Chapter XIII: Arica to Ilo Overland, Via Tacna, Tarata, and Moquegua (2)

"You do not understand. We are travelers on our way to Moquegua and wanted to pay for a room to sleep in to-night." I then held up a couple of silver soles.

"I see. A thousand pardons, señores. I thought that you were looking for some pleasure with the _muchachas_. How much will you pay for a room?

"One sol apiece."

"It is not enough."

"We will make it two, if it includes meals."

"Ah, señores, but I am a poor woman and must live. For three soles I can accommodate you."

"We agree, but it is expensive."

"Look at your room," she said, as she opened the door. "It is fit for a king." She ushered us into a chamber which was semi-storeroom and sleeping quarters. Boxes and dusty bottles littered one side of the floorless apartment, and spider webs hung from the rafters. There was an iron cot in the corner on which was a straw pallet but there were no sheets nor blankets. I spoke to her about getting another cot and she said she would procure one. As for blankets, she had none, but since the señores must have their own, having come from some distance, we could naturally spread ours on the cots. In the meantime if we would return about seven she would have for us an excellent _comida_.

The comida turned out to be a thin soup whose ingredients were unknown to us and in which floated chicken feathers. This was followed by a disgusting stew and some meat of an unknown quality, highly seasoned, which might have been a camouflage for one of the mangy curs that abounded in the village.

There were plenty of cantinas in the small town and I assume that they were well patronized from the number of intoxicated Indians that I counted. Bottled beer from the Cerveceria Alemana at Arequipa here sold for fifty centavos (25 cents) a bottle and was drunk warm. Strong liquor was much cheaper than beer and was likewise more favored. There were quite a few young dudes in the village and at evening they appeared togged up to what they considered perfection, wearing carefully polished patent leather shoes, high stiff collars, flowing black ties; all carried canes. This stylish dressing among the males is in vogue all over South America. It is a sign of caste or class distinction. It is the ambition of all young men to be dressed in the height of fashion no matter how remote their village is from the beaten road of civilization. I have seen this same class of dudes everywhere south of Panama, from the isolated mountain towns of Colombia to the mosquito-infested hamlets of Paraguay. There is also a class distinction in traveling. A man who rides on horseback is superior to one who rides on a mule; he who rides on a mule is superior to the one who travels on the back of a donkey. But beware not to travel on foot in the Andean countries, even though it be a pleasure jaunt for a short distance in the country. The pedestrian is looked down upon by the lowliest peons and is held by them in greater odium than the hobo is held by us at home. Good clothes and high collars cease to show caste when applied to the person who makes a foot tour. He will invariably be turned down when asking for lodging or meals en route. It is also wise not to travel on foot on account of the ferocious dogs to be met with, which never run out and bark at the equestrian.

About nine o'clock that night while walking down the only thoroughfare that could go by the name of street, I met Prat at a corner conversing with a dandy, who like Prat wore a straw hat and sported a slender cane. "This is my compatriot," said he; "allow me to introduce you to my friend, Señor Güell." The dude bowed and Prat went on to explain that his new acquaintance was a Catalonian from Gerona and had been in Peru for four years, the last two of which he had spent in the employ of a wine merchant of Locumba. Güell said that Moquegua was but a short day's ride which was not at all tiresome. He had made the trip dozens of times for his firm and was thinking of doing so again in a few days. He was at present in Ilabaya collecting some debts for his employer. I left the Spaniards on the corner conversing and strode off to the hut where I was rooming. I went into the room assigned to us, and although there was another cot there, there were no blankets. The cholo, Estevan, had evidently forgotten to bring them although at six o'clock he had promised faithfully to do so in "un momentito, señor." I walked back to the blacksmith shop where we had unsaddled but found that like all the other buildings closed for the night. As it would have been impossible to find Estevan, I returned to the dingy hut and throwing my coat on the cot in the place of a pillow I lay down on the iron springs and tried to sleep. This was impossible. At midnight Prat had not returned nor had he come back by five o'clock in the morning. There was no need worrying about him because he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, but I was at the same time at a loss to conjecture where he was. At six o'clock, finding that any attempt to slumber would be futile, I went out into the street and walked about.

I went to the blacksmith shop which was about to open for the day to inquire about the horses. The blacksmith was already there and when questioned about Estevan merely answered, "Quien sabe," and then went on about his work. Presently the same boy that had conducted me to the house where I obtained lodging appeared and asked me if I was looking for my arriero. I replied that I was, whereupon the urchin said in his patois, "Se scapo," which in Castillian would be "e scapado," meaning "he has escaped."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"He has run away."

"He has run away? What do you mean by that?"

"He sold the horses and has run away."

At that encouraging piece of intelligence, several other boys appeared and from their conversation I gathered that Estevan the previous night had sold the horses with blankets to a mountaineer and that he had then taken French leave. You may imagine my anger, especially since the horses were but a loan to us from Don Santiago Carmona and were worth at least seventy-five dollars apiece in North American money. When I asked if anybody knew where Prat was, they volunteered the information that he and a friend of his were visiting some young ladies. This was a new one on me since Prat was absolutely unknown in Ilabaya and no young ladies that I knew of would entertain two guests so late as this.

"Which young ladies is he calling on?" I inquired, mystified.

"On la Carmen; she lives near the end of the village."

It now dawned upon me that Prat was at the bagnio of Carmen Vargas and that accounted for him not showing up at the hut. I proceeded down the street to rout him out but had not gone far before I ran into him and Güell, both in a state of intoxication. Prat was just emerging from the jovial stage and was entering upon an ugly mood. Save for his bloodshot eyes and the reek of alcohol, he was as immaculate as ever, but the dude was a sight to behold. His side and back were covered with dust; only one flap of his collar was buttoned, the other flying in the air; his hair was unkempt, and his hat was awry. He could hardly steady himself on his feet and was leaning on Prat to keep his balance. At the same time he was trying to sing a stanza from the Cid.

"Hail to the glorious Carmen, the light of Peru!" he yelled upon espying me.

I told Prat immediately what had happened. At first he did not understand, but when I repeated that Estevan had sold our horses and run away, great was his rage. He drew out his knife and shrieked what he would do to the cholo when he caught him. The news sobered him up considerably, so much so that when Güell burst out again in another stanza, he told him to shut up and cease his idiotic prattle in case he himself did not care to feel the knife between his ribs instead of between Estevan's. We went again to the blacksmith shop where Prat started upbraiding the blacksmith, and then went to the alcalde's residence. That official was asleep but Prat insisted on having him wakened. Presently he appeared attired in his pajamas. He wanted to know the meaning of this disturbance and was on the point of telling us to go to the infernal regions when he suddenly realized that we were foreigners of distinction, due to the stiff collars and quality of our wearing apparel. His demeanor changed and he invited us inside, saying that he would dress and talk with us directly. He ushered us into a well furnished apartment and left us. We heard him ordering breakfast, yelling to a servant to prepare three places as he had as guests two "milords ingleses."

During the meal, which was spread on a table beneath a vine trellis in the patio, the alcalde, Don José Vergara, asked us the nature of our visit, to which narrative he did not reply, stating that he would take the matter up with us again after breakfast. In the meantime he plied us with many questions about North America, most of which Prat answered--wrong. The latter had never been there nor could he speak English well, the extent of his vocabulary being "bulldog," "dollars," "all right," "good-night," etc. He now converses fluently in English. His ignorance of that language was not known to the mayor, who himself spoke an execrable patois although he was a pure-blooded white man. When we said that we wanted to start as soon as possible for Moquegua, the alcalde implored us to remain a few days in Ilabaya as his guests. When we told him it was imperative for us to continue, he promised us horses and a man from his stable who would accompany us. He also said that he would apprehend Estevan and see that he would be sent to prison if he had not already escaped to Chile.

"What will he get?" I inquired.

"At least twenty years," he answered. "I shall see to it."

"Is not that pretty severe?"

"Severe, nothing. One of my friends has an estancia where labor is badly needed. You see that he will be put to work profitably."

Don José ordered the blacksmith summoned to his presence, and when that individual presently was brought before him, the alcalde, threatening him with all sorts of physical evils, elucidated from him that the previous night Estevan had called for the horses which were corralled behind the shop stating that the "señores ingleses" were about to continue to Moquegua, saying they preferred to travel at night instead of during the heat of the day. Not long afterwards his boy had seen a mountaineer driving them laden with goods up a road that leads into the Andes. The boy asked him what he was doing with the horses since they belonged to the "señores ingleses," whereupon the mountaineer answered that he had bought them from the mozo Estevan for fifteen soles each. The mountaineer the blacksmith added was well known to him, was an honest man, and frequently came to Ilabaya. The next time he came he would inform Don José of his presence so that the latter could deal with him. I have always believed that the blacksmith had a hand in this deal and that he was hiding Estevan who had mysteriously disappeared after the transaction. At Moquegua I wrote Don Santiago Carmona telling him what happened. Six months later I received a reply when at home in the United States saying that he had never heard a word about Estevan and the horses, although he had heard rumors that the alcalde of Ilabaya was riding one of them. Since Ilabaya was in Peru it was useless to go there for he would receive no justice.

Although Don José Vergara said that he would loan us the horses, when we were about to depart he came to me and said that it would cost us twenty-five soles ($12.50) for their rent. This was reasonable enough according to the standards of civilization but was exorbitant for that locality. It was after ten o'clock in the morning before we got away. For about ten miles the trail led over a rocky plateau and then came to the edge of a precipice at the bottom of which was the bed of the Cinto River, here dry. Here were three mud huts and a cistern half full of water, which was drawn from some springs a few miles up the valley. We remained here about an hour during which we cooked some meat and potatoes that we had brought with us; we pushed on again across another plateau similar to the one which we had just traversed excepting that it was sandier and smoother riding. At nightfall we came out on a nose of a hill and saw below us in the distance the lights of a city which we knew was Moquegua. An hour later we clattered over the flinty pavement of the narrow streets and pulled up at the portals of the Hotel Lima, one of the best in rural Peru. A large well-ventilated room, electric lights, and the noise of locomotive whistles made us feel that we had again reached civilization.

Moquegua is a fine old town on a river of the same name and capital of the province of Moquegua, lying at an altitude of over four thousand feet above sea level in the center of a rich agricultural district, abounding in olives. These and raisins are the chief exports of the district.

The city has a population of nine thousand and much resembles Tacna on account of the substantial buildings; it is not as lively as Tacna, due to the former place having stationed there five regiments, but otherwise it is a pleasanter town. It is higher, cooler, and there is more verdure. The valley itself is a long, broad ribbon of cultivation, mostly devoted to the growing of grapes. Moquegua is connected to its port, Ilo, by a railroad sixty-five miles long.

Before the Pacific War, Moquegua was a wealthy town and larger than at the present time; since then many of the inhabitants emigrated, many going to Arequipa and to Lima. The alameda, though much neglected, shows signs of former grandeur, which is testified by the broken statues and cracked stone benches which formerly were the pride of the city. Moquegua has the name of being a very religious place; it has many churches and its streets swarm with priests, in this respect being much different from the Chilean towns that I had just visited.

Ilo is a small port of about two thousand inhabitants, very poor and squalid but not so much so as Mollendo. In both these places bubonic plague is rife, but strange to say that malady has never mounted as high as Arequipa or Moquegua. At Ilo I boarded a small postal steamer of the Peruvian Line and after a few hours' steam we anchored off the cliffs of Mollendo, the most dangerous landing place on the Pacific Ocean. The swell is so great here that sometimes passengers have to wait two weeks before it has subsided enough to permit them to embark on the steamers. I had to transfer to another ship here because the one I was on touched at all the small ports and took a week to reach Callao.

Mollendo is one of the dirtiest towns that I have ever visited and I have visited some "hot" ones. It is a bubonic stricken place of about five thousand inhabitants, according to the census reports, although I doubt if its population is in excess of three thousand. A steep incline up a cliff leads from the dock past the custom house to the stinking Hotel Ferrocarril, the only hostelry in the town. This ramshackle old building, painted dark green, is situated on an eminence at the extreme southwest corner of the town, at a street corner. A veranda runs around the street sides of it, onto which the rooms open. Beggars, hobos, cripples, bums, and dogs bask on the sun-warped boards of its floor, and sneak-thieves are ever watching for an opportunity of entering the dirty holes which are the guests' rooms. The dining room and the barroom are the only adjuncts of the institution which are kept clean, and the latter is the most lucrative enterprise to its owners of any business establishment in the town. It has several billiard tables of doubtful cues and cushions and to them at the noon hour repair all the German clerks of the mercantile establishments. There is much liquor sold and much drunkenness to be observed. At one corner of the room sat a well-dressed aged man. He had the palsy so badly that he could not lift a glass to his mouth so he sat there imbibing whiskey and soda through a rubber tube that extended from his mouth to the glass. The Hotel Ferrocarril is owned by a couple of Italians who are fast waxing wealthy. It is hell to stay in Mollendo even for an hour and the travelers are to be pitied who stop here days at a time waiting for their steamers which run on uncertain schedules.

The place owes its importance to the fact that it is the port of the large and prosperous city of Arequipa about seventy-five miles inland, and that it is the outlet and port of entry of the Lake Titicaca basin, and of the historic and interesting old city of Cuzco, the pristine capital of the Inca Empire, three days distant by rail. Formerly Mollendo was the seaport of La Paz, Bolivia's quaint metropolis, but now traffic has been changed from that city, so that Arica and Antofagasta get the bulk of its trade. There has been much talk of transferring the port of Arequipa to Islay, a settlement a few miles north of Mollendo in a sheltered location, but the merchants at Mollendo made a strong kick about it, and bribed the politicians at Lima, so that the scheme never matured. At Mollendo, my Peruvian money ran out because I did not get enough Chilean money changed at Arica, and I had a hard job getting change here. Some Italian bankers to whom I applied knew how badly I wanted Peruvian currency, so accordingly discounted my Chilean money so much that I must have lost twenty-five dollars by the transaction.

As I said before, Mollendo is a hotbed for bubonic plague. Several people die daily of it here, but its mention is suppressed by the health authorities so as not to give a black eye to the town. When a person dies of it, it is kept quiet and the victim is buried at night. Northeast of the town is the potter's field. Here graves eighteen inches deep are dug. The cadaver is trussed up by having its feet drawn back to its haunches by means of a cord tied around the shoulders and is thrown into the impromptu grave. I was told by several people that so poorly is the job done that sometimes the toes protrude above the ground and are nibbled at by buzzards and by starving dogs.

From Mollendo, I went to Callao on the Chilean steamship _Limari_. It was a good ship but rolled considerably even in a calm sea. It took three days to make Lima's busy port, no stops being made, but from the deck I could see the dim outlines of the towns Lobos, Chala, and Pisco. An acquaintance of mine, Mr. Kurt Waldemar Linn, of New York, a German by birth but a naturalized American citizen, who is connected with the International Film Company, told me in Santiago that he expected to be on this boat and arrive in Lima at the same time I would. I failed to find his name on the passenger list and when I arrived in Lima, he had not yet shown up. The next day he appeared, having disembarked from the Pacific Steam Navigation Company's steamship _Mexico_. He said he was sorry that he had not made the trip on the _Limari_, and that never again would he make a trip on any ship of the Pacific Steam Navigation Company if he could help it. He said that the service and food on the _Mexico_ were vile but to crown his discomfiture one morning at breakfast the first officer who sat next to him asked him how he slept the previous night.

"I didn't sleep very well," answered Mr. Linn. "There was too much noise going on."

"Oh, yes, there was a good bit of noise on board. We caught a German spy last night and that caused the racket." At this witty remark the officer looked at Linn and winked. The latter did not relish this sort of pleasantry even though it was meant in fun.

At Callao the custom house officials are careful to ransack all one's belongings looking for things dutiable and those non-dutiable as well; on the latter they levy private duties for their own pockets. There is much red tape and tipping to be done and nowhere else in my travels have I been subjected to so much annoyance at a custom house unless it was at Belgrade, Servia. Hotel couriers meet the steamers and it is advisable for the traveler to give his possessions in charge of one of these men who will relieve him of the trouble connected with the custom house and transferal of baggage to Lima. The courier expects a large tip, but it is more convenient to give it in one lump sum to him than to have to run the gauntlet.