that South America is atrociously safe. Dangers are mostly those of popular novelists, from
the pages of travelers who succumb to the natural temptation to “draw the long bow,” after the fashion of Marco Polo.
It may be that there was a better way to have told this story than as a day-to-day narrative. But even at that, it could not
honestly have escaped a certain monotony; for monotony is ingrained in the fiber of South America. Not to have reported
the journey chronologically would have made for succinctness, but at the expense, perhaps, of truth. It may be wearisome
to hear of virtually every night’s stopping-place; yet as the traveler through the interior must stop at almost every hut along
the way, the sum total of these is a description of the whole country. If the story appears sketchy and piecemeal, it is
because I have denied myself, erroneously perhaps, even the Barrovian privilege of transposing or inventing enough to
make a smoother and more interesting story. A book of travel cannot have something always happening; that is the
privilege of fiction. The novelist can forge his materials to his liking; the travel-writer is very limited, even in opportunity to
amalgamate, his material being very hard and nonplastic. Even to transpose and combine incidents is often to falsify, for
what is true in one spot may never have been so a hundred miles further on.
The necessity of suddenly abandoning this task for other and more important duties has made it impossible to give it final
polish, to eliminate much that should have been eliminated, and to improve much of what remains.
Harry A. Franck.
Plattsburg, New York, August 1, 1917.
VI
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
PAGE
I
Up to Bogotá
3
II
The Cloistered City
22
III
From Bogotá Over the Quindío
39
IV
Along the Cauca Valley
63
V
Down the Andes to Quito
85
VI
The City of the Equator
127
VII
Down Volcano Avenue
167
VIII
Through Southern Ecuador
190
IX
The Wilds of Northern Peru
209
X
Approaching Inca Land
244
XI
Drawbacks of the Trail
270
XII
The Roof of Peru
300
XIII
Round About the Peruvian Capital
324
XIV
Overland Toward Cuzco
342
XV
The Route of the Conquistadores
374
XVI
The City of the Sun
405
XVII
A Forgotten City of the Andes
454
XVIII
The Collasuyu, or “Upper” Peru
480
XIX
On Foot Across Tropical Bolivia
517
XX
Life in the Bolivian Wilderness
543
XXI
Skirting the Gran Chaco
573
XXII
Southward Through Guarani Land
600
VIII
ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING
PAGE
In the Monte Grande, the “Great Wilderness” of Bolivia, the commander of the garrison insisted on
sending a boy soldier, with an ancient and rusted Winchester, to “protect” me from the savages
Frontispiece
One of the wood-burning steamers of the lower Magdalena, on the route to Bogotá
4
Along the Magdalena we halted several times each day for fuel
4
Hays catches his first glimpse of the jungles of Colombia
13
The stewards of the “Alicia” in full uniform
13
A village on the banks of the Magdalena
17
Jirardot; end of the steamer line and beginning of the railroad to Bogotá
17
A typical Indian hut on the outskirts of Bogotá
20
Indian girls and women are the chief dray-horses of the Colombian capital
20
Bogotá and its sabana from the summit of Guadalupe
28
The central plaza of Bogotá from the window of our room
28
A chola, or half-Indian girl, of Bogotá backed by an outcast of the “gente decente” class
32
A street of Bogotá. The line of flaggings in the center is for the use of Indians and four-footed burden
bearers
32
Celebrating Colombia’s Independence Day (July 20th)
37
Meanwhile in another square the populace marvels at the feats of “maroma nacional” of an amateur circus
37
A section of the ancient highway, built by the Spaniards more than three centuries ago
44
Fellow-travelers at the edge of the sabana of Bogotá
44
Approaching the Central Cordillera of the Andes
49
Hays, seated before the “Hotel Mi Casa” and behind one of his $5 cigars
53
A bit of the road by which we mounted to the Quindío pass over the central range, with forests of the
slender palms peculiar to the region
53
The first days on the road; showing how I would have traveled by choice
60
On the western side of the Central Cordillera the trail drops quickly down into the tropics again
60
X
Like those of the days of Shakespeare, the theater of Cartago consists of a stage—of split bamboo, with
a tile roof—inside the patio of the “hotel”
64
Cartago watching our departure
64
Along the Cauca Valley
69
In places the Cauca Valley swarmed with locusts
69
Worse than the locusts
72
The market-place of Tuluá, with the cross that protects it against all sorts of calamities
72
A view of the “sacred city” of Buga, with the new church erected in honor of the miraculous Virgin
76
A horseman of the Cauca in full regalia
76
The scene of “Maria,” most famous of South American novels, and once the residence of its author
80
The home of “Maria”; and a typical hacendado family of the Cauca
80
The market-place of Cajibío, in the highlands of Popayán
96
Crossing the Cauca River with a pack train by one of the typical “ferries” of the Andes
101
A village of the mountainous region south of Popayán
101
Hays, less considerable weight, and a fellow-roadster
108
An Indian woman weaving teque-teque or native cloth, by the same method used before the Conquest
108
Quito lies in a pocket of the Andes, at the foot of Pichincha, more than 10,000 feet above sea-level
120
A view of Quito, backed by the Panecillo that bottles it up on the south
129
A patio of the Monastery of San Francisco, one of the eighteen monasteries and convents of Quito, said
to be the most extensive in the Western Hemisphere
129
The family of “Don Panchito” with whom I lived in Quito
133
Girls of the “gente decente” class of Quito, in a school run by European nuns
133
Quito does not put its faith in small locks and keys
140
Ecuadorian soldiers before the national “palace”
140
A corner of Quito—looking through a garbage-hole into one of the many ravines by which the city is
broken up
144
After the bullfight a yearling is often turned into the ring for the amusement of the youthful male population
of Quito
149
A group of the Indians that form so large a percentage of Quito’s population
149
XI
The undertaker’s delivery wagon
156
Probably not his own in spite of the circumstantial evidence against him
156
Almost everything that moves in Quito rides on the backs of Indians
161
An Indian family driving away dull care—and watching me take the picture of a dog down the street
161
The street by which one leaves Quito on the tramp to the south
165
Long before Edison thought of his poured-cement houses, the Indians of the Andes were building their
fences in a similar manner
165
Typical huts of the páramo of Tiopullo
168
Beyond the páramo of Azuay the trail clambers over broken rock ledges into the town of Cañar
168
Indians carrying a grand piano across the plaza of Cañar on a journey to the interior
172
The Indians of Ecuador draw their droves of cattle on after them by playing a weird, mournful “music” on
the bocina, made of a section of bamboo
172
Ruins of the fortress of Ingapirca, near Cañar
176
A mild example of the “road” through southern Ecuador
176
Cuenca, third city of Ecuador, lies in one of the most fertile and beautiful valleys of the Andes
181
A detail of the “Panama” hat market of the Azogues
184
Arrived at the wholesale establishments of Cuenca, the hats are finished
184
My home in Cuenca, with the Montesinos family
188
Students of the Colegio of Cuenca
188
The “English Language Club” of Cuenca in full session
193
An hacienda-house of southern Ecuador, backed by its grove of eucalyptus-trees
193
Plowing for wheat or corn on the hacienda of Cumbe
200
The church, and the dwelling of my host, the priest of Oña
208
Loja, southernmost city of Ecuador, backed by her endless labyrinth of mountains
208
The guinea-pigs on which I feasted upon breaking out of the wilderness on the Peruvian frontier—and the
cook
213
The Indians of Zaraguro are different, both in type and costume, from the meeker types of Quito and
vicinity
213
In the semi-tropical Province of Jaen, in north Peru, sugarcane grows luxuriantly
220
XII
The sugar that is not turned into aguardiente, or native whiskey, is boiled down in the trapiche into
crude brown blocks, variously known as panela, chancaca, rapadura, empanisado, papelón, etc.,
weighed and wrapped in banana-leaves, selling at about 5 cents for 3 pounds
220
The teniente-gobernador, or “lieutenant-governor,” of Jaen
229
The two of us
229
The main street of the great provincial capital of Jaen
236
The government “ferry” across the Huancabamba
236
A woman of the jungles of Jaen preparing me the first meal in days at the typical Ecuadorian cook-stove
248
Peruvian prisoners earn their own livelihood by weaving hats, spinning yarn, and the like
248
The ancient city of Cajamarca lies in one of the most magnificent highland valleys of the Andes
257
The only wheeled vehicle I saw in Peru during my first three months in that country
264
One of the many unfinished churches of Cajamarca
264
One of the few remaining simpichacas, or suspension bridges, of the Andes
272
A typical shop of the Andes
272
Detail of the ruins of “Marca-Huamachuco,” high up on the mountain above the modern town of that
name
289
Pallasca, to which I climbed from one of the mightiest quebradas in the Andes
289
Catalino Aguilar and his wife, Fermín Alva, my nurses in the hospital of Caráz
296
An Indian of Cerro de Pasco region carrying a slaughtered sheep
296
Though within a few degrees of the equator, Huaráz, capital of the most populous department of Peru,
has a veritable Swiss setting of snow-clad peaks and glaciers
304
Threshing wheat with the aid of the wind
304
Crossing the Central Cordillera of the Andes south of Huaráz, barely nine degrees below the equator
308
The fortress of the former Inca city of Huánaco el Viejo
317
A typical residence of the Indians of the high páramos
317
The arrieros with whom I left Huallanga, and the family inhabiting the hut shown in the preceding picture
321
The immaculate staff of the Cerro de Pasco hospital
321
The semi-weekly lottery drawing in the main plaza of Lima
328
All aboard! A Sunday excursion that was not posed
328
XIII
The bleak mining town of Morococha, more than 16,000 feet above sea-level
336
The American miners of Morococha live in comfort for all the altitude and bleakness of their surroundings
336
A typical miner of the high Peruvian Andes
340
Miners of Morococha,—a Welch foreman and two of his gang
340
A hint of what the second-class traveler on Peruvian railways must put up with
349
The wide main street and a part of the immense market of Huancayo, said to be the largest in Peru
349
A detail of the market of Huancayo, with a bit of pottery like that of the days of the Incas
356
“Chusquito” descending one of the few remnants of the old Inca highway I found from Quito to Cuzco
356
Huancavelica, one of the most picturesque and least-visited provincial capitals of Peru
365
On the “road” to Ayacucho I overtook a lawyer who was importing a piano
376
Carrying the piano across one of the typical bridges of the Peruvian Andes
376
The striking headdress of the women of Ayacucho
385
The friendly and ingratiating waiters of our hotel in Ayacucho
385
A religious procession in the main square of Ayacucho
392
A gala Sunday in the improvised “bullring” of Ayacucho
392
A familiar sight in the Andes—a recently butchered beef hung in sheets along the clothes-line to sun-dry
into charqui
400
A typical “bed” in the guest-room provided for travelers by many Peruvian hacendados
400
The fatherless urchin who fell in with me beyond Andahuaylas
405
My body-servant in Andahuaylas, and the sickle with which he was supposed to cut all the alfalfa
“Chusquito” could eat
405
A view of Quito, capital of Ecuador, from the summit of the Panecillo
408
View of Cuzco, the ancient Inca capital, from the summit of Sacsahuaman
408
Building a house in Peru
412
The patio of the “Hotel Progreso” of Abancay
412
A religious procession in Abancay
417
A chola of Abancay, wearing the dicclla which all put on at the age of puberty
432
A chiefly-Indian woman of Abancay
432
XIV
The first view of Cuzco
437
An Indian of Cuzco, speaking only Quichua
444
Indian women of the market-place, wearing the “pancake” hat of Cuzco
444
An Indian required to pay for the day’s mass proudly clings to his staff of office
449
Youth from a village near Cuzco, each with a coca cud in his cheek
449
Our party setting out for Machu Picchu across the high plains about Cuzco
453
Ollantaytambo, the end of the first day’s journey, in the valley of the Urubamba
453
Spring plowing in the Urubamba valley
460
As we rode eastward into the sunrise down the gorge of the Urubamba, glacier-clad Piri above threw off
its night wraps of clouds
464
The semicircular tower and some of the finest stone-cutting and fitting of Machu Picchu
464
We came out on the edge of things and Machu Picchu lay before us
469
The resounding gorge of the Urubamba, with terraces of the ancient inhabitants on the inaccessible left
bank
472
One of the many stairways of Machu Picchu
472
The temple of the three windows, an unusual feature of Inca architecture
476
“Rumiñaui” seated on the intihuatana, or sun-dial, at the top of the town
476
The babies of Bolivia sit in a whole nest of finery on nurse’s back
485
Arequipa is built of stones light as wood, cut from a neighboring quarry
485
Indians plowing on the shores of Titicaca
492
Sunrise at Copacabana, the sacred city of Bolivia on the shores of Titicaca
492
One of the two huge figures facing the grass-grown plaza of modern Tiahuanaco at the entrance to the
church
501
The ancient god of Tiahuanaco before which the Indian woman, herding her pigs, bowed down in
worship
501
Arequipa, second city of Peru, in its desert oasis, backed by misty volcano
504
“Suddenly the bleak pampa falls away at one’s feet”
504
Llamas of La Paz patiently awaiting the return of their driver
508
Down the valley below La Paz the pink and yellow soil stands in fantastic, rain-gashed cliffs
508
XV
Cholas of La Paz, in their native garb
513
“Sandy” leading his train of carts loaded with construction material for the railroad to Cochabamba
528
The “gringo bench” of Cochabamba,—left to right, “Old Man Simpson”; Tommy Cox; Sampson, the
Cockney; Owen; and Scribner
528
The home and family of the alcalde who could not read
536
Our impromptu celebration of Christmas Eve in Pampa Grande
536
A street of Santa Cruz de la Sierra after a shower
545
Conscripts of the Bolivian army practicing their first maneuvers in the central plaza of Santa Cruz
545
Manuel Abasto, a native of Santa Cruz de la Sierra
552
Through the open doors of Santa Cruz one often catches a glimpse of the patio, a garden gay with
flowers
552
Konanz seated on our baggage in the pelota de cuero
560
The force of one of the four fortines, or “fortresses,” with which the Bolivian government garrisons the
Monte Grande against the savages
560
Jim and “Hughtie” Powell, Americans from Texas who have turned Bolivian peons
564
A jungle hair-cut
564
The old stone and brick church and monastery of San José
573
The fatherly old cura of San José standing before the Jesuit sun-dial
573
Henry Halsey, the American rancher, of tropical Bolivia, and his family
577
Saddle-steers take the place of horses and mules in the muddy parts of tropical Bolivia
577
A German of tropical Bolivia and his “housekeeper”
581
Santiago de Chiquitos, above the gnat-line, backed by its reddish cliffs
581
“Don Cupertino,” chief adornment of eastern Bolivia, with his family and dependents
589
The tipoy, a single loose gown, constitutes the entire garb of most of the native women of tropical Bolivia
593
A girl of Santiago de Chiquitos selling a chicken to the cook of “los americanos”
593
The shoemaker who lived next door to “los americanos” in Santiago de Chiquitos, and his latest “wife”
597
A birthday dance in Santiago de Chiquitos, in honor of the German in the center background
597
A view from the promenade-deck of the steamer
604
A Paraguayan landscape, with native cart
604
XVI
