TO BOLIVIA

Evening Star, Issue 19197, 13 March 1926, Page 12

TO BOLIVIA

INDIAN HABITS [Written for tha 1 Star.’] No. 3 (Concluded). When aroused at the grey ot dawn by young David Soto, the sou cl our “ arriero,” the bleatings of a little flock of sheep came from the adjacent cancha,” and the Indian’s household was already astir. There is need to hurry, for our mules are waiting and the tune is good ior travel. Tea, and “ Uagua ” are quickly disposed of and our equipment prepared for the road. Thefa, with one rnoyo' peep into tho home of our dark-skinned brother, wo prepared to mount. We smiled as wo glimpsed the picture of those little Indian mannikins clustering on their haunches around a large earthen pot and industriously eating soup with their lingers. The way in which that scalding and savory lluid was jerked into the waiting mouths, and with tho minimim of waste, was marvellous. Our road lies level for maybe a league, and then the country abruptly changes. Without warning we dip down into a deep gully, while many similar intersect tho descending track. The earth’s color also alters from a uniform ashen grey to a warm ochre, with streaks of purple here and there. Now our path is supported by man-made walls of stone as it winds round tho face ot a coneshaped hill, beautiful in the richness of its coloring. From base to summit it is criss-crossed with low’ stone walls enclosing tiny fields, soon to bo sown with wheat or maize or beans. Tho centre of each enclosure is occupied by one or more large pyramids of stones. These, as well as those composing the fences, have been gathered out of tho soil which is to hear the crops, and still the ground remains stony in the extreme. The Indian cultivator surely deserves every grain of the harvest for which he so bravely toils. Now the hills rise high above us on either hand as we descend the dry bed of a mountain stream. We explain at the richness of coloring and the grandeur of the rising cliffs, and regret our inability to reproduce them by picture or portrait. The descent becomes steeper, and soon wo turn down into another river bed of greater magnitude. The mountains have again changed color, and they tower above our pathway oppressively, great masses varying from a sickly yellow to a dark and sombre green. Again wc come upon examples of the patient industry of the Quecluia Indian. Here and there upon either hand, and just beyond the reach of the normal .stream, are tiny deposits of earth and sand, the debris of past flood times. Each such patch has been irrigated, and now contributes to the support of a small community. Men, women, and children can be seen in little groups, all busy at delving and planting. Up on the hillsides, well beyond the reach of the overflowing of flood waters, cling their little round huts of mud. A DIZZY CLIMB.

Now we turn sharply, and, clambering out of the rocky river bed, commence to zig-zag up the Hanks of the mountain that towers on our left. Slowly we climb to a great height. Our path is fearfully narrow, and our heads swim as we gaze over its edge at the Indian mountaineers, mere specks in the valley far below. As we look ahead rtnd upward at the track that we must follow, we have misgivings, but these yield to wonder as wo note the careful choosing of foothold, the catlike climbing capabilities of our mules. We twist and turn, ever rising, and again at last we arc on the summit of things and experience the eerie sense of extreme elevation. We clatter and slide along over a path paved smoothly with •volcanic rock. An Alcon eagle, beautiful in his glossy robe of black and white, sails far overhead. A tojo (mountain rabbit), scarce larger than a rat, peeps at us from his rocky shelter, then vanishes in a twinkling. Wo turn a shoulder of rock, and right before us, snugly ensconced at the centre of a mountain basin of fertile fields, its white-walled cottages, _ with red-tiled roofs, showing prettily in the afternoon sunlight, lies the “ cholo ” village of Bacaca. Passing between high fences of adobe mud we quickly descend towards the settlement, Hero and there the carriers are occupied by darkskinned youths, who, with slings and stones, are discouraging winged marauders from pillaging the fields wherein we occasionally catch glimpses of slowmoving oxen drawing ploughs of antediluvian type. A marvel uj ns is the copious spring which, gushing from the flinty rock near the rim of the valley, creates the picture of lovely fertility presented to our gaze. One is forco•fully reminded of the miracle at Meribah in a land perhaps no older than this is. AN UNCLEAN VILLAGE. Our guide elects to journey on to some point beyond Sacaca, and our half-formed regrets are swept away by its odors and sights as ,we traverse a side street on our way through. Sleeping pigs and starving, uncleanly people are soon left behind, and wo resume our up-and-down pilgrimage in the open camps. To reach a river bed again is relief from the switchback mode of progression. Also, our path has beer by way of yawning chasms, and along the face of steep cliffs. We have beex compelled to dismount and carefully lead our animals past danger points which have quite lately caused loss of life. So by the light of the declining sun, and with tranquil minds, we press on down stream, crossing and recrossing the growing river. Green trees appear upon the hillsides, and patches of vegetation occur ns we quickly lesson our altitude. A diminutive mill, with its water-wheel, looks quaint and homely upon the river bank ;and pretty Indian “ ranchos ” nestling in wayside gullies, suggest refreshment and rest to the tired wayfarers. Thunder grumbles overhead, followed by passing bail and rain, as we splash and clatter on aclown the stream. The dusk is upon us as wo round a cape, and painfully dismount at the Indian village of Tikanoma. Here and there a murky fire gleams, and dim forms, speaking guttural speech, move to and fro in the semidarkness. Wo are guided down stone steps into a small rectangular room without windows. Our gear and bedding are dropped on to a grubby earthen floor, and we make the bitter _ best of things. The villagers are hospitable though timid. Our shelter is no less a place than the village chapel. We eat our supper, cheer ourselves with song, *nd fell asleep. Early astir, wo survey our village, which consists of about two score circular huts, built mainly of large undressed stones from the river bed. These occupy a large patch of shingle at the foot of *a shrub-covered cliff, and are arranged in no sort of order. Each dwelling is enclosed by a low stone wall, within which the fafnily live-stock are mustered at nightfall. We learn that many of the menfolk are already afield at their daily toil, THE HEAD HUNT. A jovial-faced Indian, in gaudy poncho and close-fitting “gorro” cap, squats in the morning sunlight at the door of his hut. The black tousled head of, a child rests upon his knees, as he lovingly attends to its toilet. The hunt is followed with zest, and when the ?fuanw is overtaken, the “kill” is elected in the manner peculiar—we had thought—to circus monkeys only. Disgusting, surely enough 1 But the pureblooded Indians are not the only Bolivians who so offend. Our journey is resumed, and this day, for the first time, it is marked by a measure of monotony. Our path lies 'uniformly down the ever-widening bed of a liver. The surrounding mountains lie

farther back. Where landslips have occurred, there arc evidences of various mineral deposits. Our muleteer, nearing his home, becomes loquacious, and talks of “plain ” (silver). Tributary streams passed are red with iron deposits; and presently specimens are brought to us showing a heavy percentage of copper. Given transport facilities, these regions must become famous, ■ but such conditions are not yet, as our aching joints testify. THE FINAL STAGE. We early secure quarters in the cholo village of Torocari, and with some eagerness await the short final stage of our journey next morning. The time-wheel turns quickly, and wo sally forth, and move on down the river bed under a bright, hot sun. Many tributaries are passed, and the river runs deeper and stronger. The adjacent bills are more rounded, and the country becomes increasingly arable and fertile. Very many .Indians are passed, and a number of these cany loads. All arc civil, and the males invariably doff their white, broad-rimmed hats, and murmur: “ Buenos dias Tatai!” (A good clay to you, Father!) Our guide laughs heartily when we acknowledge these salutes. It is most rare to accord respect to tho brown man hereaway. Yet Ids blood Flows in the veins of eholo ” and “dcecnto” alike. Passing under a cTiIF overhung with shady popper trees, we turn a. sharp bend, and there, upon our left, perched high upon the shoulder of a spur, appears tho tiny town of ban Pedro do Buena Vista. Its white dwellings, with red-tiled roofs, show neat and cool against a sotting of tall eucalyptus trees, backed by a higher range of hills. SI owl y ascending a well-kept, long, and winding track, wo abruptly enter a eobblc-stoned narrow street, with ono-roomed dwellings closing flanking the sidewalks. A sturdy odor smites us, along with staccato greetings of “gringo! ” from open doors. Turning under an archway, we clatter into a “patio” or courtyard. Fair-faced Europeans hurry to embrace us. ‘ Y, hnsta! ” (at- last!) says onr guidt; “ we have arrived.”