University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV
JACK ROUSE

I LEFT Quito with two Indian muleteers and four mules, well enough mounted on a hired "bronc" for the rough trail which leads from the mountain capital through the snow-covered Pass of Papallacta to the little town of the same name. Papallacta means in Quichua, the Ecuadorian equivalent of Inca, the land of potatoes. It is named thus on account of the magnificent crops of fine potatoes which grow in the country round, and form, with barley, the main subsistence of the hardy natives.

We did about thirty miles a day, arriving on the fourth day. Our trail lay through some of the finest scenery in the world, the great cordilleras of the Andes, which surround the capital of Ecuador. Quito is built on the plateau between the main eastern and western ranges of that great chain of mountains, at a height of nearly ten thousand feet above sea-level. We passed within sight of Antisana, the mighty broken cone on which the snow never melts, and which the Incas allege was the highest peak in the Andes before its top blew off in a tremendous eruption hundreds of years ago. It is still over nineteen thousand feet high. Its circumference is greater than that of either Cotapaxi or Chimborazo at the perpetual snow-level, and if the sides of the cone were prolonged, its height would even rival that of Mount Everest.

The going was very rough, with some stiff gradients. At night we stopped at Indian hostelries in the mountain

villages, when a good square evening meal of soup, eggs, meat and bread, a bed for the night, a breakfast of locra (a dish of onions, potatoes, barley, and sliced cheese), the use of the corral for one's horse, and its feed, were all provided for the sum of 10 centavos of an Ecuadorian sucre, equivalent to $0.05. Some idea of the value of money in those outlying haciendas (estates, Spanish) can be got from the fact that the daily wage of a free Indian (not a peon) was at that time 2½ centavos, with which he had to furnish his own food.

An incident which happened in one of these hostelries was an added proof of the complete subjection of the descendants of the lords of the South American continent to the invading Spanish. A priest who was travelling with his Inca Sancho Panza arrived while I was at my evening meal. Sitting down to eat with his squire at his feet on the dirt floor, he took the tougher pieces of food from his mouth, which he could not swallow, chew as he might, and tossed them to the Indian, who caught and devoured them like a hungry dog.

Papallacta is a collection of fifty or more mud huts, heavily thatched with páramo straw, the only wild vegetation to be found above the timber level. The inhabitants are all Incas, under the governorship of one of their own race, who holds the official title of Gobernador and carries a silver-mounted staff as the insignia of his office.

On arrival I enquired for the Governor. Armed with my all-powerful passport, I made my way to his house. Out came an old man without any pants, the two ponchos which covered him falling to his knees. He gave me the customary greeting of the Incas:

"Alabado Santisimo Sacramento!" (Praised be the Holy Sacrament.)

"Por siempre," (For ever), I replied.

I enquired for the Governor once more.

"I am he, amo (master). At your service."

I presented my passport, explaining that it was from the President. In fear and trembling he took the gaudy document and held it before his eyes, not upside down, but with the lines running vertically. After a moment's scrutiny, he was forced to confess that he did not understand the great President's handwriting. He asked me if I would do him the favour of reading it. I complied, embellishing the text with a view to avoiding delay in such a vermin-ridden spot. I am afraid I told him that the President commanded him to pick out eight of the best packers in the village, so that I might move on on the morrow. The animals one uses for the trip from Quito to Papallacta have to be abandoned at the latter point, for the trail becomes impossible for anything but foot travel.

Since leaving the Capital, I had been careful to avoid sleeping in the inns, so as not to be eaten up by vermin, so was naturally anxious to leave Papallacta, the last village before the descent into the Amazon basin, despite the magnificent view from that point. A word as to this view. To the West lies the plateau on which Quito and all the important towns of Ecuador stand, with the cordilleras stretching away north and south as far as the eye can see. To the east one looks out over a sea of clouds a few thousand feet below, with here and there a mountain peak rearing its head in majestic isolation, like an island of the Greek Archipelago. Far below lies the fringe of the Amazon forest. From the snow-covered heights above and around Papallacta start the crystal streams which help to swell the King of Rivers, whose muddy waters can be distinguished 150 miles out in the Atlantic.

The Governor responded readily to the President's command. He selected a set of men to carry my kit who

were, physically, the finest specimens I have ever seen. They were as thick as they were broad, due probably to the great lung capacity necessary for a man to live at an altitude of fifteen thousand feet, the perpetual snow-line at the Equator, where Papallacta stands. Their neck and leg muscles were wonderfully developed by the constant packing of one hundred and fifty pounds weight, the regulation limit for the rough mountain trails, besides the fifty-odd pounds of their own food and articles for bartering. When on the march they live on nothing but barley-flour (máchica, Inca) and of course brown cane sugar, which they carry together in a bag. Most of them had to stand slightly astride, by reason of the tremendous development of their calves.

The Governor always allots to each man his portion of cargo, checking the six arrobas (one hundred and fifty pounds) on his scales. The money is paid in advance. For the ten days packing I had to pay sucres 2.40 per man ($1.20). They would be away from home for over three weeks. But they were not only prepared to carry my kit for that absurd wage, they offered to carry me. It appears that it is the custom for priests and the few others who pass that way to be borne in a chair suspended by a band from the foreheads of the packer. In this way these herculean men traverse the crazy suspension bridges made from bejuco (any vine, in the Inca tongue), ascend and descend the precipitous sides of cliffs with no more support than toe-holds cut in the rock, and ford the boulder-strewn mountain streams. But I preferred to make my own way, though on the trail I found it very difficult to keep up with my bearers, heavily-laden though they were, while I carried nothing but my rifle and machete and a few cartridges slung in a belt.

In that part of the world a skilled woodsman can tell

his exact altitude from the vegetation. There is a series of clearly defined belts. Highest of all grows the páramo grass. The next belt is the low scrub; then comes a region of dwarf hard-wood trees; next heavier timber of the softer woods; then the ferns begin to show, and the woods become denser; after that come the palms and wild-fruit trees where the monkeys can live; at about three thousand feet the regular tropical forests begin, choked with undergrowth, full of giant ferns, palms, orchids, vines and so on, down to the bottoms of the valleys these forests become thicker and ever thicker until finally the temperature is reached at which the giant bamboo flourishes. Here swarm beasts, birds and insects in teeming myriads.

Through all this I and my string of packers made our way. After dropping about eight thousand feet, we had to climb a hill before we could continue the descent. At the summit of this hill the Indians cautioned me, much to my surprise, not to make the slightest noise, or else the rain might come down in sheets! I, being young and foolish, sure that their fears were founded on some local superstition, decided at once that I must prove the folly of their warning. While they were picking their way cautiously among the rocks ahead of me, I fired my rifle. Immediately the rain swept down upon us.

Thinking it over afterwards, I saw how the phenomenon can be explained on a scientific basis. The clouds through which we were passing were at the dew-point, and needed only some vibration of the atmosphere to start condensation.

A similar process takes place when a wax candle which has been brought to its temperature of solidification is reduced in temperature two or three degrees more without solidifying, but can be made to change instantaneously

from the liquid to the solid by a clap of the hands.

My bearers were justly angry and I felt a fool, not for the first time since starting from New York. But lessons learned in such a way are more convincing than any amount of theory.

After that we went along through the cold rain and mud for several hours, dropping once more towards our objective, Archidona. The trail was well-marked. It led over precarious bridges of bejuco stretched across miniature cañons, through which boiling mountain torrents ran, and down the sides of steep cliffs. Each day's march brought us to a lower level and a higher temperature, until at last on the tenth day we marched into the little plaza of Archidona. The whole place consisted of a dozen palm-wood houses grouped round the little square with a totally disproportionate church built of the same material at one end. The mail was just starting out on one of its bi-monthly journeys as we arrived. The letters are carried in a Government mail-pouch by an Indian runner who performs a feat of endurance which makes the Marathon race look like a game of croquet. He starts off at a run, and he arrives at a run, having covered the two hundred miles of rough trail in five days, reaching an altitude of fifteen thousand feet at the highest point. He is clothed in nothing but a short pair of cotton trunks. I met one of them near Papallacta also, who was carrying a switch of nettles with which to lash his legs to keep them moving. These Indians are all from the hot country of the Napo, and yet they penetrate into the snow-bound regions almost naked.

The Governor of Archidona was a white man by blood and by nature. He put me up at his house, where for the first time for a fortnight I had a bed to sleep in. His hospitality was all the more welcome by reason of the

fact that there did not appear to be another soul in the town who would have a word to say to me. The standing population was made up of the Governor himself, a handful of priests, and a few Indian servants. There was, however, a comparatively large floating population of Indian families who had their chacras (planted clearings—Inca) in the woods round about, and used Archidona as a kind of local capital. That miserable collection of shacks was the only seat of authority in Ecuador east of the Andes. The priests left me strictly alone. The Indians seemed positively to fear my approach, doubtless under the impression that contact with me meant pollution. All I saw of them was a glimpse of yellow-brown, long-haired bodies, clothed only in loin-cloths disappearing down one of the many trails leading to their forest homes.

My passport again worked wonders. Everything that could be done for me was done. The Governor and I got on splendidly. I provided him with corned beef from my kit, and he furnished an abundance of fruit and vegetables. This arrangement was appreciated by both sides, for meat was a great scarcity, the Indians having hunted out the woods for miles round and emptied the streams of fish.

I went to Archidona armed not only with my passport but with an order from the American Minister in Quito, Mr. J. D. Tillman, a brother of the prominent senator from Tennessee, for a canoe. Thereby hangs a tale.

A certain Edwards, an old-fashioned Quaker from Philadelphia, who had settled down years before to a hermit's life in a palm-thatched shack near Archidona, had been a friend of the British Consul in Quito, Mr. Stromberg, to whom he paid annual visits from his lonely retreat. Indeed, Mr. Stromberg had been his only friend, except the Indians with whom he traded the

machetes and general trade-goods which he brought from the capital on his annual trips. The old man had lived in solitary peace for a number of years, well thought of by the few with whom he came in contact. It was commonly supposed that he had withdrawn from the world on account of some great loss he had suffered. About a fortnight before my arrival on the scene, news had been brought to Quito to the effect that he had been found burned to death in the midst of the smouldering ruins of his shack. Nothing more was known officially, but it was hard to imagine why so inoffensive a person should have met with this violent end. Be that as it may be, Edwards had been murdered, and his belongings had passed into the custody of the American Government represented on the spot by their Minister in Quito. Among the few things which escaped the fire was the dugout which I was authorised to appropriate. Nothing was known of the fate of the gold which Edwards was rumoured to have collected in the course of his years of slow trading.

Accordingly I approached the Governor of Archidona on the subject. He as usual gave me his assistance at once. I had been there two or three days, so by that time was ready to start down the Napo. The town stands on that river, but at a point where navigation is well-nigh impossible, and it is necessary to travel some twenty-five miles along the forest trail to a spot known by the same name as the river itself, in order to embark. It was along that same portage that Edwards had lived.

We were talking over ways and means with a view to starting next day. The Governor promised to deliver me my dugout at Napo, the point of embarkation. He would see to it that some Indians took it round from the spot near the old man's burned-up shack where it lay beached. Suddenly an idea occurred to him.

"There's a very decent chap," he said, "an Ingles I think, living down near Edwards' place who drifted in from Quito a couple of months ago. I can't get much out of him, as he doesn't speak a word of Spanish or Quichua. I believe he's panning gold, and looks like following Edwards, if he doesn't take care. You might look him up if you care to, as you go down the trail to Napo."

With that the conversation turned to other affairs and the matter slipped from my mind. The Governor told me to send my packers back to Papallacta, and to be ready for the trail the next morning. He would supply me with men to transport my stores to the river, and a couple of canoemen to see me down to the mouth of the Suno, the farthest point down-stream to which my Indians from Archidona would go. I paid my new porters two yards of cotton cloth apiece, and ten yards to each of the canoemen. In Quito they had told me that the only unit of exchange that would be of any use to me in Archidona was that particular class of material, which was specially woven in the Capital. I had three bales of it in my kit. It is a coarse fabric, but a favourite among the Indians. It was this cloth which completely displaced the hand-loom among the Yumbo Indians round Archidona and Loreto.

So next morning I said "Good-bye," and hit the trail once more with my new retinue.

When the Amazon forests swallowed me up for the first time that morning my mind flew back to my High School days when I had gloated over the pages of Stanley, and longed to steer my own dugout through another Dark Continent. As the forest roof closed over my head, and we began slipping and splashing through interminable fields of black mud relieved only by mountain torrents which we forded waist-deep, little did I care for

the multitudes of discomforts which awaited me in the three thousand five hundred mile journey before I could reach Pará. For all I knew or cared, I should be paddling through eternal rain, wading through eternal mud, living on what Fortune threw in my way, or starving in some trackless swamp. To Pará I was going, whether anybody had ever been that way before or not.

I had known the woods on the Pacific slopes of the Andes for a whole year, but here was something different. The same giant vegetation, the same seas of mud, the same monkeys and parrots chattering and screaming in the tree-tops, but here was the last jumping-off place before I should be buried in the Great Unknown. Only twenty-five miles ahead flowed the Napo, on whose further bank commenced the vast unexplored wilderness which stretched away toward the unchartered boundaries of Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, and the Argentine. In that primeval maze of forest, swamp and river, peopled by men as wild and free as the animals which shared their gloomy home, untrodden by civilized man since the beginning of time, were locked a thousand secrets! Would that I could share them all!

With such thoughts in my mind I mushed ahead, pushing aside the dripping branches, soaked to the skin, tugging at my feet which stuck in the clinging slough at every step. I had started, and, equipped with the unconquerable spirit of youth, I knew nothing could stop me now.

After pushing on all day, we came across the regular halting-place, a shelter of palm-thatch with a raised floor on which to sleep clear of the mud and water. There we stayed the night. Next morning my bearers took up their packs at sunrise, and we were off on the last stretch before the river would be reached again. Through the soaking tunnel we made our way all morning, till at

last the foaming waters showed through the last few yards of forest as we emerged into the clearing where stood the town of Napo. It figures in fairly large print on some maps, the draughtsmen of which have evidently paid a great deal of attention to detail. Actually the town had no inhabitants. It is composed of one house. The house had a good roof. It stands in the middle of the clearing into which I walked, and the clearing is as important to Napo as the house itself. For it lets in the blessed sun, and you can dry your sopping kit; more important still, had I but known it then, it keeps out ants.

I took possession of the house and sat down to await the coming of my first command, piloted by my newly hired crew. It would probably measure but twenty-five feet over all, but it was for me a matter of vast importance. If it turned out to be "unseaworthy" I should have to kick my heels in Napo for three or four weeks while a new one was being chopped out.

That afternoon I was overhauling my kit and having a look to see how much had been pilfered and whether the water had got in, greasing my rifle and revolver, and putting things in shape for the trip down-stream. The time for the evening meal was approaching, and the pot was on the fire. For my packers, whom I had induced to stay with me until the canoe turned up, I was preparing a huge pot of rice boiled up with molasses. I was in the act of taking it off the fire when somebody stepped up to the house behind me, and a voice said with a good old Western drawl:

"I've heard you're pulling your freight down-stream."

"Good guess," I answered. "Bound for New York."