Indian Poisons and Medicinal Plants, Part 4

During my stay on the banks of the Appurimac near the old Inca bridge, I enjoyed several talks with Father Francisco about the missionaries, and the large amount of good they had accomplished among the peoples of the Andes. Years ago only the Roman Church were tolerated, but now missionaries of every sect are made welcome, some coming from lands as far distant as Canada and New Zealand. Francisco thought this was only just and right.

There are now many missionaries located in South America who visit all the Indian tribes, including the Cunchos of the Savannah of the Andes and the so-called savages of the campos of Central Peru. All are made welcome. The Indians all worship one god, and look upon the priests as the representatives of God on earth. They call their Church the Church of Christ.

The missionaries work amicably together for the common good. But I think they would obtain even better results if they did not crowd so much together in the big towns. I should like to hear of them visiting the out-of-the-way places more frequently. I have been where the Indians have been crying out for a priest or missionary and haven’t seen one for years. The little village in the Challana country may be mentioned as an instance, and I know of many others. In this connection I call to mind the opinion of two prominent missionaries—a Presbyterian from New Zealand, and another from Canada. They confirmed what Francisco told me, and said the head missionaries only cared to go to such places as had a big church and plenty of priests. One of these big pots looked like getting into trouble, for his people at Head Quarters wrote to him saying, “You have been in Bolivia five years; now come home and give an account of your stewardship.”

This man had been in Cochabamba all that time and had never been far from it, or absent for more than about two days at a stretch. He came to me and asked my advice. I suggested he should write saying he could not very well return home just then, as he was busy helping translate the Scriptures into the Quichua tongue. This was no lie, but he could have been easily spared, for there were then located in that far-away town no fewer than nine missionaries besides those of the Roman Church. As a matter of fact, one would have sufficed.

I am much interested in missionary enterprise, and am filled with admiration of the wonderful work some of the missionaries have accomplished in various parts of the world; but I cannot shut my eyes to the fact that in South America, at least, the Gospel message seems to have had a disastrous effect on the morals of the Indians. This may, of course, be attributable to the fact that the trader with the rum bottle follows hot-foot after the Gospel messenger. Until the tenets of Christianity were preached to them, immorality was practically unknown among the Indians. Writing of these people a hundred years ago, a well-known authority said, “Chastity, especially in the married state, is a national virtue.” As a Christian I cannot but feel humiliated when I think of the change that came over some of the tribes after they had heard the Word and received it gladly.

Indians of Perené colony, Chanchamayo, Eastern Peru. Illustrations from Adventures in Peru.

Indian Poisons and Medicinal Plants, Part 3

The leaf of the wild banana is almost as fine a specific for boils and tumours as the castor oil plant. Another most valuable shrub is the papaw tree. It yields a succus, or milk, which is very useful in cases of diphtheria, ulcerated throat, etc. The leaves help to keep horses in good health. A solution of papiene, painted on a boil, or abscess, is better than a poultice. Natives all over South America use the milk as a remedy for rheumatism. In Zululand it is steadily relegating the old Zulu specific, viz. cow dung, to the background. The papaw fruit is beneficial to dyspeptics and folk who have kidney trouble. Natives of Trinidad say that the leaf, applied as a poultice, takes away lumbago, sciatica, or gouty pains in a single night. One of its virtues is much appreciated by housewives, for the leaf, rubbed into a piece of tough meat overnight, renders it quite nice and juicy by the next morning.

In the course of my wanderings in South America I came across two varieties of chuno. The black sort I have already described; the white is made as follows: put whole potatoes in a cobble-stone well, under the surface of some stream or pool. Cover with cobble stones and leave for six days; then proceed as when making black chuno. White chuno was what the Kaiser wanted to get at, in case he thought proper, one fine day, to send his soldiers to the Andes.

Father Francisco’s narrative of how quinine first began to be used by the educated classes, interested me not a little. It seemed that the wife of the Conde de Cinchoa (the first Viceroy of Peru) lay very sick of malarial fever at Lima. The news of her serious illness reached the ears of the Corregidor of Coja, a town in Ecuador, about 150 leagues from Quito. So he sent the Conde’s physician some of the bark of the cinchona tree. Part of the bark was reduced to powder, and part was intact.

It appears that the Corregidor, when riding through the forest near Pancarbamba (this signifies “a flowery plain” in the Quichua dialect), met Indians some leagues from Coja carrying pieces of bark in their water calabashes. He asked them why they did so. They replied, “Padrone, we always take it with us when working or walking in the forest. This bark wards off the fever occasioned by the damp atmosphere.” As a matter of fact I myself have often seen Indians carrying this stick and bottle arrangement, indeed, I rarely met any who failed to include it in their outfit.

Well, the Conde’s physician used the bark with satisfactory results. When the Countess was convalescent she went to Europe for a change. She didn’t forget to take with her a supply of the wonderful remedy. Its remarkable properties were soon recognized by the Court physicians, and they named it, after the country where it originated, Peruvian Bark. This disposes of the claim set up by a Jesuit missionary about eighty years later. He sent home some of the bark, making out that he had discovered it, in consequence it was for a long time called Jesuit Bark, almost as frequently as Peruvian. The Jesuits first came to Paraguay in 1620, and remained there till they were expelled in 1767. During that period they converted 140,000 heathens to Christianity.

Among the many customs they found prevalent with the Indians was that of drinking tea every morning. This concoction differs a lot in appearance and flavour from China or Indian teas. The liquor is lemon-coloured and has a slightly greasy, earthy taste, but it is more sustaining than ordinary tea. The Jesuits soon recognized the possibilities that were attached to it, and made a big business of the manufacture of what they called Jesuit Tea.

It is the product of a wild bush called Yerba, which is found growing up the Nasca valley and in many other parts of South America, though I believe it originated in Paraguay. Its full name is Yerba maté. The process of manufacture is as follows: the twigs of the bush are cut and placed on flat stones. Other flat stones are put on top. The twigs remain in this primitive press for three days; then they are exposed to the sun’s rays on mats, and after undergoing sufficient curing, are chopped up fine, packed in bales and sold at so much a kilo.

Yerba maté is infused like ordinary tea. I used to drink little else up in the Andes when it was procurable. Many folk esteem it more highly than ordinary tea or coffee. and there is no doubt it is more stimulating and invigorating than those popular beverages. The Indians all over the Atlantic side of the Andes swear by it. I have travelled on the snow line of the Andes for months at a stretch, in the Provinces of Mendoza, San Juan or Rioja, trading among Indians and accompanied by Indian muleteers, and I never once saw them without it. My old muleteer, Simon Cruz, used to take a pinch of maté out of his bag and put it in an infuser. This he placed in a bright copper bowl, adding sugar to taste. Boiling water was then poured over it. The tea was now ready for use, and the bowl was passed round so that each member of the company in turn could dip the infuser in and place it in his mouth. Of course the infuser was kept scrupulously clean—very often it was fashioned of silver.

Indian Poisons and Medicinal Plants, Part 2

One of the most remarkable plants I met with is the castor oil plant. The Indians of South America, and also those of South Africa, use it as a sovereign remedy for tumours, abscesses, and boils. Four years after leaving the Nasca valley I had an accident, and put my shoulder out. I was bandaged up for six weeks. At the end of this period a large swelling made its appearance under my armpit; so I consulted Dr. Larea, who was accounted the most famous surgeon in Peru. After examining the place, he said, “An operation is necessary. I’ll come round to you in three days’ time, and put it through.” Said I to myself, “He shan’t stick a knife into me if I can avoid it.” Now on my way home I passed through a sugar estate, midway between Lima and Callao, and not far from the racecourse. There, in a valley, I saw bananas and castor oil plants growing wild, so I hopped out of my trap and secured some of the latter. That night, just before going to bed, I took my horse-lance and nicked the swelling, poulticed it with castor oil leaves (which I had previously steeped in tepid water), and a very few drops of lysol. I renewed the poultice three times during the night, and continued the applications frequently during the two following days. Then I drove over to Larea, and showed him the result. He was astonished, and exclaimed, “Why, what have you been doing to it? It is cured!” I told him what I had done, and, also, that the leaves grew within two miles of his office.

His next question was, “And how came you to hear of this wonderful remedy?” I said, “From a witch doctor in Africa, near Port Grosvenor in Pondoland, and also from a Ghilian half-breed who lived in the great Aconcagua valley.”

“Well,” he said, “you have taught me something. This remedy will revolutionize the use of the knife. I consider myself a king in my profession, as you are in yours, but we can all learn.” He wouldn’t rest content till I had driven him over to where I had gathered the leaves. On another occasion I was asked by a Barbadian lady if I could suggest a remedy for an abscess, or tumour, on her instep, that had made her life a misery. After carefully examining it I told her to bathe it with lukewarm water, prick it with a needle till a spot of blood appeared, apply some of the leaves, and, finally, bandage lightly with cotton wool. She followed my instructions to the letter, and was greatly delighted to find, at the end of four days, that all the poison had been drawn out of her foot, and the tumour was beginning to heal. Ten days later, as I was out riding, I met this good lady’s doctor, one of the cleverest in the West Indies. He said, “Get off your horse. I want a word with you. What have you been doing to Mrs. L.’s foot?” I explained; and he, like the Peruvian, insisted on my telling him all I knew about the remedy which, he said, was a most marvellous one. He had been fearful lest Mrs. L. might lose her foot; and because of that had tried to induce her husband to take her away to New York, for change of air.

Let me cite yet another example. The captain of the King of Siam’s yacht—a blood relation of Sir William Gordon Cumming—had a brother who owned a very valuable Norfolk trotting cob of which he was very fond. This animal had sustained an injury to its shoulder, which failed to respond to ordinary treatment. It got so bad that Cumming was afraid it would have to be shot. He sent it to me as a last resort. I happened to be running my horse hospital at the time. When it reached my establishment the poor thing was suffering agonies from a wound the size of a large saucer, occasioned by great quantities of matter forming at the point of its shoulder. I washed the bad place every day with lukewarm water and Lysol, cauterizing the edges wherever the veins looked angry, or the wound inclined to spread. Then I applied a castor oil leaf poultice. This I had to fix in place as best I could, for the wound was most awkwardly situated. By the end of a month the wound began to heal; within a couple it had disappeared altogether; ere another four had passed over our heads, the new skin had become strong enough to bear the weight of a collar.

As the cure was somewhat of an experiment, I charged my friend for the keep of his horse only, viz. 3s. a day. His vet. very much wanted to know how I had wangled the cure. “Ah,” said I, “that’s for others to find out.” Just as if——!

Indian Poisons and Medicinal Plants, Part 1

In this same Nasca valley, where the Yungas ruins lay, I several times noted the vine which the Indians use in the concoction of their famous and most deadly poison called Wourahli. Practically all the Indian tribes of South America are well versed in its manufacture.

Various plants and insects enter into its composition. The vine, which furnishes the most important ingredient, has a grey-coloured stem that bears fruit something like an apple, containing bitter seeds. In 1903 I gathered some of the seeds intending to take them home, but on my way remembered the Father’s cautionary words, and so threw them away. I should add that this vine has a very pretty yellow flower. Another ingredient is supplied by a vine bearing a small blue flower. The root is crushed, and steeped in water four days, until it is all of a pulp. The crushed seed of the first vine, together with its roots, scraped fine, are then mixed up with the pulp, and the whole is boiled for five hours. The shavings are next removed and thrown away, and the residue allowed to cool. Now some crushed Tucandiras ants are added. The mixture is boiled for another twelve hours, and is then ready for use.

This is the poison into which the Indians dip their arrows. It is so deadly that its effect is almost instantaneous; yet it does not render the flesh of any animal at which it is aimed unfit for human consumption! The Manjeroma Indians of the Putumayo district use it against strangers, or Indians of other tribes, should they attempt to abduct their womenfolk.

Indian girls of the Putumayo River being painted in preparation for a tribal dance. Illustration from Adventures in Peru.

I did not notice any specimens of the second vine in the Nasca valley, nor any of the ants. (I scraped acquaintance with the latter at Sacambaja later on. They are about 1½ in. long, the males being black and the females brown.) But I often came across in the valley a fly that was a rotten nuisance. It simply delighted in laying its eggs in any clothes exposed to the air after being washed.

A species of wild dog was pretty common in this locality. I should say it was a cross between a wolverine, or lynx, and a native dog. Similar ferocious animals are found in Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego.

As might be expected, fireflies existed in myriads, and there was a certain mysterious thing, whether insect or animal I cannot be quite sure, that emitted a very bright light, far greater than the light the fireflies produced. The Indians called it the electric rat. I tried hard to get a specimen, and deferred my departure for twenty days in order to do so (and to further examine the ruins), but I never touched lucky, although on several occasions I saw the mysterious light moving about after dark in the thick bush, or forest, and fired at it more than once.

Padre Francisco told me the Indians use a hair wash made of quassia bark and hard brush-wood growing on the lower slopes of the Andes. Mixed with scent, it is sold now by many barbers. I tried this concoction in combination with other ingredients, on a horse that had the itch, and it proved wonderfully efficacious. Once when I journeyed home to England, I called at Elvaston Castle, and found Lord Harrington’s nice retriever was suffering from scabby itch. I tried the hair wash on the dog, with such good results that it soon afterwards won first prize at a big show. A friend of Lord Harrington told me the following year that he had used it on his own head, and it made his hair grow splendidly.

Through the Nasca and Cañete Valleys, Part 6

The old Inca viaduct I examined on four different occasions, accompanied by Father Francisco, Don José the Corregidor, and a following of twenty to thirty Indians. I tried hard to persuade some of the latter to go into the tunnel and tell me what it looked like, but, although I offered them every inducement, they refused. They said there were too many devils there. Father Francisco was no more willing than they. “Couldn’t leave his flock,” and all that sort of thing. The only way out of the difficulty was for me to get Indians from another part. So I went in alone, and proceeded to explore by the light of a horn lantern, lent me by the priest. I found the tunnel was decidedly damp in places, and, after nosing around, I discovered a tiny stream of water trickling through at the base on the east side. The tunnel was seven feet high and ten feet wide, and had been excavated out of the solid red sandstone rock. When one comes to consider that it continues for a distance of 2000 metres, right through the heart of a 1000-metre hill, one begins to speculate what manner of men were they who, under Maita Capac’s direction, were able to execute so marvellous an engineering feat with primitive tools. As a result of my examination I came to the conclusion that it was quite possible to open up the old viaduct and set it in going order.

Father Francisco and Don José spent the best part of every day with me. I was never tired of listening to the priest’s interesting yarns of Peru in the days of the Incas. He was a very learned man, of Spanish origin, and had steeped himself in the history of their time. He had read all the old books he could come across that referred to this mysterious race, and the men who preceded them. He said the great Nasca valley originally covered the whole of that part of the country, now looked upon as desert, extending from the port of Chala right away to Cerro Azul; and from Pisco to Ica—including the Huacachina lakes—and past the valley in which we were located, right up to the steppes of the Andes.

In his opinion, it would be well worth the while of any company to obtain permission of the Government of Peru and excavate round the ruins of the old Yungas city. He felt sure they would make some notable finds that might throw considerable light upon the ancient history of Peru.

Within recent years the good Father’s idea has been put to the test, and fully justified. Some most interesting relics were found, including specimens of the potter’s art that were fortunately removed from the debris intact. This was where I obtained my Yungas bowl or water-bottle. When it came into my possession particles of earth still adhered to it. I received it as part of my commission for bringing the matter to the notice of a French company. They had to deposit a large sum with the Peruvian Government before they were allowed to commence operations.

I might have had an easier job with the tunnel had the Indians been less superstitious and nervous. Besides enormous anacondas and coulebras (boa constrictors) and wild beasts of various species, they believed they would meet with sundry evil spirits. I could understand their jibbing at pumas, for though the Peruvian lion is a coward in the open, he fights like a fiend incarnate in the dark. Once upon a time a certain Argentine doctor, who was big-game shooting in Patagonia, followed a puma into a cave. He had a nerve-wracking experience, for almost as soon as he got inside, three large pumas advanced to meet him, snarling and swearing for all they were worth. The doctor thought himself lucky to escape by the skin of his teeth. How that came to pass affords engrossing reading in Col. Roosevelt’s fine book Through the Brazilian Wilderness.

As I have said before, Father Francisco’s chief hobby was the ancient history of Peru. He told me Don José was a lineal descendant of a high-class Indian family who farmed under the Incas. Francisco’s account of the great quicksilver mines of Huancavelica was most interesting. From their discovery some time previous to 1556, up to the date of our conversations, 160,000 tons, and more, of cinnabar ore had been won from the bowels of the earth. In 1786, owing to faulty underpinning, one of the principal tunnels collapsed, and entombed 500 Indian workers. Hence the annual return fell from about 670 tons to 15 cwt. It had, anyhow, decreased to that low figure before the great revolution that occurred in the early part of the nineteenth century. The mines are situated close on 15,000 ft. above sea-level, or rather more than 2500 ft. higher than the city of Huancavelica. In the mountains round about are rich deposits of gold and silver. Mercury is found in many parts of Peru and Bolivia, and also in the Argentine, but not in such considerable quantities as at Santa Barbara. Father Francisco also told me about the celebrated silver mines that are to be found in the province of Junin, north of Lima. He said the silver won from these mines between 1784 and 1889 amounted to the enormous sum of forty millions sterling.

Through the Nasca and Cañete Valleys, Part 5

I thought it best to tell the Corregidor and priest why I could not very well stay with either of them, viz. because I had to examine the old viaduct for Jackson and his pals, and I was glad to find they both appreciated my explanation. The priest told me that a little lower down the valley there were the ruins of an old city, dating back to the time of the Yungas, the oldest known inhabitants of the Southern Hemisphere, who ruled Peru in the far distant past, long before the Incas came into prominence. That the Yungas had attained to an extraordinary civilization is shown by various specimens of ceramic art which have been brought to light in recent years. Vases, basins, and water-bottles have been found, exquisitely moulded and baked, made of an opaque clay, faintly tinged with pink, and covered over with a wonderful enamel, on which various designs are vividly represented in colours, which still retain their original freshness. Among the most treasured objects in the British Museum, are four pieces of this ancient pottery, dug up in this same Nasca valley. Three bowls and one basin are intact. There are, besides, some broken specimens. Experts fix the date of their production as 4500 B.C. The Yungas water-bottle (p. 138 of Adventures in Bolivia) was unearthed here. It is much larger than the British Museum specimens. Although after them the Huancas, and later on the Incas, tried to imitate this beautiful ware, all their endeavours were nothing worth, and to this day the potter’s secret remains inviolate.

Yungas pottery recently discovered in Bolivia, said to be 6,000 years old. Illustration from Adventures in Bolivia.

I stayed in this locality seven days, during which time I examined the old Inca bridge and viaduct very thoroughly. The priest and the Corregidor came down every day, and generally brought several Indians with them. I used to wait for them on the bridge about 9 a.m. The Priest, who had made a special study of everything relating to the history of the Incas, told me quite a lot. I tried several times, without success, to measure the bridge accurately, but was unable to do so, on account of its dipping every few yards. It shook under my weight. On one side it was fastened to a big rock, and on the other to a wall built up of boulders and stones. It was kept in good order by the Indians who lived in the villages on either bank of the river, under the direction of the Corregidor and Father Francisco, my good friend the priest. The latter told me there was a similar bridge at Desaquadero* on the Bolivian side of Lake Titicaca. (I subsequently visited Desaquadero several times, and on one occasion camped there three days in a hired hut. The Indians were most kind to me. The one who let me the hut had two very nice daughters, who cooked and did for me. Every morning they brought me fresh fish, and fruit, and attended to my comfort. With my gun I enjoyed rare sport among the flocks of wild duck and flamingoes that frequent this entrancing spot.)

The old bridge over the Appurimac was constructed of stout planks, lashed together with fibre, supplemented by tough steel hawsers provided by the Government. It was supported by big stone pillars reinforced with heavy hardwood logs and weighty baulks of timber. On each side of the bridge was a stone path. The whole structure was raised about twenty feet above the banks of the river. Originally it had been covered with fibre matting; the hawsers had been added in recent years, in lieu of those twisted of Beluco creeper. This plant, by the way, often grows as thick as a ship’s cable.

At this point the Appurimac is only about a hundred yards broad, and the shallow water is full of rocks and boulders. But it gradually broadens out and gets deeper as it continues its course right away to Lima.

I lunched with the good padre one day, and enjoyed the meal very much. It consisted of guinea-pig stew, washed down with nice cold chicha. My friend the Corregidor saw to it that I never ran short of provisions. The Indians supplied me with two bottles of goat’s milk for one shilling. A fat fowl was obtainable for a similar sum. A sheep cost four times as much. Fruit was equally cheap, and the valley simply teemed with game. The Indians said there were plenty of wild pigs, but I never came across any.

One day, while walking near the river, on the look out for martinette, I saw a brace of lovely gold and silver pheasants. But they looked so beautiful I hadn’t the heart to kill them. Humming birds I met with, and also bright green parrakeets. The latter nest in sandy cliffs, or where gravel is plentiful.

I had little time to give to prospecting for gold, but the Indians said they frequently washed some out. One day after they had taken off the top soil, I panned out a little gravelly clay, and found colour. I had only half a day at it, but in that short period I collected nearly half an ounce of straw-coloured gold dust. So the metal is evidently there in paying quantities.

This valley was full of marvellously lovely flowers. Here and there one met with catteleya orchids, some white, some pale blue, some mauve. I didn’t notice any of the scarlet variety. According to Broadway, the Trinidad Botanical expert, and Freeman, the Minister of Agriculture for Trinidad, B.W.I., the white catteleya is rarer and much more valuable than either the blue or the mauve. They held the scarlet in very high esteem. It is very seldom seen. Here also was to be found, growing in wild profusion, the exquisite Peruvian maidenhair fern. In colour it is a delicious, dark olive green. Many specimens were close on three feet high. Broadway told me there is nothing to touch it as a house fern. I have known Trinidad since 1902, and have seen the same Peruvian ferns, year after year, in the fernery at the Botanic Gardens of Trinidad. They never seem to fade or wither, but always look first rate. President A. B. Leguia has a large number of these beautiful ferns growing near the entrance of his magnificent private palace at Lima.

*Desaquadero = sluice.

Through the Nasca and Cañete Valleys, Part 4

Four days later we struck camp, and started to tackle the other stretch of desert, a matter of forty-eight miles. As provender we loaded up the bush-chicken and martinette I had killed the previous evening, two bottles of water for the horses—I couldn’t get any beer—some cold grilled goat, and a loaf or two of native bread. Real good wholesome bread this is, I can recommend it.

By 1.30 we had covered thirty-six miles, and then were pleasantly surprised to see a jolly-looking padre come riding down a path on our left, on a high-stepping pacing horse. He was apparently going to visit a village on the other side of the Appurimac, which can be crossed about fourteen miles further on, by one of the two Inca bridges I had to examine. He caught up with us as we were finishing lunch, and was very affable; he asked where we were going to, and all that sort of thing. I told him I wanted to see what I could make of the old viaduct that in former times conveyed the waters of the Appurimac through the heart of a great sandstone hill 1000 metres high, for a distance of 2000 metres, in order to irrigate the desert. It is said this vast undertaking was successfully carried through by Maita Capac, one of the greatest Inca rulers. Maita also constructed the great road from Quito to Cuzco, already alluded to. A few of his bridges, or aqueducts, may still be seen—kept in fairly good preservation by the Indians. Vast tracts of desert land were reclaimed and made productive by the enlightened enterprise of Maita Capac; but under European mismanagement they have been allowed to relapse into their former barren state. What a thousand pities! I invited the good Father, who looked as if he did himself pretty well, to have a snack of martinette, or grilled goat, and native bread and butter, washed down with a draught of nice cold water out of my army flask. A tidy-sized flask this, by the way; it holds close on a quart. I used to fill it from every stream we came across. I may say that on this occasion, I added a small quantity of good rum which my good friend, the Haciendero, had given me—just to colour the water!

From this point we rode on together, at an easy gait—I on Golondrina and Francisco on Tony bringing up the rear. After traversing about seven miles, he and I changed horses as usual. ’Twas four o’clock before we reached the valley. After riding up it a matter of four miles, guided by the priest, we came to six Indian thatched huts. My clerical friend very kindly asked me to cross the bridge and put up at his residence. But, as he was speaking, another portly gentleman drew near. He proved to be the Corregidor, a full-blooded Indian, but very civil and obliging. Evidently he overheard what the priest had said to me; for he at once exclaimed, “No, Padre, the Gringo shall not stay with you. It is the duty of Corregidors in Peru to look after all strangers, and find them accommodation until they choose to move on.”

Having regard to the work I was engaged on, I thought it best to hire an empty hut which the Corregidor had on hand, although I would have been delighted to accept the priest’s kind invitation. So the Corregidor called an old Indian, and told him what I required. Within a few minutes I was installed in a hut, with a thatched shed at the back for my horses. Another hut was provided for Francisco. The kitchen attached served as a kind of saddle-room.

It is the usual custom to keep a building for the accommodation of strangers. When not occupied it is used as a storehouse for Government stores, potatoes, maize, chuno, and so forth. (Black chuno is composed of potatoes, frozen by the Indians, and treated in such a way that they keep for almost any length of time. When you want to use them all you have to do is to put the chuno in water, and stand it out in the sun for awhile. Within a short time the potatoes are thawed and then can be cooked. They are very palatable.) The Corregidor, having arranged for your accommodation, appoints an Indian to wait upon you with provisions. For these you are expected to pay, of course; but the price asked is always most reasonable. The Indians are bound to obey their Corregidor. I seldom came across any who were hostile to me. As in Bolivia, it is easy for travellers to ascertain whether the natives are friendly disposed, or the reverse. If, when reaching a village, you find all the doors closed, the best thing you can do is to pass on without delay. The inhabitants wish to have nothing to do with you. If some of the doors stand open, this intimates that you may purchase what provisions they happen to have in stock; but had better camp outside the village. When, however, most of the doors are open, and people are to be seen standing about, then you may rest assured you are heartily welcome to the best accommodation the villagers can offer.

Through the Nasca and Cañete Valleys, Part 3

Later in the day I took Francisco with me on a shooting expedition. We had not gone far before I noticed a number of parrots sitting about on the branches of a nice, flowery tree. I made my approach with due caution, and had the satisfaction to get three of them with my first barrel. The other I discharged at a martinette that was running along the ground some distance away. These four birds proved a welcome addition to our larder. I didn’t trouble to bag any more, although we saw numerous partridges and martinette, and also a bush-turkey.

I might add here that it was my invariable custom never to load my gun till I wanted to discharge it. And though, through adhering to this rule, I frequently missed chances of getting Pete buck, I had good reasons for so doing. Some years previously, at Hamilton Langley’s estancia, D., a friend of his, and manager of a bank in Buenos Ayres, paid him a visit, in company with his wife. They brought with them an excellent pointer called Ponto. One day we all went out to get some partridges. Like most vivacious Frenchmen, D. was eager to get to business, and pushed on considerably ahead of the rest of us. Suddenly we heard bang! bang! bang! in quick succession, followed by a scream, “Oh! Oh!” We hurried off in the direction whence the sounds seemed to come, and, after searching around, found the luckless man. He presented a fearful spectacle, having apparently stumbled, and in falling had received the contents of both barrels in his stomach. He was beyond all human aid when H. reached him. Subsequently the widow gave Ponto to me, and I kept him till I left San Emilio. Moreover, I myself had a rather nasty experience on the same estate. We were after wild duck, which had been located on a salt lake, and I was walking with a Mrs. Cornmell. On the way down, she said, “Do shoot a few plover.” Now I didn’t care much for plover, but I said, “All right,” and soon after bagged a brace. Then I loaded my gun, put it at half-cock, and proceeded to make the best of my way to the duck haunt. Suddenly my foot hitched in something, and I stumbled. Bang! went my gun. Fortunately it was pointing ahead, and so didn’t interfere with Mrs. Cornmell; but it gave her a bit of a turn, and shook me up more than I cared to admit. These two lessons were sufficient for me. I resolved I would never again carry a loaded gun.

After lunch I set off to examine some old ruins the Indian had spoken about, on the right-hand side of the river about three miles down. I rode the excellent pacer left for my use by the owner of the hacienda and followed a path which took me straight to my objective. I spent a couple of hours examining the ruins very closely. They were the remains of what had been fairly large buildings. The walls were rough-built of cobble stones and mud bricks mixed, fully two feet thick, and the rooms seemed planned on spacious lines. Everything was overgrown with weeds and young trees; and I noticed several mounds outside and within.

On the east side grew a lovely bush of wild jasmine. I have never seen a bigger or finer specimen. Entwined with it was a gorgeous blue convolvulus creeper. In my humble opinion, Nature had provided this as a protection for the beautiful bush. The two together made a far finer show than they would have done if separated. I am led to think this, because of an experience that I had in Trinidad. In the garden of the Villa Iris, which belonged to my wife, and faced the great Savannah Park, there was a magnificent bush of white jasmine, the envy of all beholders. One day the coolie gardener told my wife a yarn. A white convolvulus had begun throwing its tendrils around the bush. Said he, “If you don’t have that weed pulled up, the jasmine will surely die.” I questioned the truth of this, but ultimately we let the man have his way. Now, mark the sequel! From that day to this the jasmine has never once flowered properly. In fact, sometimes it has not bloomed at all.

On my way back from the ruins, I saw several bush-chicken resting on a tree; so I dismounted, stalked them carefully, and knocked over a brace. What with goat flesh, parrots, partridges, and martinette, we had now sufficient variety of meats to satisfy even the most fastidious eater.

Through the Nasca and Cañete Valleys, Part 2

It was about 8 a.m. when we struck camp. I was well aware that the greatest danger we had to contend with was the desert fog, a nasty white mist, dense as a London fog, that creeps down and takes travellers unawares if they don’t keep their eyes skinned. So I determined to keep a sharp look-out for those little signs that experience had taught me always precede these visitations.

About 10 o’clock I noted that Golondrina seemed uneasy. Next the back of my hand felt as if an icy finger had touched it. Almost immediately the atmosphere began to thicken, and by 10.30 the path was hardly visible. I quickly decided that we must halt, for if we wandered from the path in the semi-darkness, our doom was probably sealed. So I dismounted, and called upon Caro to follow suit, an order he promptly obeyed. Then we squatted down on the path, holding our horses by their bridle reins lest they should get away. Thus we sat until close upon 1 o’clock, when the fog cleared. During our compulsory halt we gave Golondrina and Tony a bottle of beer each, and the oats and alfalfa mixture.

Directly it was safe to do so, we resumed our journey, I on Tony and Francisco on Golondrina, whose turn it was now to carry the tack. All through our journey I made a practice of changing horses every hour. The atmosphere was now sensibly warmer, although not uncomfortably so, and there was a beautiful sky overhead. But all round us, so far as the eye could see on every side, nothing but sand, sand, sand.

However we did not allow our minds to dwell upon the monotonous outlook, but kept steadily plugging along. At last, about 5 p.m., our eyes were gladdened by the sight of a fringe of waving green grass. We had crossed the first stretch of desert!

Within a short time we entered the confines of a valley, even more beautiful than the one we had left. Down the centre of it ran a stream of water, probably a branch of the Appurimac. Along its banks Guinea grass grew in wild profusion. All around were to be seen delicious fruits and flowers. It was indeed a Garden of Delight.

We soon hit up against an Indian homesteader, and came to terms with him. For 2s., or 1 sol a day, he agreed to let me have a hut for myself and a shed for the horses. Truly the further one gets from civilization, the cheaper does everything become. Like the Indian in the other valley, this one catered for our every need, and charged even less for fruit and vegetables. He offered me, for instance, chirimoyas and paltas at 1 cent each. I really could not accept them at that price, but had some difficulty in inducing him to take 2 cents apiece. Not far from the riverside were fields of alfalfa, planted by settlers who lived in this beautiful region, free from care and worry, and having pretty well everything that human nature craves for close to their hand. I decided to stay here three days, and give the horses a good rest, while I took a look round.

The owner of the hacienda, or big farm, where we put up, paid us a visit next morning about nine o’c1ock, and gave me a cordial invitation to his own private residence, three miles away. He also offered me the use of a fine pacer while my horses took things easy. I thanked him heartily for his kind courtesy, but didn’t go to his house, as I only wanted to potter about. I accepted the loan of the horse, however. He told me there were many objects of interest scattered about all over the valley, including ancient ruins overgrown with shrubs and weeds and brushwood, that had hardly been touched since the time of the Incas.

There was plenty of game here, partridges, doves, bush-chicken, martinette, and so forth. Bush-chicken are capital eating. They are very plump, and closely resemble the ordinary barn-door fowl in appearance. In colour they are a dirty blackish-brown. Fowls were brought to Peru by Pizarro. It is stated in Prescott’s Conquest of Peru that the Indians were greatly surprised when the cocks began to crow. They had never heard such a thing before. Bush-chicken have all descended from these birds. Equally strange to them were the horses Pizarro introduced.